Davis till now. I guess I never listened to jazz much."

"It's something you grow into." Bobbie put her strong, bony arm around Marilyn.

Marilyn sucked in a deep breath, felt it pull cool across her teeth. "Oh, Christ!" she said, "you're too good to be true-" The tension in her couldn't wait. She put down the beer and grabbed Bobbie, took the skinny girl in her arms and pressed against her till she could feel breath and warmth fighting her grip, till she could feel the moan pressed out of Bobbie, till their two bodies were bone to bone, till the ache between the legs was battered and bruised out of existence, till they were both crying and beyond that to where they laughed and sighed and sat with eyes inward, breathing hard.

Bobbie looked at her watch. "Oh, hell. You're going to kill me for this, but if I don't change and get my ass down to rehearsal, I'm through. I'd invite you, but Jerry's kind of unpredictable. He might blow his stack, and I don't want to put you through

that."

She got up and walked towards the curtained door to the bedroom. Marilyn got up and followed her. Bobbie talked on as she slipped out of her clothes, revealing her skinny frame, the light through the drawn shades turning her skin to pale green. She slipped into a straight pink shift that made her look more angular. Then she gathered her pants and shirt off the bare floorboards and folded them on the rumpled white bed.

"The records are in the cabinet, the whisky's in the icebox. I gotta beat it."

Pushing aside the curtain she left the bedroom and Marilyn followed again, feeling a little foolish.

"I wish I could tell you-”

Bobbie turned sharply. "What, Baby?"

"Oh-nothing, just forget it. It wasn't important."

"Sure it was. Only, it doesn't need saying. I know all about it." She smiled. "See you later." And she was gone-out the door, down the hard, hollow stairs, around through the patio, and she latched the gate firmly with its clattering bolt.

Left alone, Marilyn stood just listening, listening to Miles Davis' cool explorations increase in the silence of the room. Then she cried.

At five-thirty she heard the bolt of the gate go up. She set down her guitar which she had been playing to ease the worrying whirlwind that had spun in her mind since Bobbie left, and listened. Not one, but two people were coming up the stairs. One was a man. Marilyn cursed inwardly. There was laughter, and the door opened, and Bobbie was back.

as

Behind her was a pale young man whose arms and wrists poking from his rolled back sleeves looked though they were wound with nervous, pulsating ropes. His drawn cheeks and the circles under his eyes indicated not weariness but the marks of an endlessly raging nervous drive, raw, exposed. The look of him shocked Marilyn, shocked her to where she couldn't say it or touch it.

"Marilyn, this is Jerry Ballard. Jerry, Marilyn Jaeger. I'll get us a drink."

Bobbie kicked off her flat, hardsoled shoes and padded into the tiny kitchen. Jerry smiled at Marilyn and when he spoke, his voice was soft, with just the hint of a drawl, with the gentle, inarticulate slur, the pauses, that Marilyn had heard only from other musicians, really good ones, who lived in partial absence.

"Bobbie tells me you're a singer, too. Are you working? I mean, do you have anything going?"

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