A Classic Affair

It took her quite a while to get around to it, but that's the way Ruth is, and there's nothing you can do except wait. The direct line doesn't work. I'd tried it once and she'd married Hank. So I sat there, watching her wind up, and waiting, wishing she weren't so damned pretty: it didn't make me feel much like the friend of the family I was supposed to be.

Finally I couldn't take it any more. I finished the coffee and got up and started to go. But she caught my arm and looked at me, very hard, and said, "Dave, I've got to talk to you about something." I kept quiet. "I've got to talk to you about Hank," she said.

Of course, at first I thought she was kidding. There was a time when she might have pulled such a gag; but I reminded myself that this wasn't my Ruth. This was Hank's, another person entirely. A housewife. Feet on the ground, eyes on the budget, not the sort to pull gags.

But even so I couldn't quite believe what she was saying. I'd been gone almost a year – the Europe thing: partly to reorient myself and get it all straight, partly as a dirty trick: Ruth and I had planned the trip together – but a year isn't very long. Not long enough, anyway, for a person to reverse his character. And yet this was apparently what had happened. Because Ruth was telling me that she and Hank were breaking up, because she had discovered that he was no longer faithful to her. It boiled down to that.

You'd have to know the guy to understand what a blast it was. I mean, I was never crazy about him, we weren't the Best Friends some people thought, but I guess I knew Hank Osterman as well as anyone did. And the biggest thing I knew was that he was just exactly what he seemed. A solid, substantial citizen. No-nonsense type. Mr. Average, in every way. Except that he loved Ruth. Almost as much as I did, maybe; and when you feel this way about Ruth, extra-curricular activities simply don't interest you much. They couldn't.

"When did you find out?" I asked. She was getting ready for a cry, but that was all right.

"About three months ago," she said. And then she told me the whole story. It was classic stuff. How he had failed to come home on time one night, and how he had gradually turned moody and secretive, and the rest of the routine. When she came to the part where she followed him, she looked away.

I told her never mind, get on with it.

"Well ..." She glanced at the clock; it was three-thirty. We were safe.

"Come on," I said.

She started talking to herself. "It was ten-something. He'd been fidgeting, pretending to read a magazine, but you could tell – I mean, I could. I could tell something was wrong. Always before Hank would get sleepy around this time. Now he wasn't sleepy at all. He'd turn a page and look at it, and then look up – not at anything, actually – and keep doing this until I thought I'd go insane. Then he said he was going for a walk. I asked him if he wanted company but he said no, he was nervous and had a headache and a walk all by himself would probably clear it up. So he went out. This was about the seventh or eighth time it had happened, and he'd been acting so strangely, that ---"

"That you decided to see what was up."

"Yes." She faced me now.

"And what was up?"

"I followed him for around seven blocks," she said, "down to where Riverside and Alameda come together, you know. He stopped on the corner there."

She was having a hard time, so I helped her out a little. "So far nothing to get excited about."

"No? What about this, then? He went into the car lot there and looked around over his shoulder, like a–criminal. And then he got into one of the cars in the back, in the shadows, where nobody could see him."

"And?"

"How should I know?" She blew up. "Do you think I wanted to stand there and watch the whole filthy thing?"

"Why not?"

"Oh, Dave, for heaven's sake! Am I supposed to be a child? Isn't that enough?"

I walked over to the stove – still afraid that this was all too good to be true – and got the pot and poured some more coffee. "You mean you didn't really see him meet anyone?"

"No," she said, "I didn't. I didn't have to. I mean, isn't it plain enough? Must I show you pictures or something?"

"Take it easy."

"It's a woman, all right," she said. "I don't see what else it could be except a woman, do you? He's got all the symptoms; believe me. All of them." She raised her eyes at that. "He hasn't come close to me for months," she said, and waited for it to sink in. It did.

I changed the subject in a hurry. "How many times have you gone after him?" I asked.

"Five or six."

"Always the same thing?"

"Exactly the same."

I threw down the coffee. Everything was getting too warm. I had to be careful. "I'll see what I can do," I told her.

"You won't tell him I ---" She came close to me. "You know what I mean."

"The soul of discretion," I said, and moved toward the back door. "Will he be there tonight, you suppose?"

She came closer. "He's there every night." I remembered the smell of her hair and the softness of her arms, suddenly, all in sharp focus, and I wanted to run.

"Dave," she said, touching my hand, "I want this thing to work, I want it to be all right between Hank and me. You grew up with him; maybe he'll tell you. Please help and make it all right."

"I'll do what I can."

She tried to give me one of those noncommittal kisses, but I managed to get out the door.

