Coyote blue

speak at all. "I was just leaving for an appointment. My car's around the corner."
    "Would you do that? I have to go all the way to upper State Street."
    Sam looked at his watch, out of habit only; he'd have driven her to Alaska if she had asked. "No problem," he said. "Follow me."
    The girl grabbed a bundle of clothes from the Datsun and Sam led her around the corner to his Mercedes. He opened the door for her and tried not to watch her get in. Whenever he looked at her his mind went blank and he had to thrash around looking for what to do next. As he got in the car he caught a glimpse of her brown legs against the black leather seat and forgot for a moment where the ignition slot was. He stared at the dashboard and tried to calm himself, even as he was thinking, This is an accident waiting to happen.
    The girl said, "Do you think that the Germans make such good cars to atone for the Holocaust?"
    "What?" He started to look at her, but instead turned his attention to the road. "No, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"
    "It doesn't matter, I guess. I just thought it might bother them. I have a leather jacket that I can't wear anymore because when I have it on I have to drive miles out of my way to avoid going by cow pastures. Not that the cows would want it back – zippers are hard for them – but they have such beautiful eyes, it makes me feel bad. These seats are leather, aren't they?"
    "Vinyl," Sam said. "A new kind of vinyl." He could smell her scent, a mix of jasmine and citrus, and it was making driving as difficult as following her conversation. He turned the air-conditioning on full and concentrated on timing the lights.
    "I wish I had calf eyes – those long lashes." She pulled down the visor and looked in the vanity mirror, then bent over until her head was almost at the steering wheel and looked at Sam. He glanced at her and felt his breath catch in his throat as she smiled.
    She said, "You have golden eyes. That's unusual for someone with such dark skin. Are you an Arab?"
    "No, I'm… I don't know. I'm a mongrel, I guess."
    "I never met a Mongrel before. I hear they were great horsemen, though. My mother used to read me mat poem: 'In Xanadu did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure dome decree…' I don't remember the rest. Someone told me that the Mongrels were like the bikers of their time."
    "Who told you that?"
    "This person who's a biker."
    "Person?" Sam knew there was some reality to grab on to somewhere, a position from which he could regain control, if only he could get a straight answer.
    "Do you know where the Tangerine Tree Cafe is on upper State? That's where I work."
    "Just tell me a block or so before we get to it."
    Even after twenty years Sam found it impossible to distinguish one area of Santa Barbara from another. Everything was the same: white stucco with red tile roofs. The city had been partially destroyed by an earthquake in 1925, and since then the city planners had required all commercial buildings to be built in the Spanish-Moorish style – they even dictated the shade of white that buildings were painted. The result was a beautifully consistent city with almost no distinctive landmarks. Sam usually spotted his destination just as he passed it.
    "That was it back there," the girl said.
    Sam pulled the car to the curb. "I'll go around the block."
    She opened the car door. "That's okay, I can jump out here."
    "No! I don't mind, really." He didn't want her to go. Not yet. But she was out of the car in an instant. She bent back in and offered her hand to shake.
    "Thanks a lot. I work until four. I'll need a ride back to my car. See ya." And she was gone, leaving Sam with his hand still extended and the image of her cleavage burned onto his retinas.
    He sat for a moment, trying to catch his breath, feeling disoriented, grateful, and a little relieved, as if he had looked up just in time to slam on the brakes and avoid a collision. He took his cigarettes from his jacket and shook one out of the pack, but when he reached for the lighter he noticed the bundle of clothes still lying on the seat. He grabbed the clothes, got out of the car, and headed down the street to the cafe.
    The doors to the cafe were the big, heavy, hand-carved, pseudo-Spanish iron-banded variety common to almost all Santa Barbara restaurants, but once through them the decor was strictly Fifties Diner. Sam approached a gray-haired woman in a waitress uniform who was manning the cash register at the head of the long counter.