She looked up calmly, stared at me with big eyes and then returned to her map. “Go jump down a well,” she said. “If there isn’t one handy, anyone will help you dig it if you tell ’em what it’s for.”
That set me back a trifle. I was never much good with a smooth wisecracker. Myra Shumway was that and then some.
I tried again, “I’m just trying to break the ice,” I said. “Seeing the car and the map I figured I could hitch a ride.”
She looked up again, “This isn’t a bus, brother,” she said. “I don’t take passengers.”
“You mean you don’t take strangers,” I corrected her. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Ross Millan.”
“You may be a power-house to your mother,” she said carefully, “but to me, you’re a blownout fuse. Good night,” and she turned back to her map.
I let my blood pressure settle down, then I wandered around to the other side of the car, opened the door and climbed in. “It’s a grand feeling to get the weight off one’s puppies, ain’t it?” I said.
She stiffened. “I hope for your sake that I’m not going to have any trouble from you,” she said, putting the map away with quiet determination.
“None at all,” I assured her. “All I need is a lift to wherever you’re going. I’m tired of Mexico City and I want a change of air. I always hitch hike because I’m mean about money.”
“Your repressions fascinate me,” she returned. I may be wrong but I fancied she sounded annoyed. “But if you don’t get out of this car, I’m going to surprise you.”