“I’ll check on our table.” When he went off, I sank gratefully onto the barstool and ordered a Johnnie Walker Black. How many could I drink before they combined with my tired muscles and put me to sleep?
Ralph came back with the news that our table was a good ten-minute wait away. The ten stretched into twenty, while I sat with my uninjured cheek propped on my hand and he stood stiffly behind me. I sipped my Scotch. The bar was over-air-conditioned. Normally the heavy cotton of the dress would have kept me plenty warm, but now I started to shiver slightly.
“Cold?” Ralph asked.
“A little,” I admitted.
“I could put my arms around you,” he offered tentatively.
I looked up at him and smiled. “That would be very nice,” I said. “Just do it gently, please.”
He crossed his arms around my chest. I winced a little at first, but the warmth and the pressure felt good. I leaned back against him. He looked down at my face, and his eyes narrowed.
“Vic, what wrong with your face?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“No, really,” he said, bending closer, “you’ve gotten cut—and that looks like a bruise and swelling on your cheek.”
“Is it really bad?” I asked. “I thought the makeup covered it pretty well.”
“Well, they’re not going to put you on the cover of Vogue this week, but it’s not too awful. It’s just that as an old claims man I’ve seen lots of accident victims. And you look like one.”
“I feel like one too,” I agreed, “but really, this wasn’t—”
“Have you been to a doctor about this?” he interrupted.
“You sound just like the cabbie who took me home this afternoon. He wanted to rush me to Passavant—I practically expected him to come in with me and start making me chicken soup.”
“Was your car badly damaged?” he asked.
“My car is not damaged at all.” I was beginning to lose my temper—irrationally, I knew—but the probing made me feel defensive.
“Not damaged,” he echoed, “then how—”
At that moment our table was announced in the bar. I got up and went over to the headwaiter, leaving Ralph to pay for drinks. The headwaiter led me off without waiting for Ralph, who caught up with us just as I was being seated. My spurt of temper had infected him; he said, “I hate waiters who haul off ladies without waiting for their escorts.” He was just loud enough for the maitre d’ to hear. “ I’m sorry, sir—I didn’t realize you were with madame,” he said with great dignity before moving off.
“Hey, Ralph, take it easy,” I said gently. “A little too much ego-jockeying is going on—my fault as much as yours. Let’s stop and get some facts and start over again.”
A waiter materialized. “Would you care for a drink before dinner?”
Ralph looked up in irritation. “Do you know how many hours We’ve spent in the bar waiting for this table? No, we don’t want a drink—at least, I don’t.” He turned to me. “Do you?”
“No, thanks,” I agreed. “Any more and I’ll fall asleep—which will probably ruin forever any chance I have of making you believe that I’m not trying to get out of an evening with you.”
Were we ready to order? the waiter persisted. Ralph told him roundly to go away for five minutes. My last remark had started to restore his native good humor, however. “Okay, V. I. Warshawski—convince me that you really aren’t trying to make this evening so awful that I’ll never ask you out again.”
“Ralph,” I said, watching him carefully, “do you know Earl Smeissen?”
“Who?” he asked uncomprehendingly. “Is this some kind of detective guessing game?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I answered. “Between yesterday afternoon and this afternoon I’ve talked to a whole lot of different people who either knew Peter Thayer or his girl friend—the gal who’s vanished. You and your boss, among others.