said.
“Like Pearl White?” Dave said.
“Pearl?” Cecil said. “White? Will you be serious?”
But both of them were laughing too hard.
A voice said, “I thought I’d find you here.”
Romano’s was quiet in its aromatic shadows, white napery and candlelight. It was early for dinner. Silver and glassware glinted on empty tables. Dave had come straight here from dropping off Cecil. He would pick him up at midnight. It was going to be a long evening. He had begun killing it with double Scotches. Then there’d been a simple little salad, fresh-baked salt bread, sweet butter. Now there was ris de veau à la créme et aux champignons, and a bottle of Sunny Ridge pinot blanc 1975. He was trying to keep from feeling sorry for himself. He looked up.
Miles Edwards looked elegant in handloomed tweed. His smile was tentative. He held a manila envelope. “All right if I join you?” Dave lowered his head and went on eating. Edwards sat down. He laid the envelope beside his place setting. “I’m not here to apologize,” he said.
Dave tore off a chunk of bread and buttered it. He didn’t look at Edwards. “I’m pleased about you and Amanda. Delighted. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“About Cecil,” Edwards said. “I’m here to explain.”
“If I wanted an explanation,” Dave said, “I’d have asked for it. An explanation isn’t going to undo the mischief you’ve made. Suppose we forget it.”
Edwards tugged at the snowy cuffs of his linen shirt so that they showed an inch below his jacket cuffs. “He’s very young,” he said.
“So are you,” Dave said, “or you wouldn’t be trying this.” He looked around the hushed restaurant. “Where’s Amanda?”
“Dining with clients. In Malibu.” A waiter came in a black velvet jacket with gold trim, and Edwards asked for Wild Turkey. Conspicuous consumption, 110 proof. “I could have tagged along, but I thought we ought to have this talk.”
“Some people”—Dave laid his fork in his plate and faced Edwards squarely—“don’t mind being manipulated. Some are too stupid to notice. Some can’t live without it. I don’t like it. Don’t try it again. Not now. Not ever.”
“You’re good at what you do,” Edwards said. “You’re a superstar. You didn’t get that way with a closed mind. You’re acting emotional. Why can’t you be fair with me?”
Dave laughed, shook his head, picked up his fork again, and went to work on the creamy sweetbreads and mushrooms. He drank some of the crisp wine. He touched his mouth with his napkin and laughed again. “Emotional,” he said. “Why in the world would I be emotional?”
Edwards said, “Because you love that boy, or think you do. What about him? What about his future?”
“He wants to be a death-claims investigator,” Dave said. “He helped me out on a case, year before last, and decided it beat running around rainy airports shoving microphones in the faces of politicians. He still thought so, until you took it upon yourself to tell him he wouldn’t be a death-claims investigator—that he’d only be a dirty old man’s fancy boy.” Dave picked up his fork and laid it down again. “‘Be fair’? What was fair about that?”
“It was important.” Edwards’s mouth tightened inside its neat frame of black beard. “It was my duty.”
“Jesus.” Dave sighed, picked up his fork, and ate the rest of what was on his plate. He drank wine again, and refilled his glass. “You’re a prig, aren’t you?” he said. “I didn’t think they cropped up in your line of work.”
“By ‘be fair,’” Edwards said, “I meant, do me the courtesy of letting me explain. I meant, make an effort to understand. I had a reason.” The waiter brought his drink and a menu and went away. Without looking at it, Edwards laid the menu on the manila envelope. “I meant, why won’t you listen to me?”
“If he wasn’t a male,” Dave said, “we wouldn’t be having this cozy chat, now,
“Like Pearl White?” Dave said.
“Pearl?” Cecil said. “White? Will you be serious?”
But both of them were laughing too hard.
A voice said, “I thought I’d find you here.”
Romano’s was quiet in its aromatic shadows, white napery and candlelight. It was early for dinner. Silver and glassware glinted on empty tables. Dave had come straight here from dropping off Cecil. He would pick him up at midnight. It was going to be a long evening. He had begun killing it with double Scotches. Then there’d been a simple little salad, fresh-baked salt bread, sweet butter. Now there was ris de veau à la créme et aux champignons, and a bottle of Sunny Ridge pinot blanc 1975. He was trying to keep from feeling sorry for himself. He looked up.
Miles Edwards looked elegant in handloomed tweed. His smile was tentative. He held a manila envelope. “All right if I join you?” Dave lowered his head and went on eating. Edwards sat down. He laid the envelope beside his place setting. “I’m not here to apologize,” he said.
Dave tore off a chunk of bread and buttered it. He didn’t look at Edwards. “I’m pleased about you and Amanda. Delighted. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“About Cecil,” Edwards said. “I’m here to explain.”
“If I wanted an explanation,” Dave said, “I’d have asked for it. An explanation isn’t going to undo the mischief you’ve made. Suppose we forget it.”
Edwards tugged at the snowy cuffs of his linen shirt so that they showed an inch below his jacket cuffs. “He’s very young,” he said.
“So are you,” Dave said, “or you wouldn’t be trying this.” He looked around the hushed restaurant. “Where’s Amanda?”
“Dining with clients. In Malibu.” A waiter came in a black velvet jacket with gold trim, and Edwards asked for Wild Turkey. Conspicuous consumption, 110 proof. “I could have tagged along, but I thought we ought to have this talk.”
“Some people”—Dave laid his fork in his plate and faced Edwards squarely—“don’t mind being manipulated. Some are too stupid to notice. Some can’t live without it. I don’t like it. Don’t try it again. Not now. Not ever.”
“You’re good at what you do,” Edwards said. “You’re a superstar. You didn’t get that way with a closed mind. You’re acting emotional. Why can’t you be fair with me?”
Dave laughed, shook his head, picked up his fork again, and went to work on the creamy sweetbreads and mushrooms. He drank some of the crisp wine. He touched his mouth with his napkin and laughed again. “Emotional,” he said. “Why in the world would I be emotional?”
Edwards said, “Because you love that boy, or think you do. What about him? What about his future?”
“He wants to be a death-claims investigator,” Dave said. “He helped me out on a case, year before last, and decided it beat running around rainy airports shoving microphones in the faces of politicians. He still thought so, until you took it upon yourself to tell him he wouldn’t be a death-claims investigator—that he’d only be a dirty old man’s fancy boy.” Dave picked up his fork and laid it down again. “‘Be fair’? What was fair about that?”
“It was important.” Edwards’s mouth tightened inside its neat frame of black beard. “It was my duty.”
“Jesus.” Dave sighed, picked up his fork, and ate the rest of what was on his plate. He drank wine again, and refilled his glass. “You’re a prig, aren’t you?” he said. “I didn’t think they cropped up in your line of work.”
“By ‘be fair,’” Edwards said, “I meant, do me the courtesy of letting me explain. I meant, make an effort to understand. I had a reason.” The waiter brought his drink and a menu and went away. Without looking at it, Edwards laid the menu on the manila envelope. “I meant, why won’t you listen to me?”
“If he wasn’t a male,” Dave said, “we wouldn’t be having this cozy chat, now,
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