The Second Girl(33)

How do I respond to that?

“Is Monday a good day for me to come by your home?”

“I’ll be at work, but Elizabeth will be home.”

“Around one p.m., then?” I ask Mrs. Gregory.

“That’ll be fine,” he says for her.

She nods accordingly.

Leslie’s in her office plugging away at the computer. I remember all those days of nothin’ but writing. I don’t miss that shit.

“Are they still here?” she asks.

“No, we’re done.”

“And…?”

“And I guess I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s good. Good. I don’t have any cases that need an investigator right now, so I’m glad you’re taking this on.”

“Get me out of your hair for a while, huh?”

“You know better.”

I wish I did.

“Then how about dinner tonight? On me.”

She considers it, but I can’t read her so well right now.

“It’s been a while, and I’m really craving oysters. We can hit the Old Ebbitt.”

“Why not,” she says. “It’s going to be packed on a Saturday night, though.”

“No need to worry about that. I’ve got my connections.”

“Oh, I know you do.”

“All right. Pick you up from your porch at around seven?”

Her mouth turns up. She says, “My stoop.”

First thing I need to do when I get home is tuck this shit I have stashed in my pocket out of reach, take a couple of Valiums, and try to nap.

Home alone I have a tendency to binge, and the last thing I want is to get all wired up before the dinner. Once I start something like that, the next line is the only thing on my mind.

I can do without for a bit of time as long as I know I have something to come back to. Doesn’t hurt sneaking a couple little lines here and there throughout the evening, ’cause that’ll balance me out. But I got to find a bit of sleep first and then a nice long, hot shower.

When I get home I call a buddy of mine who works the bar at the Old Ebbitt. There was a time when I was a regular at the bar at the Old Ebbitt. Haven’t been there in a bit, but I always keep important numbers handy. He said he won’t be working tonight, but he’ll make sure they hold a booth for us in the main room.

I strip down to my boxers and lie on the bed, on top of the covers.

I close my eyes and try not to think about anything, especially the missing girl.





Twenty-six



Leslie’s wearing her faded leather jacket again. Also those black jeans I like so much. They hug her with meaning. So does the long-sleeve designer T-shirt with a scoop neck.

The cool air is comfortable. Gotta love this time of year. Winter’s closing in, and hopefully bringing a bit of snow with it, but not so much that I can’t get around. Depending on the situation, though, that might not be so bad.

I park a couple of blocks from the Old Ebbitt. The White House is in view across 15th Street, nicely lit up. We walk a block and then cross G Street and it’s a few steps more to the restaurant’s beautiful old revolving-door entrance. I see the small area inside jammed with people waiting to be seated.

We nudge our way to the front booth, and when the hostess finds a second I give her my name. My boy came through, and after a couple of minutes, we’re escorted to a nice booth toward the back of the room. Leslie hangs her jacket on a hook attached to a post on the edge of the booth and we sit across from each other.

When the waitress shows, we order a round of martinis and a dozen of the mix-and-match oysters. That’ll determine what we like best, and we’ll probably order another dozen after that. We’re both oyster junkies. Me most of all ’cause it’s a great source of protein with minimal effort. I could live on them.

“It’s nice getting out like this. We haven’t done that in a while,” I say.

“It is nice.”

Our drinks arrive before the oysters.

She lifts her martini glass, carefully holds it across the table toward me.

“Cheers to a good idea, Frankie.”

I lift mine and we clink glasses, but only spill a little. I want to tell her to take it easy on the drinks tonight ’cause she’s such a lightweight, and well, you know…I might have bad intentions.

Halfway through the martinis, the plate of oysters shows. I don’t hesitate, and neither does she. I dab a bit of horseradish on a small plump one and stab it with a little fork, lift it out of the half shell. A single bite and then I let it slide down. Leslie tilts her half shell back and slurps it in. Without a doubt, it looks a hell of a lot better the way she does it.

There’s a fine, demure look on her after, a kind of smile but not one meant for me. Something like being brought back to a pleasant memory.

She sips her martini, peeks at me over the glass.

“You miss the job, don’t you?” she asks as if she knows it’s something I’ve been thinking about.

“Yeah, sometimes, but it wasn’t the same a couple years after you left. The new mayor messed everything up.”

“A change in regime can do that.”

“Tell me about it. The focus changed with it. It was all about making the quick hits, build up the stats. Started not being so fun anymore. What about you? You miss it?”