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Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: det_crime
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enough.
"Everything hokay?" the mustachioed waiter asked.
"Fine," I said. "If you don't mind a charred epiglottis."
I paid the tab with plastic and we went out to the Miata. I took along a handful of paper napkins and wiped the seats reasonably dry. The squall had passed, the night air was freshening, and there were even a few stars peeking out from behind drifting clouds.
"Yummy dinner," Meg said. "Thank you. I really enjoyed it."
"We must dine there again," I said. "Perhaps after the turn of the century."
The drive home was a delight. We sang "It Ain't Gonna Rain No Mo' " and several other songs of a more recent vintage. Meg had a throaty alto, and I thought we harmonized beautifully. Then, like an idiot, I suggested we do "Always," and she started weeping again. Not heaving sobs; just a quiet cry.
"Sorry," I said.
"Not your fault," she said, sniffling. "It's memories. I'll get over it."
"Of course you will," I said, not all that sure.
But she shook off the brief attack of the megrims and, spirits restored, began describing her new apartment. Suddenly she stopped.
"Hey, Archy," she said, "would you like to see it? It's not too late, is it?"
"Not late at all," I said, "and I'd like to see it."
It took a good hour to get back to Riviera Beach, but the weather improved as we drove. It became mellow with a salty breeze, palm fronds rustling, the sea providing a fine background of whispering surf.
It turned out to be the pure night I had hoped for. I wish I could say the same for my thoughts.
Meg now had her own private pad; that was provocative. Even more stimulating was the fact that it was in Riviera Beach, as distant from Connie Garcia's espionage network as I could reasonably hope. The McNally luck seemed to be holding, and I resolved not to waste it. Luck is such a precious commodity, is it not? Especially on a voluptuous night in the company of a young woman whose clavicles drove me mad with longing.
I lied gamely and told Meg how attractive her apartment was. In truth, I found it utterly without charm. It had obviously been furnished as a rental property; everything was utilitarian and designed to withstand rough usage. Nondescript pictures were bolted to the walls and the dinnerware on the open kitchen shelves was white plastic and looked as if it might bounce if dropped.
"Of course it's a little bleak right now," Meg admitted. "It needs some personal things scattered about. But the air conditioner works fine and there's even a dishwasher. I can stand it till October. By that time I hope to have something better lined up."
"I'm sure you will," I said. "Is the phone connected?"
"Not yet. I'll have that done when I return. After I get settled in and fill up the fridge, I hope you'll come over for dinner."
"Love to," I said. "We'll have a housewarming."
She looked at me speculatively. "We could have one right now," she said. "It's a king-sized bed."
"I like to be treated royally," I said.
I feared she might be a white-bread lover. You know: spongy and bland. Men and women who devote all their energies to body-building and no-smoke, no-drink discipline are sometimes incapable of the kinder, gentler arts, like lovemaking.
I needn't have worried about Meg Trumble. Rather than white bread, she was pumpernickel, robust and zesty. She never used her strength to dominate, but I was always aware that her complaisance was voluntary, and so vigorous was her response to my efforts that I reckoned she could, if she wished, twist me into a pretzel.
It is generally thought that highly spiced foods act as aphrodisiacs. But I do not believe our behavior that night on coarse, motel-type sheets can be credited to Kick-Ass Venison Chili and Swamp Wings. I think Meg's fervor was partly inspired by her determination to banish aching memories, and my excitement fed on her passion.
Depleted (temporarily), we stared at each other with pleased recognition: two strangers who had discovered they spoke the same
"Everything hokay?" the mustachioed waiter asked.
"Fine," I said. "If you don't mind a charred epiglottis."
I paid the tab with plastic and we went out to the Miata. I took along a handful of paper napkins and wiped the seats reasonably dry. The squall had passed, the night air was freshening, and there were even a few stars peeking out from behind drifting clouds.
"Yummy dinner," Meg said. "Thank you. I really enjoyed it."
"We must dine there again," I said. "Perhaps after the turn of the century."
The drive home was a delight. We sang "It Ain't Gonna Rain No Mo' " and several other songs of a more recent vintage. Meg had a throaty alto, and I thought we harmonized beautifully. Then, like an idiot, I suggested we do "Always," and she started weeping again. Not heaving sobs; just a quiet cry.
"Sorry," I said.
"Not your fault," she said, sniffling. "It's memories. I'll get over it."
"Of course you will," I said, not all that sure.
But she shook off the brief attack of the megrims and, spirits restored, began describing her new apartment. Suddenly she stopped.
"Hey, Archy," she said, "would you like to see it? It's not too late, is it?"
"Not late at all," I said, "and I'd like to see it."
It took a good hour to get back to Riviera Beach, but the weather improved as we drove. It became mellow with a salty breeze, palm fronds rustling, the sea providing a fine background of whispering surf.
It turned out to be the pure night I had hoped for. I wish I could say the same for my thoughts.
Meg now had her own private pad; that was provocative. Even more stimulating was the fact that it was in Riviera Beach, as distant from Connie Garcia's espionage network as I could reasonably hope. The McNally luck seemed to be holding, and I resolved not to waste it. Luck is such a precious commodity, is it not? Especially on a voluptuous night in the company of a young woman whose clavicles drove me mad with longing.
I lied gamely and told Meg how attractive her apartment was. In truth, I found it utterly without charm. It had obviously been furnished as a rental property; everything was utilitarian and designed to withstand rough usage. Nondescript pictures were bolted to the walls and the dinnerware on the open kitchen shelves was white plastic and looked as if it might bounce if dropped.
"Of course it's a little bleak right now," Meg admitted. "It needs some personal things scattered about. But the air conditioner works fine and there's even a dishwasher. I can stand it till October. By that time I hope to have something better lined up."
"I'm sure you will," I said. "Is the phone connected?"
"Not yet. I'll have that done when I return. After I get settled in and fill up the fridge, I hope you'll come over for dinner."
"Love to," I said. "We'll have a housewarming."
She looked at me speculatively. "We could have one right now," she said. "It's a king-sized bed."
"I like to be treated royally," I said.
I feared she might be a white-bread lover. You know: spongy and bland. Men and women who devote all their energies to body-building and no-smoke, no-drink discipline are sometimes incapable of the kinder, gentler arts, like lovemaking.
I needn't have worried about Meg Trumble. Rather than white bread, she was pumpernickel, robust and zesty. She never used her strength to dominate, but I was always aware that her complaisance was voluntary, and so vigorous was her response to my efforts that I reckoned she could, if she wished, twist me into a pretzel.
It is generally thought that highly spiced foods act as aphrodisiacs. But I do not believe our behavior that night on coarse, motel-type sheets can be credited to Kick-Ass Venison Chili and Swamp Wings. I think Meg's fervor was partly inspired by her determination to banish aching memories, and my excitement fed on her passion.
Depleted (temporarily), we stared at each other with pleased recognition: two strangers who had discovered they spoke the same
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