After dinner we walked through the warm summer night, working our way slowly along the bustling sidewalks. The stores never close in Chinatown. I bought her a wooden snake carved in sections so it could wiggle. The sidewalk fruit vendors had the last lichee nuts of the season, shipped at vast expense from the Far East. I said, “This you have to try,” and bought some.
“They aren’t really nuts, are they?” She rolled one experimentally between her hands.
“No, you have to peel them and there’s a big brown seed in the center.” To get out of the crowd we went back to the car and sat in the front seat. There’s a knack to getting a lichee’s tough coarse red rind off, and underneath is a papery thin skin to peel too. I watched while Ellie put the peeled white fruit into her mouth. “What do you think?”
“Delicious. Where did you learn about them?”
“In Taiwan with the Marines.” I shared them evenly with her and stuffed the peelings back into the bag.
She ate meditatively, concentrating on the flavor. In the city you want an old clunker of a car. My Ford filled the bill exactly. I turned on the bench seat to watch her. The long summer evening still tinted the sky but here at street level the light came from signs and store windows. The car sat in the dimness between a large white Hung Chow Bakery sign and a red neon martini glass emptying itself. The intermittent glow blushed on one cheekbone and shadowed her hair. She was so beautiful my throat hurt. She tossed a lichee rind into the bag and smiled. “What is it?”
I leaned over and kissed her, very lightly and not quite on center. She took a quick surprised breath but didn’t lean away. So I tried again and did better. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to vibrate. I had to stop and rest my head on the seat back, gasping.
With two fingers she pushed the hair back from my forehead. “Oh Tim,” she whispered.
That was enough to let the tiger off the chain. Another kiss, and I could have dragged her into the back seat right there on Pell Street. She relaxed in my grasp, under my mouth, yielding to me. Even in the dark the passersby were beginning to notice. Finally I sat up, reeling like a drunk man, and fumbled in my jacket for the keys. “Where are we going?” she asked. “My place?”
“No,” I panted. “Not the hotel.”
“All right,” she said. “Your place.”
I stared at her doubtfully. “It’s a shambles. And I did vacuum the car.”
She giggled. “I refuse to make love in a car. Not in New York City!” When she put it like that it sounded perfectly sensible. My libido must still be stuck back home in Missouri. I started the engine and eased out into traffic.
With my hands and eyes occupied with driving my brain kicked in again. We headed north on Third Avenue. I forced myself to say it. “Look, you don’t have to.”
“No?”
“You’re beautiful and successful and young,” I pursued. “You’re under the age of consent. You don’t have to get involved with someone like me.”
“But you want to.” She said it with calm confidence, the way a weatherman might announce the barometric pressure. I imagined a little testosterone gauge floating above my head drifting over into red.
“Of course I do! But — look, you mentioned tonight about how confusing your gift can get. What do you want?”
The light turned red and I was able to stop and look at her. She raised an eyebrow at me. “Men mostly don’t ask questions like that.”
I thought of that Italian bastard in Naples, using her not even like a whore, that I could have understood, but like a Kleenex. I wanted to shout, “But I’m different — I love you!” Instead I said, “You can ‘see’ what I want. Well, do it. What I want is your happiness.”
Of course the light turned green long ago, and now the car behind me honked peevishly. I slammed into gear and roared up the avenue, cutting off a bus to make my turn. She didn’t say anything until we pulled into the garage. Then she reached over to touch my hand on the wheel. “Then how can I resist?” she said very softly.
We held hands across the street. I opened the downstairs door and led her up the stairs. Now I could hardly believe it. Bringing the most beautiful girl in the world home to bed — I couldn’t look at her in case she melted away like a dream. But here was her hand nestled in mine — I unlocked my door and pushed it open, goggling at her as if the Tooth Fairy had dropped her on my doormat.
She peered in. One of the light bulbs in the ceiling light was out. My bed, which pretends to be a sofa in the daytime, hadn’t made itself in my absence, and its green corduroy bolsters were piled on the windowsill. Dusty stacks of magazines and papers stood on the table and in the corners. The one armchair was invisible under a mound of laundry, almost my entire wardrobe. I hoped she noticed it was clean laundry. Every morning I fish out a shirt and socks and so on out of the heap — why sort clothes and put them into drawers, when you just take them out again?
