Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [31]
"You want tuna again?"
"Ah…I'm not sure. Look, I have to work again tonight. Late."
"That's okay. I mean…maybe you could come by after…"
"No. It'll be real late. Way too late. But if you're getting off at six, maybe we could have dinner together. Before I go to work."
"Dinner?"
"Yeah."
"And then…"
"I'll take you home."
She smoothed the sides of her skirt with the palms of her hands. Bit her lip. "I'd…like that."
"Okay. Then just bring me a chocolate milkshake and some dry toast. I'll wait here until you get off."
"Coming up."
I ground out my smoke. Found the pay phone in the back. Called my pal John the real estate broker. He didn't have topographical maps of the area right there in his office but he sure as shooting could get me some. Have them for me by tomorrow afternoon.
I sipped the milkshake. Nibbled at the toast. Watched the traffic outside the window. The joint was near–empty. Not a hangout—it flowered at mealtimes, lay dormant in between.
It wasn't quite six when Cyndi bounced up to my table.
36
I HELD THE passenger door for her while she climbed inside, her chubby thighs flashing in the late afternoon sun. Wearing a black silk blouse over a red miniskirt, black spikes on her feet.
"I hope this is okay?"
"What?"
"This…outfit. I mean…for going out to dinner and all."
"It's fine. You look lovely."
"Thank you." Ran her hand over the seat cushion. "Leather. It even smells good. Where're we going?"
"You tell me, Cyndi—I don't know this town. Someplace nice. And quiet. Where we don't need a reservation, okay?"
"You mean nice nice? Like fancy?"
"Sure."
"Can we go to Ricardo's? I've never been there, but I heard it's real nice."
"Sure."
I followed her directions. Ricardo's was in Hammond. A small joint backed up against the lake. The lot had only a half dozen cars sitting there.
Instead of a maitre d', there was a plastic sign on a stand. Please Wait to Be Seated.
A dark–haired hostess in a cocktail dress came over. Looked Cyndi up and down, glanced at me long enough to calculate the cost of everything I had on. Asked, "Two for dinner?" and led us to a table ten feet from the kitchen.
"Will this be all right?"
"How about one of those tables?" I asked, nodded my head in the direction of a long, low window.
"They're all reserved, sir."
"All?"
"I believe so.
"I'll call next time," I said, starting over in that direction, tapping Cyndi at her waist to come along. The hostess trailed after us, stopping at the first table at the end of the row.
"Perhaps this one?" she asked, her face set.
"Fine."
"Your waiter will be with you shortly."
I held Cyndi's chair for her. Picked a tiny box of wooden matches from the white tablecloth, cracked a flame, lit a smoke.
The waiter looked like he'd done time back when it was a credential. He must have caught the action with the hostess. Bowed to Cyndi. "Good evening, madam. Sir. My name is Charles. I'll be serving you this evening. Can I get you something to drink before dinner…perhaps some champagne?"
"Could I…?"
I nodded, cutting her off. "Some champagne for the lady. Whatever you recommend. I'll have ginger ale over ice."
"Very good, sir."
Cyndi looked around like a kid at the circus. A kid who'd never been before. "Oh, wow! This is beautiful. And they treat you so nice. I didn't want to order champagne. I mean, I love it and all, but they always water it down, you know."
"Not here."
"I guess not. I mean…not with men serving the booze, right?"
37
SHE CHATTERED on through her London broil. I told her why I was there. How I studied the local newspapers for a few weeks before I ever came into a town to work. She nodded, paying attention, mouth full.
The waiter cleared the plates away, doing it right, easy on the "sir," not oiling it. He knew the difference between Atlantic City respect and the kind you earn with something other than cash.
Cyndi ordered chocolate mousse for dessert. I had the lemon water ice they called sorbet.
I lit a smoke. "Seems like the hot story around here's been that sniper…the one shooting those