Read Online Goodnight, Irene by Jan Burke - Free Book Online

here?” I asked.
    “All the time,” she said, “I love this place.”
    Wrigley was in fine fettle. He must have sworn himself to his best behavior, as he didn’t try to hug or kiss us on arrival. He bought us a round of drinks; it looked as if he had a good head start.
    “Irene, dear,” he cooed as the waitress left the table, “we are all very saddened by this whole sad, sad business.”
    When he’s been drinking, Wrigley tends to have redundancy problems.
    “Yes,” I replied, “I know you’ll miss O’Connor.” This was pure horseshit. O’Connor had always been highly regarded by both the board of directors and the staff of the paper, and nothing Wrigley did could demean O’Connor. Wrigley had always felt threatened by him. Worse, O’Connor had annoyed Wrigley by simply ignoring him.
    “Miss him!” Wrigley replied. “The man was an absolute gem. He was a jewel in the crown of the
Express
. And such a horrible fate! Horrible!”
    I didn’t say anything. I was relieved to see the waitress coming back with our drinks.
    Crystal came padding over to us just as the drinks were delivered and told us our table was ready. I fervently hoped I would not have to lean forward into Wrigley’s martini breath on one of those metal seats.
    Fortunately, she took us to a booth. I sat down and Lydia immediately fielded the position next to me, forcing Wrigley to sit alone on the other side. He grabbed Crystal’s hand as she started to leave. That was more like the Wrigley I knew.
    “Crystal, darling,” he hissed, “tell us what’s good tonight.”
    She repeated the blackboard choices and said, “Avoid the Cajun-style red snapper.” She pulled her hand away from Wrigley and shuffled back to the door.
    Wrigley stared after her departing form, then seemed to remember we were at the table. “So,” he said, “let’s pick out what we want and then we can talk. Hate to be unprepared when the waitress comes by.”
    We looked over the menus. Almost everything sounded like a combination of things I would not like to find on my plate at the same time. I turned to Lydia. “What’s pancetta?”
    “Bacon,” she said with a grin.
    I shrugged. “At least I knew arugula.”
    Wrigley was lost in space. He came to with a start when he discovered the restaurant, in its infinite wisdom, had sent us a waiter — not a waitress. Not just any waiter. This was obviously Super-Waiter. He was a hunk. He had jet black hair and blue eyes and a bod as solid as a brick shithouse. A gorgeous man. He smiled. Lydia and I smiled. Wrigley looked forlorn.
    Lydia ordered the pasta carbonara, my question about pancetta apparently whetting her appetite for it. The waiter, who had introduced himself as Michael, gave a great deal of attention to Lydia’s order — salad dressing, wine choices, and bread — and gave her another big smile, as if he were proud to be of service. I ordered the Sante Fe chicken, and while he was very polite, I could tell who was going to be spoiled rotten all night. And it wasn’t Wrigley or me. In fact, when Wrigley ordered his squid and asparagus pasta, he got a “Very good, sir,” and that was that.
    “This place has really gone downhill,” groused Wrigley.
    Michael had our salads and wine out to us in record time. He fussed endlessly over Lydia, who gloried in the attention. This also seemed to have the effect of inhibiting Wrigley’s desire to make passes. I wondered if Michael had any interest in journalism.
    “Well,” Wrigley said in a peeved tone, “now that we have a few moments to ourselves” — he shot a meaningful look at Lydia — “now that we can talk without being overheard by every Tom, Dick, and Harry with an apron on, I just wanted to ask you if certain rumors I hear are true, Irene.”
    “Rumors?” I repeated with perfectly feigned innocence.
    “It’s been said that you might be looking to get back into the newspaper game.”
    Reflecting that for Wrigley, who had inherited a large