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Ellie said. “You know I never pick things up either. At least when you pile stuff up you can see it.”
“Wait a minute. How much do you weigh?”
“Me? Maybe one-twenty, why?”
“I still have back problems but you’re a peanut.” I bent and picked her up, not very gracefully but enough to get her over the threshold. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m an old-fashioned romantic.”
Suddenly she was somber. “I know it,” she said quietly. Then she frowned. “A studio bed — and I thought you were a swinging bachelor! This isn’t going to be any better than the back seat of a Ford!”
“Too late now!” I grinned and shut the door, shooting the locks home.
There are always more things to know about a person. For instance, I would never in a million years have guessed that a girl like Ellie would snore. She did, though — a tiny rumbling noise like a very small pig. It was delightful. On Monday morning as I walked to the office I hugged these tidbits of arcane knowledge to myself, counting them over like a miser fondling gold. Roberta was just going in with the clean coffee mugs, and I held the door. I was so happy I could have waltzed her into the room.
“Aren’t you chipper today.” She set the cups on the windowsill by the hot plate. “Look who’s here, Ernie — it’s our ray of sunshine.”
“Ernie! how’re you doing?” I went to his desk and shook hands.
“A lot better now I’m here.” Ernie didn’t get up. His pink square face wasn’t pink any more. “This recovery phase is a bitch, worse than the actual operation. I don’t understand it.”
“Adhesions,” Roberta prompted, setting the coffee cup at Ernie’s elbow.
“You had adhesions? I’ll bet they opened you up again.”
“It’s a scam to pad my hospital bill.” He sipped from his cup. “So tell me about this missing person job you’ve got us.”
I scowled at Roberta, who was pouring coffee for me in an ostentatiously innocent manner. She had probably given him chapter and verse already. “Let me put it on the table for you, Ernie. I’ve fallen for this girl pretty hard.”
“With a client? Oh, that’s great. Customers will be beating down our door.”
“Ernie, I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“Yeah, I read that transcript.”
“I knew it, you old fox. So what do you think?”
“You should take her to a shrink, get these mental problems straightened out.”
“She’s no kook, Ernie. This seeing stunt is true.”
Ernie sighed. “Well it can’t hurt to find the mother. It doesn’t matter if the girl has delusions — as long as she can afford us.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said, startled.
“I’m warning you, Tim.” He shook his head. “Mixing business with pleasure lands you in dutch every time.”
“Look, I’m sleeping with her. How can I climb out of bed and hand her a bill?”
“And you’ve only known her, what, two weeks? Fast work, m’boy, you’re more persuasive than ever! You aren’t billing her, Tim. We’ve got to at least go through the motions of keeping it separate. You blow in her ear, the firm does the work, and she pays the firm.”
I didn’t like it but didn’t argue any more. There was no denying the business had to stay current. And with Ernie sidelined the cash flow wasn’t so healthy. I felt a little guilty spending so much time and energy on Ruby Quartern. There were several profitable things I could finish up fast.
Ernie had a court date at ten — otherwise he never would have dragged himself out of bed. Over his objections I went downstairs with him and put him into a cab. “Would you like to meet her? We could pick you up at the courthouse for lunch. I’m meeting her at Pico’s.”
“I’d like that, Tim. She must be something, to bowl you over like this.”
I went back up to the office and did money-earning stuff all morning: writing a report for a jealous wife. It wasn’t such a sacrifice since Roberta was canvassing the state car registries for the Rambler. While she was on hold she made up an itemized bill to submit to Ellie, for work done to date. With some distaste I approved it.
The divorce hearings always recess at 12:30. Roberta and I were waiting at the curb for Ernie when he appeared. We both jumped out of our cab to lend him a hand but he said, “I’m okay, I’m okay. Nothing’s more restful than a nap in Judge Saunders’ courtroom.” He did look more like himself. Ernie never takes vacations — he loves to work.
