CHARLES NEWMAN
571
"You
better check with the desk then, ma'am. This here flight's
all through," said the colored man.
Corinne patiently explained to the towheaded, heavily fore–
armed airline official that her samples were in the bag, and he brought
out a chart with drawings of different types of bags.
"Which one does yours look like?"
"None of them."
"Notaone?"
"Not even close. It's custom made."
Then Corinne reached over, and plucking his pen from his shirt .
pocket, drew the official a picture. Then she pushed the pen back
behind his ear.
"You
have a blue pen too, officer?" He shook his
head. "Well, the bag's blue. Color it in when you have a chance. I've
got a presentation fust thing in the morning, so you better get it to
the hotel before I hit the sack ... and don't try to make up to me,
kiddo. I know that custom blue bag is stacked up above this goddamn
airport somewhere, and I want you to bring it in, sweet and low, like
the young ensign that you are, just like you were bringing in a riddled
fighter to your carrier in the Coral Sea. ' ,
"Look, rna' am. I'm no pilot."
"Well, be a hero once, anyway. It's good for the economy," and
as Corinne disembarked for the cab rank, kicking her cosmetic case
ahead of her across the marble floor, the official turned to his counter–
mates in disbelief.
Outside in the terrible wind, Corinne pushed five dollars at the
starter.
"Can't bust the rank, Miss, I gotta live with these guys every
day."
The cabs continued to arrive desultorily in the slush. Twenty
minutes later, three conventioneers ahead of Corinne piled into a
Checker, the starter yelling, "Four to a cab," then lapsed into a
mumble as he regarded her.
"That's quite all right," Corinne said sweetly
if
somewhat
nasally, and grabbing the knee of one conventioneer, hauled herself
onto a jump seat, her thick dark hair fanning out along the mesh
which protected the driver.
The three conventioneers were wedged against one another like
pickled vegetables, fedoras high on their foreheads, sweating even in
