the Damon residence, he thought, as he watched the waiter put Elaine’s hamburger down and his own filet of sole.
“Are you going to order some wine?” Elaine asked.
“Of course. What do you want?”
“What do you want? The host usually orders the wine and I gather that this is your lunch.”
“I don’t like to drink in the middle of the day,” he said. It had always been difficult not to sound sanctimonious around Elaine.
“A half-bottle of Beaujolais,” she said to the waiter. In the old days she would have ordered a full bottle. Perhaps, he thought, she’s tapering off.
“Zalovsky, from Chicago,” she said, almost to herself as she slathered the hamburger with ketchup. “Have you any idea what he might look like?”
“I only talked to him on the phone for a couple of minutes,” Damon said, “but actually, from his voice I made a mental picture of him. Forty-five, fifty, perhaps, a heavy man, flashy clothes, no evidence of any education.”
“What’ve you done about it so far?” Elaine asked.
“There’s nothing much I can do about it—yet. Oh, I’m applying for a permit to carry a gun.”
Elaine scowled. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You know what I’d do if I were you, Roger,” she said, “I’d start making lists.”
“What kind of lists?”
“People who for one reason or other had a grudge against you, nuts who’ve come into your office and been turned away, people who think you’ve cheated them somehow, ladies you’ve discarded or husbands or boy friends of ladies you haven’t discarded soon enough …” She grinned and her face was momentarily pert, ageless, again. “Boy, that would be a list. And go way back. People let things fester for years, turn neurotic as they get older—have a run of bad luck and look for someone to blame, or see a movie about revenge or about a woman scorned or God knows what else. Some crazy writer may have offered you a script that you didn’t even read and sent back with a one-line refusal and then read Threnody and seen it on the bestseller lists and think he’s been plagiarized. God, I haven’t been close to you for donkey’s years and even I could make a good-sized list without half-trying. And don’t just look for clues under Z’s. The name might mean nothing. And when you talk to the detective, his name is Lieutenant Schulter by the way, don’t be shy about your exploits. He might just catch something, a hint, that you never thought of. And …” She hesitated, fork in air. “And you might ask your wife to take a good look at her past. She’s a beautiful woman I’ve heard, or at least was a beautiful woman, and I’ve never known a beautiful woman who hasn’t a pot full of grief in her life or who hasn’t at least once picked a real wrong man. And she’s half-Italian and you never know what sort of connections Italians have that they don’t care to advertise.”
“Oh, leave the Italian thing out of it, please. Her uncle owned a garage in Connecticut.” This was an old battle between them. Elaine came from strict Wisconsin German stock, which explained their chastity before their wedding day, if not after, and had strong opinions about the unworthy characteristics of Italians, Greeks, Jews, airline stewardesses, the Irish and Scotch. If she had ever met a Bulgarian or an Outer Mongolian, she would probably have discovered that one couldn’t trust them, either.
Elaine watched the waiter pour the wine, her face stubborn. The waiter was dark and Mediterranean-looking. Damon hoped the waiter hadn’t caught the end of Elaine’s diatribe.
“So he had a garage in Connecticut,” Elaine said when the waiter left and she had swigged down half a glass of wine. “I bet there’s about eight other uncles who never saw a garage, but saw plenty of other things that might have interested the police from time to time.”
“I said leave the Italian thing out of this.”
“You asked me to help.” Now she was
“Are you going to order some wine?” Elaine asked.
“Of course. What do you want?”
“What do you want? The host usually orders the wine and I gather that this is your lunch.”
“I don’t like to drink in the middle of the day,” he said. It had always been difficult not to sound sanctimonious around Elaine.
“A half-bottle of Beaujolais,” she said to the waiter. In the old days she would have ordered a full bottle. Perhaps, he thought, she’s tapering off.
“Zalovsky, from Chicago,” she said, almost to herself as she slathered the hamburger with ketchup. “Have you any idea what he might look like?”
“I only talked to him on the phone for a couple of minutes,” Damon said, “but actually, from his voice I made a mental picture of him. Forty-five, fifty, perhaps, a heavy man, flashy clothes, no evidence of any education.”
“What’ve you done about it so far?” Elaine asked.
“There’s nothing much I can do about it—yet. Oh, I’m applying for a permit to carry a gun.”
Elaine scowled. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You know what I’d do if I were you, Roger,” she said, “I’d start making lists.”
“What kind of lists?”
“People who for one reason or other had a grudge against you, nuts who’ve come into your office and been turned away, people who think you’ve cheated them somehow, ladies you’ve discarded or husbands or boy friends of ladies you haven’t discarded soon enough …” She grinned and her face was momentarily pert, ageless, again. “Boy, that would be a list. And go way back. People let things fester for years, turn neurotic as they get older—have a run of bad luck and look for someone to blame, or see a movie about revenge or about a woman scorned or God knows what else. Some crazy writer may have offered you a script that you didn’t even read and sent back with a one-line refusal and then read Threnody and seen it on the bestseller lists and think he’s been plagiarized. God, I haven’t been close to you for donkey’s years and even I could make a good-sized list without half-trying. And don’t just look for clues under Z’s. The name might mean nothing. And when you talk to the detective, his name is Lieutenant Schulter by the way, don’t be shy about your exploits. He might just catch something, a hint, that you never thought of. And …” She hesitated, fork in air. “And you might ask your wife to take a good look at her past. She’s a beautiful woman I’ve heard, or at least was a beautiful woman, and I’ve never known a beautiful woman who hasn’t a pot full of grief in her life or who hasn’t at least once picked a real wrong man. And she’s half-Italian and you never know what sort of connections Italians have that they don’t care to advertise.”
“Oh, leave the Italian thing out of it, please. Her uncle owned a garage in Connecticut.” This was an old battle between them. Elaine came from strict Wisconsin German stock, which explained their chastity before their wedding day, if not after, and had strong opinions about the unworthy characteristics of Italians, Greeks, Jews, airline stewardesses, the Irish and Scotch. If she had ever met a Bulgarian or an Outer Mongolian, she would probably have discovered that one couldn’t trust them, either.
Elaine watched the waiter pour the wine, her face stubborn. The waiter was dark and Mediterranean-looking. Damon hoped the waiter hadn’t caught the end of Elaine’s diatribe.
“So he had a garage in Connecticut,” Elaine said when the waiter left and she had swigged down half a glass of wine. “I bet there’s about eight other uncles who never saw a garage, but saw plenty of other things that might have interested the police from time to time.”
“I said leave the Italian thing out of this.”
“You asked me to help.” Now she was
Similar Books
