Was it?
Their truck pulled into the bus station parking lot. Harold jumped over the side, reflecting that even his coordination had improved a thousand percent, either from the weight he had lost, his almost constant exercise, or both.
The thought came to him again, stubborn, refusing to be buried: I could be an asset to this community.
But they had shut him out.
That doesn't matter. I've got the brains to pick the lock on the door they slammed in my face. And I believe I've found enough guts to open it once it's unlocked.
But -
Stop it! Stop it! You might as well be wearing handcuffs and legchains with that one word stamped all over them. But! But! But! Can't you stop it, Harold? Can't you for Christ's sake climb down off your high f**king horse?
"Hey, man, you okay?"
Harold jumped. It was Norris, coming out of the dispatcher's office, which he had taken over. He looked tired.
"Me? I'm fine. I was just thinking."
"Well, you go right along. Seems like every time you do that you coin money for this joint."
Harold shook his head. "Not true."
"No?" Chad let it go. "Can I drop you somewhere?"
"Huh-uh. I've got my chopper."
"You wanna know something, Hawk? I think most of these guys are really going to come back tomorrow."
"Yes, so do I." Harold walked over to his motorcycle and climbed on. He found himself savoring his new nickname, rather against his will.
Norris shook his head. "I never would have believed it. I figured that once they actually saw what the job was, they'd think of a hundred other things they had to do."
"I'll tell you what I think," Harold said. "I think it's easier to do a dirty job for yourself than it is to do for somebody else. Some of these guys, it's the first time they ever really worked for themselves in their whole lives."
"Yeah, there's something in that, I guess. I'll see you tomorrow Hawk."
"Eight," Harold confirmed, and drove out Arapahoe to Broadway. To his right a crew comprised mostly of women was at work with a wrecker and a derrick righting a tractor-trailer truck that had jackknifed, partially blocking the street. They had drawn a respectable little crowd. This place is building up, Harold thought. I don't recognize half of those people.
He went on out toward hit house, his mind worrying and gnawing at the problem he thought he had solved long ago. When he got home, there was a small white Vespa parked at the curb. And a woman sitting on his front step.
She stood up as Harold came up the walk, and put her hand out. She was one of the most striking women Harold had ever seen - he had seen her before, of course, but rarely this close up.
"I'm Nadine Cross," she said. Her voice was low, close to being husky. Her grip was firm and cool. Harold's eyes dropped involuntarily to her body for a moment, a habit he knew girls hated, but one he seemed powerless to stop. This one did not seem to mind. She was wearing a pair of light cotton twill slacks that clung to her long legs and a sleeveless blouse of some light blue silky material. No bra under it, either. How old was she? Thirty? Thirty-five? Younger, maybe. She was going prematurely gray.
All over? the endlessly horny (and endlessly virginal, seemingly) part of his mind inquired, and his heart beat a little faster.
"Harold Lauder," he said, smiling. "You came in with Larry Underwood's party, didn't you?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Followed Stu and Frannie and me across the Big Empty, I understand. Larry came to see me last week, brought me a bottle of wine and some candy bars." His words had a tinkling, false sound to them, and he was suddenly sure that she knew he had been cataloging her, undressing her in his mind. He fought an urge to lick his lips and won... at least temporarily. "He's a helluva nice guy."
"Larry?" She laughed a little, a strange and somehow cryptic sound. "Yes, Larry's a prince."
They gazed at each other for a moment, and Harold had never been looked at by a woman whose eyes were so frank and speculative. He was again aware of his excitement, and a warm nervousness in his belly.
"Well," he said. "What can I do for you this afternoon, Miss Cross?"
"You could call me Nadine, for a start. And you could invite me to stay for supper. That would get us a little further along."
That sense of nervous excitement began to spread. "Nadine, would you like to stay for supper?"
"Very much," she said, and smiled. When she laid her hand on his forearm, he felt a tingle like a low-grade electric shock. Her eyes never left his. "Thank you."
He fumbled his latchkey into its slot, thinking: Now she'll ask me why I lock my door and I'll mumble and stumble around, looking for an answer, and seem like a fool.
But Nadine never asked.