I went home and took a shower and thought about quite a number of things. About what Ruth was really telling me, for instance. Try to patch it up, Dave, try your best. If it can't be done, let's talk some more. Wasn't that it?

I thought about what she had told me about Hank, and it was certainly peculiar, but it didn't make me feel bad. Not bad at all.

• • •

I parked four blocks away and looked at my watch. It was crowding ten now, and Ruth had said that would be plenty of time, so I got out and started walking toward Riverside and Alameda. The streets were pretty quiet. I walked and tried to figure things out, but they woudn't fit together. With somebody else, maybe, but somehow not with Hank.

One thing I knew for sure: I'd play it straight. She loves the guy, I kept telling myself, and if I can fix it, I will. Yes, by God, that's what I'll do. For Ruth's sake. Then I'll go right back to being a friend of the family, old buddy-buddy Dave.

Like hell.

I'll just help Hank shake the girl – and it's a girl, all right: probably a secretary, one of the standard bits – and then I'll get out. And stay out.

Across the street I saw him. There couldn't be any mistake: cheap suit, stooped shoulders, that old man's walk he'd had even as a kid.

"Hey, Hank!"

He whipped around and blinked until I was close enough for him to make me out, then he smiled and stuck his hand forward. He'd looked bad the one night I'd spent over at his house last week, the welcome home party, but now he looked worse.

"What are you doing around here?" he asked.

I told him. "Looking for you." Then I said, "Hank, I want to talk with you. Let's grab a drink."

He shook his head. "No, thanks. I'd rather not, not this time, anyway." He kept glancing over his shoulder at the corner, nervously; it was pretty obvious.

I let him have both barrels. "I saw Ruth this afternoon."

"Oh?" It didn't register.

"She called me up. That's why I came over while you were at work."

He nodded, but I could see it still hadn't penetrated.

"Look, Hank," I said, "we've been friends for about fifteen years. I guess we can talk to each other by now. Can't we?"

"Why, of course," he said. "I mean, hell yes, of course. But – couldn't we make it tomorrow, Dave? For lunch, maybe?"

He was headed down the street for the corner. I got his sleeve. "Why? Do you have a pressing engagement?"

"So to speak, Dave. That is, I do have something on."

I walked in front of him. "Ruth told me a story,". I said. "Now I'd like to hear your version of it."

"What?" For the first time he seemed to come out of it. His eyes lost that glassy look. "What do you mean?"

"You want to discuss it here, in the middle of the street?"

"Yes," he said. "Here in the middle of the street will be just fine."

I told him everything that Ruth had told me. He listened intently, never interrupting.

When it was over, he smiled.

"Well?" I was getting a little sore.

"I'm afraid it's true," he said. "I have been unfaithful to Ruth.

The urge to swing on him passed, and I found myself feeling confused. "She's waiting for you now, I suppose?"

He nodded. "She waits every night for me."

All I could say was, "Who is she?"

"Come along," he said, "I'll introduce you."

I said no, of course, but he insisted, so I followed him to the corner, still not completely able to accept things.

Hank turned, then, and started into the lot. It was dark, no strings of bulbs, no flashy Christmas-tree come-ons, just a dark place with a lot of parked cars that you couldn't see very well.

"Do you remember this?" he asked, softly. "It's really amazing. We used to pass it every day – hundreds of times. And never gave it a second look."

I adjusted my eyes to the blackness. The cars, I saw, were antique models mostly; big square boats, the kind you see in Chaplin and Fields revivals. Reos and Auburns and old Lincolns, I guessed. Over the salesman's shack a sign read: Springfield's Vintage Automobiles.

Well, it was an original trysting-spot, anyway.

Hank pulled me along, past all the ancient crates. Some of them were orange with rust, nothing but heaps of rotten metal, twenty and thirty years old. A few didn't seem to be anything but shells.

He stopped by the tiny wooden house, and grinned. Then he leaned against one of the boats. "You still want the introduction?"

I nodded. Why not? I was this far already. Sure, trot her out and we'll all have a nice sticky scene.

He stepped back. By this time I could see perfectly. "All right, then," he said. "Come over here."

I did. He walked around and opened the door of the car. "David, please meet Miss Duesenberg. Miss Duesenberg, my good friend David Jenkinson."

I looked inside the car.

(continued on page 14)classic affair(continued from page 11)

It was empty.

"You understand?" Hank said.

I said "No," and I never spoke a truer word.

• • •

He was staring at the car now. I'd tried to light a cigarette, but he'd knocked it out of my hand, explaining that there might be police around. We stood quietly.

"No woman?" I said.

