Morosely Julia finished peeling her apple.
It was cold in the Hollywood bus depot; chill rain drizzled down from a leaden sky.
She stood in the protection of the building, bag in hand, shivering miserably. Twice she waved futilely for a cab. On the third attempt, she got one.
The driver opened the door for her, and she bolted through the rain to its inviting back seat.
"Take me to some nice hotel," she said.
The driver flipped up the flag and gunned the motor.
Five minutes later she was paying him ninety cents; leaving the extra dime out of the dollar for a tip, she ran for the hotel steps.
After she registered, she asked the fatherly old gentleman at the desk, "Where does a person go to meet people?" Water trickled down from her hair and across her face.
He bent forward and narrowed his eyes. "Meet people?" he asked; his tone had grown cold and suspicious.