At Pico’s we got a table and ordered a pitcher. I sat so I could watch the door for Ellie. Ernie growled, “I can’t stand people looking past me when I talk.”
“I’m listening,” I protested.
“How long has he had it this bad?” he asked Roberta.
She rolled her eyes. “It was love at first sight. Like a Fred Astaire movie.”
I forgot them. Ellie was coming in the door. She shone like a star in a bright pink dress, very mini and smart. Her nails and lips were painted to match. When Ernie saw her his jaw dropped a little, and he snugged the knot of his necktie up tight again. Proud as punch, I made the introductions.
“Tim’s been doing you an injustice, Miss Quartern,” Ernie said. “All this time he’s been bending my ear about how special you are. He forgot to mention you’re a knockout.”
Ellie blushed slightly and did her half-smile. Next to her Roberta rustled her menu impatiently. “Are we going to order or what?”
After we ordered there was a moment of plunging silence. It hadn’t hit me before that Ellie was twenty years younger than me, more than thirty years younger than Roberta and Ernie. What on earth were we going to talk about?
But Ernie is the perfect diplomat. In no time he was chatting easily with her about Europe, swapping Ugly American stories and comparing memories of Paris and Rome. Across from me Roberta bit her spaghetti with grim pleasure, as if it were the entrails of an enemy. She kept a sharp eye on everything, Ernie’s intake of food, how many refills of beer I got, and especially on Ellie.
Like an idiot I was too much in the clouds to care. Sitting next to Ellie intoxicated me, and being in public actually made it better. Whenever our knees brushed momentarily under the red-checked tablecloth, or our shoes happened to touch, my nerves hummed. It took a delicious, deliberate effort not to remember the weekend. We had left the apartment only once, for groceries and a Sunday paper. Perhaps she didn’t completely share my delight, but there was plenty of time to get her on track. Armored in a miniskirt, weaponed in pink nail polish, she was proof against everyone — but me. Time and again I felt this foolish lubricious smile cross my face.
Even when the waiter cleared the plates and brought coffee I didn’t snap out of it. Then Ernie said, “Mrs. Quartern sounds like an unusual person, Ellie. I wonder if you could tell me why you need to find her just now.”
Ellie didn’t falter. But suddenly I could discern the artful and delicate veil of makeup overlaying her face. “She’s my mother,” she said evenly. “Do I need any other reason?”
“It sounded to me like you hate her guts.”
“If you don’t understand, I don’t think I can explain it.”
“Naturally there are issues Ellie would like to resolve with her mom,” I hastily cut in. “She’s matured, maybe they can communicate better now.” I tried to catch Ernie’s eye but he was stirring his coffee.
Roberta’s thin lips curved in a smile. “What I’d love to hear more about is that gift of yours, Miss Quartern,” she said sweetly. “Is it helpful to you in your work?”
Ellie shot me one quick stunned glance. I realized things were going too fast for her, and blurted, “Does anyone want dessert? Because —”
At the same moment Ernie began, “If Mrs. Quartern had the same gift —”
Out of pure politeness we both stopped, and Roberta continued, “Or is it a marketing gimmick? Like Twiggy being British and thin, or what’s-her-name being from Kenya and descended from an African king.”
“Roberta!” I exclaimed, aghast.
“Aren’t we catty today,” Ernie said, amused but annoyed.
Ellie sat rigid and cold, her hands folded around her coffee cup. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”
“No, she doesn’t mean that at all,” I said very firmly.
“You must admit your story was really unique,” Ernie said soothingly. “I’ve never heard anything like it, and I’ve been in the business since you were born. Why I remember, when Roosevelt was alive —”
But the women were still eyeball to eyeball. “Or am I supposed to be crazy, making it all up?” Ellie said icily.
“Mr. Depford asked Tim about that,” Roberta smiled.
“Oh!” Ellie flushed red. “Oh, I’ll show you!”
“Roberta, that’s enough,” Ernie said.
“Grab her and beat it,” I told him. “I’ll get the bill. Ellie, forget it, please!”
