IN THE FAR CORNER of the room, Crusher lay with his head between his paws. The Airedale’s soft brown eyes were fixed reproachfully on Bernhardt.
“I can’t stand it. I’ve got to feed Crusher.”
Across the table, Paula smiled. “When he realizes we’re giving him leftovers, he’ll understand why you waited.”
“Except that there aren’t any leftovers.” Bernhardt looked at the dish that had contained the fettucini with crab and capers in white cream sauce.
“Put his dog food in the fettucini bowl. He’ll appreciate the gesture.”
“Good idea.” Bernhardt rose, took up the dish, gestured for Paula to remain seated. “I’ll get the ice cream.”
“Just one scoop for me.”
“Likewise.”
“There’re cookies in the cupboard.”
“Right.” With Crusher prancing anxiously at his side, attention riveted on the fettucini bowl, Bernhardt walked into the kitchen, scooped dry dog food into the dish, added water. Sternly, he commanded the dog to sit until he’d put the dish on the floor. Then, released, Crusher bounded for the dish, began to eat. As Bernhardt turned to the refrigerator, Paula came into the kitchen with their dirty dishes. Bernhardt watched her stack the dishes in the sink and run water into them. She wore a bulky-knit, loose-fitting sweater, blue jeans, and shearling slippers. Her dark shoulder-length hair was caught in a casual ponytail, Bernhardt’s favorite hairstyle. Because her jeans were soft and tight and provocative, she called them her Saturday-night jeans.
They’d known each other for less than a year, and the relationship was just beginning to settle. Saturday nights, Paula stayed over. Unless they were invited out to dinner, they preferred not to battle for a parking place, or a place in a ticket line, or a table at a restaurant. Instead, after they’d cooked something special and eaten it appreciatively, always with a fifth of red wine, they went into the living room with brandy snifters and watched a movie on Bernhardt’s VCR. They sat side by side on the couch, cuddling as they sipped the brandy and commented on the movie and occasionally petted Crusher, lying at their feet.
As Paula turned away from the sink, Bernhardt stepped close, put his hands on the Saturday-night jeans, and drew her close. Their first kiss was companionable. Then, interested, she came closer. Kissing him again, more interested now, she held her hands away from him, smiling as she said, “Wet hands.”
“Hmmm …” Slowly, he moved his own hands down her flanks, then drew her closer, began to move with her, at first subtly, then more urgently—
—as, from down the flat’s long hallway, from his office that fronted on the street, his business phone rang.
Muttering an exasperated obscenity, he involuntarily moved away from her. Explaining ruefully, “I might have to get that. There’s one call I promised to take. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it.”
As, yes, from down the hallway he heard a woman’s voice on his answering machine.
“That’s her, I think. Sorry.” He kissed Paula’s forehead, walked toward his office. Yes, Angela Rabb was leaving her number and asking him to call. Standing in the rear hallway, Crusher looked indecisively from the receding figure of Bernhardt to the figure of Paula, who was occupied putting cookies on a plate. Predictably opting for the possibility of food, Crusher entered the kitchen and began begging for cookies. In the study, Bernhardt punched out the number on the tape.
“Angela?”
“Ah—Mr. Bernhardt.”
“Alan.”
“Alan. Yes.”
“What’s happening?”
“Tony Bacardo wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“I—I’m not sure. But—”
“When?”
“As soon as you can make it, Alan.” Her voice was low, hushed by the timidity of hope. “Tonight, if you could do it.”
“Tonight …” He let the reluctance come through. “I could do it tomorrow, probably. Sunday. But tonight …” He let it go dubiously unfinished.
“I know. I hate to ask you. But he—he’s been up to the delta, and now he’s back. And he—well—I think he might just—just go back to New York. I think that unless he can talk to you—unless you and he can agree, work together—then I think he’s going to go. That’s what I think.”
“Is that what your mother thinks, too?”
“Yes, it is. She thinks the same thing.”
“Jesus …” Irritably Bernhardt gritted his teeth, shook his head. Why did it happen, not once but several times, that he’d fallen for the oldest cliché of all: the damsel in distress, pleading for help? He looked at his watch as, behind him, he sensed a rustle of movement—accompanied by the click of Crusher’s toenails. Eyeing him quizzically, Paula was standing in the doorway, Crusher at her side. Never had the Saturday-night jeans seemed so provocative.
“All right.” Bernhardt drew a deep breath—and gave Paula an apologetic look. “All right. I’ll talk to him. But I warn you, Angela, I’ll tell him exactly what I told you.”
“I—I know. But I can’t walk away from this, Alan. It could be my mother’s whole life. It could mean—”
“How does it work, with Bacardo and me?” Somehow, interrupting her so abruptly, he felt more decisive, more in control.
“He’s at the Hilton, downtown. Room twelve thirty-six. He wants you to call him first. From the lobby. Not from outside. From the lobby.”
“Twelve thirty-six,” he repeated, writing it down.
“Will you call us after you talk? Please?”
“Of course.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “Lock the doors and draw the drapes. You understand.”
“Yes, I understand.”