He shook his head. "No woman." He wasn't touching the car, or leaning against it; just staring. It was a huge thing. Dark-blue or black, it looked something like a Rolls-Royce, I thought, only sportier. There was just room for two in it, or at the outside three. I couldn't tell much else. A big convertible, around twenty years old.

"Let's go somewhere and talk," I said, almost in a whisper.

"I can't," he said. "I've got to stay here, Dave. Look." He opened the door again. "Look at this leather. Smell it. It's top grain, you can't get any better. Feel how soft it is, and rich. Go on."

I ran my hand over the seat. It was good leather, all right.

"Now think of what one kid with a pocketknife could do to that," Hank said. "I mean, you know what kids are. They slash the seats in theatres, in drug stores, you know that. I don't know why. But they do, and think of what would happen if one of them found out about this ..." His voice turned angry and hard. "And these fools won't lock it!" He glared in the direction of the shack, and swallowed. "I know, you're going to tell me that I ought to bring it to their attention. I almost did, believe it or not. But then I thought, if it's locked, I won't ever be able to sit in it. I don't know."

"Hank," I said, "let's go somewhere. I really think we'd better do that."

"I just told you, I can't. If you want to talk, do it here."

I was going to argue, but I could tell from his tone that it wouldn't do any good. "Okay."

"Not outside, though," he said. "Here."

I got into the car; Hank settled himself beside me and closed the door.

"By the way, I want you to notice the wheel," he said. "Leather-covered. Horn button, too. And take ahold of that emergency."

It was all chromed, longer than the gearshift; something you'd expect to find aboard a steamship.

Hank was smiling again. He pointed to a small lever on the dash – there were dozens of them. "This gadget is your brake adjustment," he murmured. "See? You can adjust the brakes for any road condition, no matter what. This here is the altimeter. Tell you how high up you are. And this little thing ---"

"Hey."

He stopped talking. After a bit he sighed and turned toward me. "I can't explain, Dave," he said. "I've fallen in love with a car, that's all. I can't explain."

"Give it a try."

"No use. It's something that's happened. I can tell you how, how's easy; but not why."

"That's good enough."

He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Well – I was coming home from work. I guess it must be almost three months ago. The bus went down Riverside, as usual. I was looking out the window. When we passed Springfield's, I glanced in at the old cars, and – well, I saw it."

"You saw this car."

"That's right. The sun was still fairly high, and it sort of glittered off the paint, and I remember thinking at the time, My God, you know, what a fine looking piece of machinery. Didn't think much about it, of course. But the funny thing is, I kept seeing it, even after the bus had passed. At home I still saw it, that quick flash of dark blue ..." He got lost in his remembering. But I wasn't about to interrupt. "It wouldn't go away, Dave. The next day when the bus passed, I stopped and got out and walked back. I stood around the lot for a long time, looking in at the car – I mean, I didn't even know what kind it was! – and I felt something happening. You used to say it happened to you: kind of hurting, the way you feel when you see a beautiful girl that you don't really want, but you do, too. With you it was paintings and plays and things like that. But, God, this was the first time for me, and I couldn't understand what was wrong!"

"Go on."

"There isn't much more," he said. "I came back the next day and asked the dealer what it was and he told me, a Duesenberg. That night I decided to take another look: at the engine. He wouldn't let me see it, you know. The lot was closed. It was sitting alone, two big Mercedes-Benz jobs on either side. For the first time I examined it closely. I touched it, and saw how wonderful it was."

Now he was going. Talking more than I'd ever heard him do, he told me how he'd worked up the nerve to try the door. How he'd sweated over the decision: To get in or not to get in. How he had then gone to libraries and book stores and read everything he could get ahold of pertaining to the car..

"It was an astonishing thing," he said, "really and truly astonishing." His eyes were lit, and I think he was trembling; maybe not. "The facts – Dave, listen. This automobile, the one you're in now, how fast would you say it goes?"

"Hell," I said, "I don't know anything about cars."

"Take a guess. Go on."

"Seventy?"

"Seventy?" He chuckled. "Dave, this automobile will turn an honest one-thirty. One hundred and thirty miles per hour. But that's not it, of course," he said, hurriedly. "I mean, a lot of cars will go fast."

"Then what is it?"

"Everything," he said, helplessly. "The way it looks so goddamn regal and efficient and luxurious, and – the way it's put together. That Augie Duesenberg, you know, he didn't fool around. I mean, this car isn't one of your assembly line jobs like they have nowdays. It just isn't, Dave. Like – well, you remember that house we looked at on Benedict Canyon, the big stone one that you said it looked like it had its feet planted in the ground right up to its knees? You remember that house?"

