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Greg's tone had changed. His worry was evidently genuine, and Woody warmed to him. "I know."
"If there's bombing, even women and children won't be safe. Do you think the Germans will bomb London?"
There was only one honest answer. "I guess they will."
"I wish she'd come home."
"Maybe there won't be a war. Chamberlain, the British premier, made a last-minute deal with Hitler over Czechoslovakia last year--"
"A last-minute sellout."
"Right. So perhaps he'll do the same over Poland--although time is running out."
Greg nodded glumly and changed the subject. "Where are you headed?"
"To Joanne Rouzrokh's apartment. She's giving a party."
"I heard about it. I know one of her roommates. But I'm not invited, as you could probably guess. Her building is--good God!" Greg stopped in midsentence.
Woody stopped, too. Greg was staring ahead. Following his gaze, Woody saw that he was looking at an attractive black woman walking toward them on E Street. She was about their age, and pretty, with wide pinky-brown lips that made Woody think about kissing. She had on a plain black dress that might have been part of a waitress uniform, but she wore it with a cute hat and fashionable shoes that gave her a stylish look.
She saw the two of them, caught Greg's eye, and looked away.
Greg said: "Jacky? Jacky Jakes?"
The girl ignored him and kept walking, but Woody thought she looked troubled.
Greg said: "Jacky, it's me, Greg Peshkov."
Jacky--if it were she--did not respond, but she looked as if she might be about to burst into tears.
"Jacky--real name Mabel. You know me!" Greg stood in the middle of the sidewalk with his arms spread in a gesture of appeal.
She deliberately went around him, not speaking or meeting his eye, and walked on.
Greg turned. "Wait a minute!" he called after her. "You ran out on me, four years ago--you owe me an explanation!"
This was uncharacteristic of Greg, Woody thought. He had always been such a smooth operator with girls, at school and at Harvard. Now he seemed genuinely upset: bewildered, hurt, almost desperate.
Four years ago, Woody reflected. Could this be the girl in the scandal? It had taken place here in Washington. No doubt she lived here.
Greg ran after her. A cab had stopped at the corner and the passenger, a man in a tuxedo, was standing at the curb paying the driver. Jacky jumped in, slamming the door.
Greg went to the window and shouted through it: "Talk to me, please!"
The man in the tuxedo said: "Keep the change," and walked away.
The cab moved off, leaving Greg staring after it.
He slowly returned to where Woody stood waiting, intrigued. "I don't understand it," Greg said.
Woody said: "She looked frightened."
"What of? I never did her any harm. I was crazy about her."
"Well, she was scared of something."
Greg seemed to shake himself. "Sorry," he said. "Not your problem, anyway. My apologies."
