Dick curled a lip. “Oh, yes, you and the guys you know. Being divorced has certainly been an asset to your women’s lib lifestyle, hasn’t it?”
My hand swept up reflexively; I flung coffee down the front of his charcoal-striped shirt. Barbara was hovering nearby in case I needed protection. I pulled a twenty from my purse and thrust it into her apron pocket.
“Maybe you and Marge can reenact your Good Samaritan routine for the talent here. Boy can’t go to all his high-priced meetings with coffee on his shirt.” I was on my feet, panting.
“You’ll be sorry for this, Vic. Very sorry you ever chose to have this conversation with me.” Dick was white with humiliation and fury.
“You called the meeting, Richard. But by all means, send me the dry-cleaning bill.” My legs were trembling as I left the diner.
Chapter 35 - No Longer Missing
I found a bench at a bus stop across the street and sat there, taking in great gulps of air. I was still shaking with fury, pounding my right fist against my thigh. People waiting for the bus backed away from me: another crazy on the loose.
When I realized the public impression I was creating, I brought myself under control. The end of active rage left me exhausted. Listlessly I watched Dick emerge from the diner, shut off the alarm to his Mercedes convertible, and spin down the road with a great roar from his exhaust. I didn’t even care enough to hope a blue-and-white stopped him. At least, not enough to hope very hard.
By and by I crossed the street again and returned to the diner. The place had emptied out; the waitresses were clustered at a table, drinking coffee and smoking.
Barbara sprang up when she saw me. “You okay, hon?”
“Oh, yeah. I just need to wash my face and pull myself together. Sorry to treat you to a nursery-school display.”
She grinned wickedly. “Oh, I don’t know, Vic. You’ve given us more action in five days than we usually see all year. Livens up the place and gives us something besides our bad backs to talk about.”
I patted her shoulder and went to the tiny bathroom in the rear, along the corridor where Marge had dropped the grease on Friday. That was another good turn I’d done them: the hall was cleaner than I’d ever seen it.
I bathed my face in cold water for several minutes. It was no substitute for a nap, but it would have to get me through the day. I put on lipstick under the flickering neon light. Its pallid glow emphasized the planes of my face, digging harsh grooves into it. It was a foreshadowing of what I might look like in great age. I grimaced at my reflection, emphasizing its grotesque lines.
“You look dressed for success to me, my girl.” I saluted my image.
I suddenly remembered the arrangements I’d made to have a security system installed this morning. I used the restaurant pay phone to call Mr. Contreras; he would be home all morning and would be glad to let the workmen in. He sounded subdued, though.
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I’ll come back home and wait if it’s going to be a hassle for you.”
“Oh, no, doll, nothing like that,” he assured me hastily. “I guess I’m worrying about going to see Eddie.”
“I see.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m not going to push it down your throat. You should stay home if the idea makes you that unhappy.”
“But you’re going anyway?”
“Yeah. I really need to talk to him.”
He didn’t say anything after that, except that he’d be on the lookout for the workmen, and hung up.
Barbara brought me a cup of fresh coffee to take with me. “Drinking something hot will calm you down, hon.”
I sipped it as I walked along Belmont. The reflexive swallowing did indeed make me feel more myself. By the time I reached the Bank of Lake View on the corner of Belmont and Sheffield, I felt able at least to undertake a conversation.
A squat stone building with iron bars on the windows, the bank looked sleepy and remote from the financial gyrations of its big downtown brothers. The barred windows allowed little light to penetrate; the lobby was a dingy, musty place that probably hadn’t been washed since it opened in 1923. The bank took its commitment to the neighborhood seriously, though, investing in the community and serving its residents with care. They’d eschewed the high-stakes projects that had ruined many small institutions in the eighties; as far as I knew they were in good financial shape.
Most bank functions took place in a high-ceilinged room beyond the lobby. The three loan officers sat behind a low wooden rail across the floor from the tellers. I could see Alma Waters, the woman who’d helped me with my co-op mortgage, but I followed protocol and presented my card to the receptionist.