Read Online Death Benefits by Thomas Perry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Perry
Tags: Fiction
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hanging from the ceiling, and drinks served in ceramic mugs that were effigies of somebody’s gods. As he followed Stillman deeper into the place, he gazed at a man in a chef’s hat behind glass prodding a huge slab of sizzling meat over flames that threatened to flare up and engulf them both, then waited while an Oriental waiter in a tuxedo tucked two gigantic menus under his arm and conducted them across an unused dance floor and up onto the tiered gallery of tables.
Stillman sat down and squinted up at the waiter for a few seconds as though the two of them were in a poker game and the waiter had just raised. The waiter held a tiny pad in the palm of his hand with a pen poised over it. Stillman said, “Can your bartender make a real mai tai?”
“Old-fashioned kind?” asked the waiter, now assessing Stillman with veiled interest.
“That’s right,” said Stillman. “The old-fashioned kind.”
“Two mai tai old-fashioned kind,” the waiter announced, and put a strike mark on his pad that could not have been a Chinese character, then spun on his heel and went off. It seemed to Walker that the pad must be for appraising the customers, and Stillman had scored high.
“What’s changed about mai tais?”
Stillman shrugged. “Beats me. It’s pretty clear they’ve gone to hell like everything else.”
The waiter returned with two large glasses filled with liquid the color of liver. Stillman sipped his, then said, “Perfect.”
Walker tasted his, and guessed that “old-fashioned kind” must mean that the quantity of rum was up to the standard in force when driving drunk was still legal in Los Angeles. He tasted it again, and decided those days would be missed.
A few minutes later the waiter reappeared, his tiny pad in his hand and his eyebrow raised expectantly. Stillman nodded to Walker.
Walker replied, “Should we have what Mr. Fo ordered in 1949?”
Stillman shook his head. “Fo wasn’t in this time zone then. We’ll have to settle for prime rib, medium rare. And bring us more of these.” When the waiter was gone, he said, “That’s what everybody had before words like ‘cholesterol’ crept into the language. They’re all going to be surprised after a lifetime of deprivation when they die of nothing.”
Walker said, “They should spend time with you, and they wouldn’t have that to worry about.”
“So buy yourself some insurance. I need to hear about Ellen.”
Walker had intended to sip his drink, but he noticed that the ice at the bottom already clinked against his front teeth. The drink was like a black hole that sucked everything around it into the glass and disappeared with it. He said warily, “I don’t know a lot. You’ve seen pictures of her, right?”
“One in her file, and one copy of her company ID card. An escapee from cheerleader detention camp.”
“She looks that way,” Walker agreed. “Mildly athletic-looking, but not tiresome about it. I don’t even know if she did anything to stay that way. She was alert and serious about the training classes. I remember she had a few interests that didn’t have anything to do with work. I told you about the music.”
“By the way, that was a reasonable try, kid.” Stillman raised his glass in a mock toast. “They like evidence that you’re listening when they move their lips. I wonder why it didn’t fly. Is there a boyfriend?”
“The word I got was no.” He stared into space for a moment. “Cardarelli. That’s who told me. Now that I know Cardarelli better, I guess that didn’t mean it was true. But Ellen didn’t say anything about a boyfriend when she went out with me, and that would have been the time.”
“No, before that would have been the time. What did she talk about?”
Walker was thinking about her again, searching for a sign that he had missed. No, there was nothing, even at the end, that showed she was thinking about another man. Stillman was staring at him, waiting.
“The one time you took her
Stillman sat down and squinted up at the waiter for a few seconds as though the two of them were in a poker game and the waiter had just raised. The waiter held a tiny pad in the palm of his hand with a pen poised over it. Stillman said, “Can your bartender make a real mai tai?”
“Old-fashioned kind?” asked the waiter, now assessing Stillman with veiled interest.
“That’s right,” said Stillman. “The old-fashioned kind.”
“Two mai tai old-fashioned kind,” the waiter announced, and put a strike mark on his pad that could not have been a Chinese character, then spun on his heel and went off. It seemed to Walker that the pad must be for appraising the customers, and Stillman had scored high.
“What’s changed about mai tais?”
Stillman shrugged. “Beats me. It’s pretty clear they’ve gone to hell like everything else.”
The waiter returned with two large glasses filled with liquid the color of liver. Stillman sipped his, then said, “Perfect.”
Walker tasted his, and guessed that “old-fashioned kind” must mean that the quantity of rum was up to the standard in force when driving drunk was still legal in Los Angeles. He tasted it again, and decided those days would be missed.
A few minutes later the waiter reappeared, his tiny pad in his hand and his eyebrow raised expectantly. Stillman nodded to Walker.
Walker replied, “Should we have what Mr. Fo ordered in 1949?”
Stillman shook his head. “Fo wasn’t in this time zone then. We’ll have to settle for prime rib, medium rare. And bring us more of these.” When the waiter was gone, he said, “That’s what everybody had before words like ‘cholesterol’ crept into the language. They’re all going to be surprised after a lifetime of deprivation when they die of nothing.”
Walker said, “They should spend time with you, and they wouldn’t have that to worry about.”
“So buy yourself some insurance. I need to hear about Ellen.”
Walker had intended to sip his drink, but he noticed that the ice at the bottom already clinked against his front teeth. The drink was like a black hole that sucked everything around it into the glass and disappeared with it. He said warily, “I don’t know a lot. You’ve seen pictures of her, right?”
“One in her file, and one copy of her company ID card. An escapee from cheerleader detention camp.”
“She looks that way,” Walker agreed. “Mildly athletic-looking, but not tiresome about it. I don’t even know if she did anything to stay that way. She was alert and serious about the training classes. I remember she had a few interests that didn’t have anything to do with work. I told you about the music.”
“By the way, that was a reasonable try, kid.” Stillman raised his glass in a mock toast. “They like evidence that you’re listening when they move their lips. I wonder why it didn’t fly. Is there a boyfriend?”
“The word I got was no.” He stared into space for a moment. “Cardarelli. That’s who told me. Now that I know Cardarelli better, I guess that didn’t mean it was true. But Ellen didn’t say anything about a boyfriend when she went out with me, and that would have been the time.”
“No, before that would have been the time. What did she talk about?”
Walker was thinking about her again, searching for a sign that he had missed. No, there was nothing, even at the end, that showed she was thinking about another man. Stillman was staring at him, waiting.
“The one time you took her
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