"Yeah."

"This is the same. The same exactly. It's a work of art, Dave; I'm telling you!" His voice got a little louder. "This guy Briggs Cunningham, he goes around saying he wants to be the first American car to win at Le Mans – he's nuts. An American car won Le Mans. Which American car? The Duesenberg. Yes, and, listen, the tolerances on the engine are still just as fine as any of your European makes. Hell, they didn't have anything else but Duesie powerplants at Indianapolis! Not for years! God, Dave, you know what they did? They had this one man, a mechanic. He was an artist. Responsible for the whole engine, just him. They'd finish the car and take it out on a track and run it at top speed for twenty-four hours or something. Then they'd take it back in and this mechanic, he'd take it apart and see if anything was worn. If it wasn't absolutely perfect, he'd start all over again. I mean, that's something that's gone, it's gone forever, I'm telling you. And – I suppose I sound like an advertisement?"

"A little."

"Well, never mind. It's all true." He opened the door. "Look here: three hinges. Or there, the running board. Get out for a minute."

He had me bang my fist on the fender. It was hard and solid. Then he started showing me other things: the taillights, the gigantic wheels with their special tires, the rumble-seat. There wasn't anything for me to do but follow him around and wait it out.

"Shall we take a peek at the engine?"

We took a peek.

"Four hundred horses, Dave. A '29, remember."

He must have talked for hours, showing me every square inch of the car, giving me a complete history. I could see that it was for real, however fantastic it might seem. Old gray Hank had flipped his wig over an auto, and since people like Hank usually live out their whole lives without flipping their wigs over anything, he was taking it hard.

"I may be insane," he said, "but there's nothing to be done about it, I'm telling you, when I'm away from the car, I'm – in hell. I keep thinking of what might happen to it, just sitting here, unlocked at night. I keep dreading the day when somebody buys it. Some ape, some fat cigar-smoking ape without the sense to know what he's got ... Here it is, the finest automobile ever built, the absolute best of them all. Sitting here." His fists were clenched tightly. "I want you to know this, if (continued on page 46)classic affair(continued from page 14) some idiot comes in here and buys it, I'll kill him. So help me God, that's what I'll do."

I let him calm down, then I said, "Hank, listen. If you're so nuts about the car, if it means all this to you, why don't you buy the damn thing and get it over with? Why all this creeping around at night, why such a big deal?"

He laughed, the coldest laugh I think I've ever heard. "That's a real brainstorm," he said. "Now why didn't I think of that? Just go ahead and buy it ..."

"Well, you want it, don't you?"

"Of course I want it. Unfortunately I don't have seven thousand, five hundred dollars, which is the price. I don't even have five hundred dollars."

We sat still for a while. The idea I'd been fighting off broke through finally, and when it did, I opened the door and got out of the car.

"You don't understand, do you?" he said.

I told him yes, I thought I did.

"Then you see why I haven't told Ruth. What could I tell her – that I'm in love with a car?"

"No, you couldn't do that."

"Besides," he said, "she's a woman."

I thought, yes, she is, she is that. A beautiful and desirable woman, and I'm in love with her. Not with a hunk of machinery ...

I walked to the edge of the lot. Then, almost scared, I started back. I knew that if I thought much about it, I wouldn't do it. And it was the only real chance I'd seen.

"What's your plan?" I asked him.

"I don't have any," he said.

"Think it'll wear off?"

"Maybe. I don't know, I've never been through anything like this before. Do you think I ought to see a doctor?"

"No," I said. "You'd spend two hundred dollars just to learn that you've got a fixation on a car. I've got fixations, too. Who doesn't?" I took a deep breath. "Hank, how badly do you want this boat, anyway?"

He didn't answer.

"I'm serious. Tell me exactly what it would mean to you."

"To own it?"

"That's right."

His hands gripped the steering wheel. You could see that he wasn't really considering the question. It was too much for him.

"What I mean is, to know that it was completely yours. Hank Osterman's own car. To know that you could keep it in the garage and work on it whenever you wanted to and shine it up every morning." I gave the knife a twist. "Or drive it whenever you got the urge. Maybe early in the morning ..." I remembered how Hank liked five o'clock. "You know, take it out and really wind it up. Wait for one of the new bombs, idle him along, and then let him see what you have."

"Stop it."

"Or tool it downtown and park it, just to let everybody have a look."

"Dave, goddamn it, shut up. I want that more than anything else in the world. I told you, didn't I!"

"More than anything else?"

"Yes!"

"That's all I wanted to know," I said. I left him sitting in the car.

