They parted at one of the little turnstiles; he got his hat and coat from the check-room, went downstairs and got his car from a parking station across the street.
When she came down he had double-parked near the entrance. He honked his horn and held the door open for her as she trotted breathlessly out and climbed in beside him. Her eyes were very bright and she laughed a little hysterically.
“The manager saw me,” she said. “But I said I was sick — an’ it worked.” She snuggled up close to him as he swung the car into Sixth Street. “Gee — what a swell car!”
He grunted affirmatively and they went out Sixth a block or so in silence.
As they turned north on Figueroa she said: “What’ve you got the side curtains on for? It’s such a beautiful night.”
He offered her a cigarette and lighted one for himself and leaned back comfortably in the seat.
He said: “I think it’s going to rain.”
It was very dark at the side of the road. A great pepper tree screened the roadster from whatever light there was in the sky.
Mazie Decker spoke softly: “Angelo. Angelo — that’s a beautiful name. It sounds like angel.”
The dark youth’s face was hard in the narrow glow of the dashlight. He had taken off his hat and his shiny black hair looked like a metal skullcap. He stroked the heel of his hand back over one ear, over the oily blackness and then he took his hand down and wriggled it under his coat. His other arm was around the girl.