I was the last one off the plane and there was Joanna Dover.

“My god!” she laughed. “You look awful!”

“Joanna, let’s have a Bloody Mary while we wait for my baggage. Oh hell, I don’t have any baggage. But let’s have a Bloody Mary anyhow.”

We walked into the bar and sat down.

“You’ll never make Paris this way.”

“I’m not crazy about the French. Born in Germany, you know.”

“I hope you’ll like my place. It’s simple. Two floors and plenty of space.” “As long as we’re in the same bed.”

“I’ve got paints.”

“Paints?”

“I mean, you can paint if you want.”

“Shit, but thanks, anyhow. Did I interrupt anything?”

“No. There was a garage mechanic. But he petered out. He couldn’t stand the pace.”

“Be kind to me, Joanna, sucking and fucking aren’t everything.”

“That’s why I got the paints. For when you’re resting.”

“You are a lot of woman, even forgetting the 6 feet.”

“Christ, don’t I know it.”

I liked her place. There were screens on every window and door. The windows swung open, large windows. There were no rugs on the floors, two bathrooms, old furniture, and lots of tables everywhere, large and small. It was simple and convenient.

“Take a shower,” said Joanna.

I laughed. “These are all the clothes I have, what I’m wearing.”

“We’ll get you some more tomorrow. After you have your shower we’ll go out and get a nice seafood meal. I know a good place.”

“They serve drinks?”

“You asshole.”

I didn’t take a shower. I took a bath.

We drove quite a distance. I had never realized that Galveston was an island.

“The dope runners are hijacking the shrimp boats these days. They kill everybody on board and then run the stuffin. That’s one reason the price of shrimp is going up—it’s become a hazardous occupation. How’s your occupation going?”

“I haven’t been writing. I think it’s over for me.” “How long has it been?”

“Six or seven days.”

“This is the place. ...”

Joanna pulled into a parking lot. She drove very fast, but she didn’t drive fast as if she meant to break the law. She drove fast as if it were her given right. There was a difference and I appreciated it.

We got a table away from the crowd. It was cool and quiet and dark in there. I liked it. I went for the lobster. Joanna went for something strange. She ordered it in French. She was sophisticated, traveled. In a sense, as much as I disliked it, education helped when you were looking at a menu or for a job, especially when you were looking at a menu. I always felt inferior to waiters. I had arrived too late and with too little. The waiters all read Truman Capote. I read the race results.

The dinner was good and out on the gulf were the shrimp boats, the patrol boats and the pirates. The lobster tasted good in my mouth, and I drank him down with fine wine. Good fellow. I always liked you in your pink-red shell, dangerous and slow.

Back at Joanna Dover’s place we had a delicious bottle of red wine. We sat in the dark watching the few cars pass in the street below. We were quiet. Then Joanna spoke.

“Hank?”

“Yes?”

“Was it some woman who drove you here?”

“Yes.”

“Is it over with her?”

“I’d like to think so. But if I said 'no’ ...”

“Then you don’t know?”

“Not really.”

“Does anybody ever know?”

“I don’t think so.” “That’s what makes it all stink so.” “It does stink.” “Let’s fuck.” “I’ve drunk too much.” “Let’s go to bed.” “I want to drink some more.” “You won’t be able to . . .”

“I know. I hope you’ll let me stay four or five days.” “It will depend on your performance,” she said. “That’s fair enough.”

By the time we finished the wine I could barely make it to bed. I was asleep by the time Joanna came out of the bathroom. . . .