• • •

I had a rough time with the loan, but there are ways. People like Hank don't know that. If I'd asked for five hundred they'd have tossed me out on my ear; getting eight thousand was a different story.

Once I knew it was set up, I called Ruth and told her to be patient, everything was going to be all right. When she told me that nothing had changed, I let her know she was wrong. Things would be changing very soon.

It was pretty close to perfect.

I'd buy the car while Hank was at work. Then I'd drive it over and catch him as he broke for lunch. Let him take the wheel for a few blocks – to get the feel of it. Sink the hook good and deep.

Then make him the deal.

"It's yours, Hank, old scout. All yours. There's only one little thing I'd like in return – really not very much at all, considering. In exchange for the car – this one here, the one you said you'd give anything for – I'd like Ruth. Fair enough?"

Oh, yes. It would work, too: I knew that. It would work. Of course, he'd come to his senses eventually, but then it'd be too late. Ruth and I would be long ago and far away ...

• • •

The money came from the bank last Monday, a week ago. I'd been giving Ruth a good stall and managed to keep her quiet, so I knew that conditions were ripe.

I was at Springfield's when they opened. The salesman, a short man with a mustache and an accent, just about fainted when he saw he had a live one. "The Duesenberg? Oh, yes, sir: a genuine classic, indeed. Tyrone Power has one quite a bit like it, you know, but not in anything like this condition. The engine's been completely overhauled, only five hundred miles on it, and those are all new tires. New paint – the original color, by the way ..."

I offered him six grand, and he gobbled it up. Then he told me how to work the gears, and I had to listen to a story about the Duesenberg Owner's Club and what rare taste I had and all like that.

While he spieled, I glanced over at the car. The paint glistened, because of the sun; it was a rich, dark blue. I hadn't actually seen the thing before, and you had to admit it was a handsome job. Every part of it seemed to be made of cast iron. There was a lot of chrome, but somehow it managed to look good, for once, not gaudy and useless.

I thought of Hank, suddenly, of his sneaking around at night, peeping at the car, worrying over it, scared that someone might hurt it. He really must love the old heap. Maybe I'm not kidding myself after all, I thought, maybe I am doing him a favor!

Finally I was permitted to get in and start it up. It caught right away. The engine began to pulse smoothly but with a power you could feel. The salesman was smiling. "Be very careful," he said. "You've got a thoroughbred under you."

I waved at him and put it in gear and touched the accelerator pedal.

The car lunged forward like a mad thing. Low in the seat – you're like a midget in that cab, it's so big – I pressed the brake, fast.

"See what I mean?" the salesman said.

I nodded, and took off more cautiously. I'd been driving for years, but now I was a beginner again, trying to keep the whole works from running away with me.

When I finally got it out on the highway, just for fun I fed it a little more gas. The engine took on a different pitch, there was a surge, and I saw by the speedometer that I was traveling almost seventy! It told you plainly that you had a long way to go before you strained this baby.

Poor old Hank, I thought; God, he's in love with it and he hasn't even driven it yet. Just wait'll he gets behind the wheel and sees what it will do.

Out toward the valley a couple of hot-rods got smart. Cut down Fords, I think they were. They tooted and roared past, dribbling exhaust. I floored the Duesenberg, and, believe me, before I even started thinking about third those boys were out of sight behind me.

It was a hell of a feeling.

I'd planned, of course, to take the car over to Hank's office that afternoon. It was all rehearsed and ready to go.

But I was miles away, headed for open highway. The salesman had said something about suspension, and I wanted to try a few curves – nothing fancy or anything. And besides, that evening would do just as well. There wasn't any rush about it. Just a few curves and a straight run, to see how the old bus behaved.

That was a week ago. Since then I've taken the Duesie over the ridge route, along Highway One – you know what that is – and into Beverly Hills, for kicks. Parked it across from Romanoff's, where the boys in their new Detroit tubs could get a nice long look. And then over to the Derby – and wasn't that fine, though. I mean, I'd spent a couple of hours getting it all shined up, and I felt like a damn king there, a regular damn king.

Hank's probably going crazy – I went back and told the salesman not to give out any information – but then, he'll have it for a long time to come, won't he?

Meanwhile, I figure why not enjoy it a little. It really is a work of art. You're always discovering strange new things about it, hidden compartments, extra switches and levers and buttons. God knows what they're all for. It's for sure they're for something, though. That's the kind of a car it is.

I'll probably turn it over to Hank some time next week, before he goes beserk, and then Ruth and I will take up where we left off.

But first I would like to see if the Duesie actually does an honest hundred and thirty mph.

I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it did.

I mean, it's a hell of a car.

He looked over his shoulder, like a criminal.