and all that? I forget the name of her company. They say her family owns it. Comes by now and again to make sure everything’s up to snuff, that we have everything we need to stay a first-class place. Better take this.”
Angus lent Nick an umbrella, though it had quit raining for the moment. Nick loudly assured Mrs. Fadge, who had joined them, that he’d take her up on coffee and cookies next time.
Then he walked outside in the stifling late afternoon toward his car, a BMW 2002 that once, in his youthful days of hedonism, had been a hell of a vehicle. He recalled with a sigh how fast he used to drive his metallic blue baby between the empty streetcar tracks on St. Charles, at four in the morning! Highly illegal and dangerous, of course, but once he hadn’t cared. Oh, the idiotic, ecstatic things he’d done in this car…
It wasn’t exactly a collectible now, unless you were a dealer in scrap metal. He accepted total blame for its rust and general deterioration. The oil-change sticker was no longer legible, and didn’t the owner’s manual say to always leave the windows open in the rain?
When he’d bailed out the driver’s compartment enough to navigate, he was already late for his meeting with Hawty Latimer.
.
5
N ick banged the steering wheel.
St. Charles Avenue was flooded knee deep–big surprise in a city below sea level–and viscous rush-hour traffic had him in its taffy grip.
Kids played in brown water backed up from the heavy downpour, and when a big wave came they retreated with summer squeals to the craggy sidewalks deformed by the roots of old oaks that defined the famous street. Cops with yeah-sure-buddy smirks ticketed hapless drivers who had stalled and had to admit they had no insurance, or worse, had tried to make a left turn–a grievous sin in this city, where murder attracts less notice. Cars looked like boats, complete with wakes.
Traffic oozed on, with the occasional surprise of some urban cowboy barging through an opening in his monster pickup; the cops, of course, never saw him . Dark green streetcars rocked along with their roar and clang, packed with sweltering riders, windows raised for a speed-driven breeze in spite of the continuing drizzle. They made only slightly better time than everyone except the joggers who competed with them for the soggy “neutral ground” of grass that separated the traffic lanes.
Nick would have loved a jog about now, to ease the tensed-up muscles of his neck and shoulders, to get the blood moving in his legs.
Along lower St. Charles, he glimpsed well-heeled patrons behind fogged windows in the cool confines of posh bars, ignoring the unfortunate drones outside. Once or twice, he imagined he saw the blurred figure of Zola Armiger, laughing with glass raised, as in some happy Renoir party. Closer to Lee Circle, the bars and the patrons got seedier; befuddled men and women peered forlornly or belligerently from open dark doorways at the parade of those who still played the game.
Maybe, just maybe, Hawty had grown disgusted waiting and had left, Nick thought, his mood brightening. He’d used that ploy often enough with pesky or psychotic students before.
He was certain he wasn’t going to like this girl, much less hire her, no matter what he’d promised Una. He’d already made up his mind, and that was that!
When he finally arrived at his street, he parked in a tow-away zone.
“I just want you to know that I was on time for our interview. See?” she said, pointing to a machine-printed note taped to Nick’s office door. “Mr. Herald, how do you do. I’m Hawty Latimer.”
They shook hands. She had a plump, cheerful face, with wonderfully youthful dark-brown skin and dark eyes like black onyx set in pearl. Self-confidence emanated from her, along with a rather nice perfume. She wore understated jewelry and interview clothes, just like, like…a normal person. Nick figuratively bit his tongue, even though he’d only thought that. Una and
Angus lent Nick an umbrella, though it had quit raining for the moment. Nick loudly assured Mrs. Fadge, who had joined them, that he’d take her up on coffee and cookies next time.
Then he walked outside in the stifling late afternoon toward his car, a BMW 2002 that once, in his youthful days of hedonism, had been a hell of a vehicle. He recalled with a sigh how fast he used to drive his metallic blue baby between the empty streetcar tracks on St. Charles, at four in the morning! Highly illegal and dangerous, of course, but once he hadn’t cared. Oh, the idiotic, ecstatic things he’d done in this car…
It wasn’t exactly a collectible now, unless you were a dealer in scrap metal. He accepted total blame for its rust and general deterioration. The oil-change sticker was no longer legible, and didn’t the owner’s manual say to always leave the windows open in the rain?
When he’d bailed out the driver’s compartment enough to navigate, he was already late for his meeting with Hawty Latimer.
.
5
N ick banged the steering wheel.
St. Charles Avenue was flooded knee deep–big surprise in a city below sea level–and viscous rush-hour traffic had him in its taffy grip.
Kids played in brown water backed up from the heavy downpour, and when a big wave came they retreated with summer squeals to the craggy sidewalks deformed by the roots of old oaks that defined the famous street. Cops with yeah-sure-buddy smirks ticketed hapless drivers who had stalled and had to admit they had no insurance, or worse, had tried to make a left turn–a grievous sin in this city, where murder attracts less notice. Cars looked like boats, complete with wakes.
Traffic oozed on, with the occasional surprise of some urban cowboy barging through an opening in his monster pickup; the cops, of course, never saw him . Dark green streetcars rocked along with their roar and clang, packed with sweltering riders, windows raised for a speed-driven breeze in spite of the continuing drizzle. They made only slightly better time than everyone except the joggers who competed with them for the soggy “neutral ground” of grass that separated the traffic lanes.
Nick would have loved a jog about now, to ease the tensed-up muscles of his neck and shoulders, to get the blood moving in his legs.
Along lower St. Charles, he glimpsed well-heeled patrons behind fogged windows in the cool confines of posh bars, ignoring the unfortunate drones outside. Once or twice, he imagined he saw the blurred figure of Zola Armiger, laughing with glass raised, as in some happy Renoir party. Closer to Lee Circle, the bars and the patrons got seedier; befuddled men and women peered forlornly or belligerently from open dark doorways at the parade of those who still played the game.
Maybe, just maybe, Hawty had grown disgusted waiting and had left, Nick thought, his mood brightening. He’d used that ploy often enough with pesky or psychotic students before.
He was certain he wasn’t going to like this girl, much less hire her, no matter what he’d promised Una. He’d already made up his mind, and that was that!
When he finally arrived at his street, he parked in a tow-away zone.
“I just want you to know that I was on time for our interview. See?” she said, pointing to a machine-printed note taped to Nick’s office door. “Mr. Herald, how do you do. I’m Hawty Latimer.”
They shook hands. She had a plump, cheerful face, with wonderfully youthful dark-brown skin and dark eyes like black onyx set in pearl. Self-confidence emanated from her, along with a rather nice perfume. She wore understated jewelry and interview clothes, just like, like…a normal person. Nick figuratively bit his tongue, even though he’d only thought that. Una and
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