"When you're in a hurry, these cabs ... you never can find one."
He wore a sports jacket, most of which was canary yellow. He had thin, delicate hands; his face was lean and sunless; his eyes were sad and misunderstood. The hands threaded the convertible into traffic.
Julia fidgeted. She kept glancing behind her.
"Somebody following you?"
Julia shuddered. "I hope not."
The driver waited. Julia did not amplify; she was half turned now, so she could see out the rear window.
"I had to talk to someone," the driver said apologetically. "I was driving along, and suddenly I had to talk to someone. You know how it is?... Then there you were; you seemed in such a hurry."
"I'm sure glad you stopped, mister!"
"I mean," the driver said intently, "I get wanting to talk. My name's Green. You may have heard of me. I produce pictures—motion pictures. I'm a producer."
How can I ever get away from Walt! Julia thought. He can run me down whenever he wants to!