They both knew Angela Rocket had found her next shooting star.
The waitress came to their table. They didn’t rate personal bartender attention. Max, too busy observing to answer, let Ladybird order the next round. Another cocktail for Ladybird, nothing for Max, which she indicated with a quick shake of her head. Ladybird smiled sweetly and patted Max’s arm. “She’s our designated driver.”
Max watched on. The game of seduction continued for a little over fifteen minutes. Glance at the watch then the entrance, puff an exasperated sigh, then purse those bow-shaped, red-tinged lips. Who was Angela waiting for? Maybe no one at all. It was probably an act for Blondie’s benefit. Furtive glances, a quick flash of tongue across her already wet-look lips. Ladybird, still seemingly gazing at the dance floor, snorted softly. Angela brought out a compact to freshen the powder on her nose, a supposed sign of her increasing agitation with her no-show date. Ladybird murmured “hah” under her breath while Max stifled a laugh.
Finally, the stalemate broke. The waitress, wearing a flouncy skirt short enough to show the lower curve of her butt cheeks, brought the woman a drink. Another glass of the same, a good chardonnay perhaps. Blondie tipped his head, looking pathetically hopeful. She tipped hers, smiled, and sampled it. Again, the red lipstick stain on the rim. She licked at a drop of wine that ran down the side.
Oh my God, if that wasn’t a come-on, Max had never before seen one. Blondie’s eyes widened. He visibly sucked in a breath, then pushed back his chair and approached Angela.
“Mind if I join you?”
Max strained to make sure she didn’t miss a word of the exchange.
Angela indicated the chair opposite. “You bought the drink. Thank you. I suppose you noticed I’ve been stood up.” She didn’t tell him her name. Maybe that came later. After his first come. Pun intended.
“What kind of idiot would stand up a lady like you?”
“An idiot who doesn’t have another prayer.”
They laughed, they talked, then their heads bent together. Max could no longer hear. She could, however, read body language, and this was definitely a pick-up in progress. Angela listened with rapt attention to everything Blondie said. She laughed full-throated, a sound that turned heads. Touching his hand with the briefest of contact, she imbued him with importance. Her eyes never left his face, never strayed to greener pastures, giving him her absolute attention.
It could have been act. No, it probably was an act. But Blondie fell for it.
The woman leaned back in her chair, looking once more at her watch. “Half an hour’s more than long enough to wait, don’t you think?” Max heard her clearly this time, as clearly as she heard the invitation in that statement.
The man fingered his recently ringless left hand. Max couldn’t make out his answer. Angela smiled, leaned in to brush his hand lightly, lingering. Then she drew a long burgundy nail across his knuckles to his wrist.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again very slowly. Flames burned in their depths. The deal was done. He signed the tab quickly, rose, and reached into his pocket for a couple of bills to throw on the table, obviously striving for nonchalance. Watching him leave, Angela drained her glass. Once he was out the door, she pulled another bill from her purse to add to the pile.
She freshened her lipstick, rose, straightened her skirt and walked slowly along the edge of the dance floor. Every eye in the place was on her. She stopped ever so briefly at a table right by the front door. Two fingers down, then a tap of a slick nail on the tabletop, and she was gone.
Max observed the occupant of that table—a square man, no neck, ears sticking out like the dual head of a hammer. Witt’s mysterious blockheaded stranger? Without a doubt.
Ladybird tapped her hand lightly. “Do you think she’s going to meet the blond one outside?”
Max tipped her head. “Do pigs fly?”
Ladybird giggled and sipped her champagne. “How long shall we wait for them to come back?”
Max remembered the two fingers the woman held out. “Twenty minutes or two hours. You game?”
“Well, we have to find out if she comes back, don’t we?” Ladybird raised a brow reminiscent of Witt. “After all, she might start all over again.” She rubbed her hands together. “Oh what fun. Wait till I tell Horace we watched a hooker pick up a john!”
Max stifled a laugh. Ladybird was indeed no dummy. “I think they’re called tricks.”
“But what do we know about him?” Ladybird discreetly pointed one dainty finger in the direction of the girl’s blockheaded friend.
The man in question opened a matchbook and began picking his teeth. He had been outside Lance La Russa’s office building, Max was sure of it.