Death Match - Diane Duane [31]
“No problem at all,” Hal said. “But where’s Mike?”
“Late, probably,” George said. “He’s been late for everything ever since I’ve known him. He’ll probably be late for his own funeral, if I know Mike. Let’s just sit down. It’s crazy to stand here hoping he’ll turn up in the next few minutes. We’ll be chewing our own elbows off by the time he gets here, if we wait for him.”
The waitress came along and brought them to a booth by a window, nearly walking into things a couple of times as she tried to both go forward and at the same time talk to George while he followed her. Catie saw the heads of people seated on either side turn as the three of them passed, their eyes resting first on Brickner and then on her and Hal with an expression that seemed to read, “The first guy, we recognize. Are these two somebody important, too?” It was an odd sensation, and after the first twinge of amusement and excitement, she wasn’t sure she liked it.
The three of them sat down with their menus and exchanged a few words while they looked them over. Hal did most of the talking at this point, and Catie was glad to let him do so. Until she got a feeling for what Brickner was interested in talking about and could participate in the conversation intelligently, she didn’t want to sound like she was just along to see what he looked like…and that would be the immediate assumption, certainly of her brother, if not of George himself. For the moment, while they looked at the menus, Hal and George seemed content to tell each other stories about Mike being late for things; and after a few minutes of this, the waitress came around to take their orders. Catie asked for one of the smoked-meat sandwiches and a Coke. Hal ordered iced tea and eggs Benedict, and once again Catie wondered what on earth the dish had to do with his chemistry class.
“And for you, Mr. Brickner?” said the waitress, and positively fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Catie had a hard time keeping herself from simply laughing out loud.
“A BLT, please,” George said, “and an iced tea.”
“Right,” the waitress said. “Thanks. Oh, and we’re all big fans of yours here….”
“Thanks, miss, uh”—he peered at her nametag—“thanks, Wendy. It’s always good to know people are rooting for the team.”
The waitress smiled and hurried off. “Looks like the service’s gonna be good,” Hal said, sounding dry, as she went away.
George waggled his eyebrows in a resigned way. “It’s good everywhere,” he said. “I just wish I knew when it was really because of the team, instead of that dratted feature in People.”
This had been somewhat on Catie’s mind as well, for now, sitting across from the man, she was coming to the conclusion that the People virtzine feature might actually have had a point about George’s looks. He really was a fabulous-looking guy, close up. Yet it wasn’t something that sprang out at you when you saw him play. What was it about putting this man into a uniform, Catie thought, that so completely changed him? In street clothes he could pass for a model. But it was strange how that quality of sheer male beauty somehow didn’t come through while watching him playing spat. It was as if the energy spent on being handsome—if one could actually be considered to “spend” personal energy on such a thing—was completely channeled into the game while George was playing, leaving him merely good-looking in a cool and uninvolved kind of way. Once he was out of the cubic, that energy seemed to be released for other purposes. Catie could now understand the annoyance of some of George’s fans that he was eligible but seemingly uninterested in dating