Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [12]
Harry picked up his menu, and the moment he put it down, the damn kid appeared, that shit-eating grin on his face.
“I’ll start with the risotto,” Harry told him, more interested in what he was going to eat for dinner than he was in Esther. “And then the steak, medium rare.”
He didn’t even ask Esther what she was going to have. But the kid was looking at her, waiting. That was as good as it was going to get around here, Esther thought, waving her hand back and forth. “Nothing for me.”
“Esther,” Harry said. “Come on. Have a bite.”
“I’m on that diet you kept talking about, Harry.”
“The liquid diet?”
Esther picked up her drink. “Yes, Harry, that one.”
Why was it always Esther who was supposed to go on a diet? Didn’t Harry ever look at himself in the mirror? But Cheryl didn’t mind. She loved Harry just the way he was, old enough to be her father, fat enough to play Santa without padding, and with an income in the neighborhood of two million a year, give or take. Esther figured Harry was doing the giving, Cheryl the taking, as much of it as she could.
If Esther thought Harry would have trouble eating in front of her, she would have been sorely mistaken. But then again, she’d been mistaken about so many things, hadn’t she? And what did it matter now anyway?
After a third Manhattan, the second that Harry knew about, she decided to let Harry pay the bill. The kid didn’t seem so bad anymore. Let Harry leave him a big tip. Esther no longer cared. She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room while Harry looked at the dessert menu. When she got back, no sooner had she sat down when Harry took the agreement out of his pocket and handed it across the table.
“Cheryl and I …” he began, then changed his mind. “I really appreciate this, Esther. And I’m sure you’ll agree I’ve been generous. There’s more than enough—”
He stopped again when she held up a hand. “Water under the bridge, Harry.” She picked up the pen, signed and initialed wherever it was indicated to do so, then folded the document and handed it back to her husband.
“Ready?” he asked, anxious to go now, anxious to get home to Cheryl and show her the signed papers, open a bottle of champagne, toast to their future. Esther nodded. She’d given him what he wanted. That was what this dinner had been about and she’d done it. Esther dabbed on some lip gloss and stood, picking up her coat from the back of her chair, slipping it on without Harry’s assistance, as the kid helped Harry into his coat, a new one, Esther noted, perhaps another gift from Cheryl, a gift paid for with Harry’s money.
Still, she took his arm as they left the restaurant, the way she always used to. It felt good. It felt right, and besides, the streets were slippery and she didn’t want to fall. She’d left her boots back at the apartment. She’d wanted to look nice tonight, her last night with Harry. They walked a block north, to Jane Street, and Esther looked down at the cobblestones showing in patches where the traffic had melted the snow. Twenty-two, she thought as they crossed the street, the one where she’d killed Harry with a loose cobblestone. Why had she been so foolish, living on fantasies of revenge instead of moving on with her life?
“I’d like to go on alone,” she said when they arrived at the next corner.
Harry patted his coat where the signed papers would be in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, Esther. You always were a good sport.”
“Kiss me goodbye, Harry. Kiss me as if it were the last time.”
Harry bent. Esther got up on her toes. Harry was surprised at the force of her kiss, how tightly she held him, and then at the sight of the tears in her eyes when she finally stepped back.
He headed east, toward the bus stop on Greenwich Street. Esther shook her head. She knew him so well. There probably wasn’t a thing about Harry she didn’t know, including where he’d be generous and exactly where he’d scrimp. As if you could take it with you, she thought, lifting her arm to hail a cab.
Actually,