Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [102]
Anne glanced over the check as Tinker drank every last drop of his drink. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a money clip with a familiar fold of freshly minted bills. The clip was sterling silver and in the shape of a high-heel shoe—smithed, no doubt, by a maker of whimsical martini shakers, cigarette caddies, and other fine accessories. Like the Texan said: You scratchee my back, I scratchee yours.
Once she had paid in full, Anne looked up and saw me standing at the front of the restaurant. Ever plucky, she waved. She wasn’t hiding behind an Oriental screen or a potted palm.
Tinker followed Anne’s gaze to the front of the restaurant. When he saw me, his charms collapsed from the inside out. His face grew gray. His muscles sagged. Nature’s way of letting you see someone a little more clearly for what they are.
The only consolation in being humiliated is having the presence of mind to leave immediately. Without saying a word to Bitsy, I went through the lobby and out the crimson doors into the autumn air. Across the street, a single cloud was anchored like a zeppelin to the top of a savings & loan. Before it had the chance to cast off, Tinker was at my side.
—Katey . . .
—You freak.
He reached for my elbow. I yanked it away and my purse fell to the ground, spilling its contents. He said my name again. I knelt to sweep up the mess. He got down and tried to help.
—Stop!
We both stood up.
—Katey . . .
—This is what I’ve been waiting for? I said.
Or maybe shouted.
Something fell from my jawbone to the back of my hand. It was a teardrop of all things. So I slapped him.
That helped. It restored my composure. And unsettled his.
—Katey, he pleaded one more time without showing much imagination.
—Off with your head, I said.
I was halfway up the block when Bitsy caught me. She was uncharacteristically breathless.
—What was that all about?
—I’m sorry, I said. I was feeling a little light-headed.
—Tinker’s the one feeling light-headed.
—Oh. Did you see that?
—No. But I saw a handprint on his face and it looked about your size. What’s afoot?
—It’s stupid. It was nothing. It was just a misunderstanding.
—The Civil War was a misunderstanding. That was a lovers’ quarrel. Bitsy’s dress was sleeveless and goose bumps were visible on her arms.
—Where’s your coat? I asked.
—You ran off so fast that I had to leave it in the restaurant.
—We can go back.
—No way.
—We should get it.
—Quit worrying about the coat. It’ll find me. That’s why I leave my wallet in the pocket in the first place. Now what’s the fuss?
—It’s a long story.
—Leviticus long? Or Deuteronomy long?
—Old Testament long.
—Don’t say another word.
She turned to the street and raised a hand. A cab materialized instantaneously, as if she had powers over their domain.
—Driver, she commanded, find Madison Avenue and start driving up it.
Bitsy sat back and was silent. I could tell that I was supposed to do the same. It was sort of like when Dr. Watson kept quiet so that Sherlock Holmes could deduct. At Fifty-second Street she told the driver to pull over.
—Don’t move a muscle, she told me.
She jumped out and ran into the Chase Manhattan Bank. When she came out ten minutes later she had a sweater over her shoulders and an envelope in her hands. The envelope was filled with cash.
—Where’d you get the sweater?
—They’ll do anything for me at Chase.
She leaned forward.
—Driver, take us to the Ritz.
Nearly empty, the dining room of the Ritz looked like a half-witted room at Versailles. So we went back across the lobby to the bar. It was darker, smaller, less Louis Quatorze. Bitsy nodded.
—That’s more like it.
Bitsy sequestered us in a booth at the back, ordered hamburgers, French fries, and bourbons. Then she looked at me expectantly.
—I probably shouldn’t tell you this, I said.
—Kay-Kay, those are my six favorite words in the English language.
So I told her.
I told her how Evey and I had met Tinker at The Hotspot on New Year’s