Девять рассказов

           Duringthenextcoupleofweeks,thepicture—howeverforciblyoraccidentallyithadbeenplantedontheChief—wasnotremovedfromthebus.Itdidn’tgooutwiththeBabyRuthwrappersandthefallenlicoricewhips.However,weComanchesgotusedtoit.Itgraduallytookontheunarrestingpersonalityofaspeedometer.

           ButonedayaswewereonourwaytothePark,theChiefpulledthebusovertoacurbonFifthAvenueintheSixties,agoodhalfmilepastourbaseballfield.Sometwentyback-seatdriversatoncedemandedanexplanation,buttheChiefgavenone.Instead,hesimplygotintohisstory-tellingpositionandswungprematurelyintoafreshinstallmentof"TheLaughingMan."Hehadscarcelybegun,however,whensomeonetappedonthebusdoor.TheChief’sreflexesweregearedhighthatday.Heliterallyflunghimselfaroundinhisseat,yankedtheoperatinghandleofthedoor,andagirlinabeavercoatclimbedintothebus.

           Offhand,Icanrememberseeingjustthreegirlsinmylifewhostruckmeashavingunclassifiablygreatbeautyatfirstsight.OnewasathingirlinablackbathingsuitwhowashavingalotoftroubleputtingupanorangeumbrellaatJonesBeach,circa1936.ThesecondwasagirlaboardaCaribbeancruiseshipin1939,whothrewhercigarettelighterataporpoise.AndthethirdwastheChief’sgirl,MaryHudson.

           "AmIverylate?"sheaskedtheChief,smilingathim.

           Shemightjustaswellhaveaskedifshewasugly.

           "No!"theChiefsaid.Atriflewildly,helookedattheComanchesnearhisseatandsignalledtherowtogiveway.