She elbowed my hand aside. “I can see your heart’s desire, what you’ve wanted for years,” she announced. She stared hard at Roberta, and my spine crept.
“Ernie, will you move it!” I hissed, but he was listening too.
“Sounds just like a gypsy fortune-teller,” Roberta said, still smiling.
Ellie smiled too, a deadly sharp smile like a razor blade. “All right ... Since about 1951, you’ve wanted to marry Ernie Depford.”
Roberta gasped. Quick as a whip she slapped Ellie across the face. Ellie caught her wrist as it came around again, and dug in hard with her nails. Both Ernie and I jumped up and grabbed. The table teetered, and the straw-covered candle bottle fell with a crash. Hot coffee splashed over our legs and shoes.
“For the love of Mike, get her out of here!” Ernie snapped.
Roberta burst into noisy sobs. The startled waiter hurried over with a napkin. By main strength I hauled Ellie out the door and down the street. “Are you okay?” I stopped at the corner and turned her to face me.
“No, of course not!” She wiped angrily at her eyelashes with one finger, leaving a smear of black. A nasty red blotch stood out on one cheek.
“I’ve got a hanky,” I said, feeling in my pockets. “When I get the chance I’m gonna wring Roberta’s neck.”
“It was your fault! How did she know about it?”
“Me? But she had to type the transcripts, she’s our secretary!”
“And then show them to Ernie, right?” The tears were running faster now, but I pulled out the handkerchief and gave it to her.
“But he’s a partner, the senior partner. We’re a small business — he has to keep tabs on what’s going on. I thought you understood that.”
“It was a secret!” she sobbed.
“We won’t tell anybody.” I drew her head down onto my shoulder. She was tall, almost six feet, but I’m tall too. “It’s not a big deal. We hear worse stuff all the time.”
“Oh god, what will Mom say?” she wept. “She’ll never forgive me.”
She struggled free of my arm and turned away. Just at that moment a taxi turned the corner. For a wonder it was empty. She flagged it down and jumped in. Before I could follow, or call to her, or yell at the cabby, the light turned green and the cab zoomed off. I stood dumbstruck on the corner, my jacket front all damp and coffee stains down my pants. A passing messenger boy commented, “They’re all like that — kiss and run.”
When I got back to the office Ernie was alone, going through some paperwork. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “You should be in bed.”
“I sent Roberta home, and someone has to man the phone.”
I poured myself some coffee. Usually Roberta makes a fresh pot in the afternoon. This was stale from stewing on the hot plate, strong enough to blister paint. I took my seat and drank it anyway. “A fine pair of Romeos we are.”
“She’s mad at you, huh? Don’t blame her. Roberta’s furious with me, and I don’t even know how I come into it ... What are you going to do?”
I had been thinking about that. “Obviously I should finish the job — find Ruby Quartern as soon as possible. Then I don’t have to worry about dating a business client any more. For the moment I thought, maybe some flowers.”
Ernie nodded. “Very romantic. Take it out of petty cash, and make it a big bunch.”
“Okay, if you say so. What about you? Is Roberta going to quit?”
“No. That’s the devil of it. The Quartern girl was right on the money.” Ernie leaned back in his swivel chair and stared out the window, which had a fine prospect of the dingy skyscraper across the street. “We’ve been doing this My Girl Friday stunt for so long.”
“Roberta always loved Rosalind Russell,” I agreed.
“I’ve let it slide, year by year. She’s always seemed happy with the status quo. And now this operation ... I don’t know. Maybe I should look in on the diamond district on my way home, price the engagement rings.”
“This seeing business is weird,” I said. “I don’t know if I’d make a major life decision on Ellie’s say-so.”
“You don’t, huh.” Ernie swiveled to look at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows. “Tim, has it occurred to you that she’s using it on you?”
“Now why would she do that?” I asked uncomfortably. “And how? I haven’t any kinks in my system for her to exploit.”
“I don’t know. But a blind man could see there’s something funny going on.”
“What would be the point? It doesn’t affect the job at all. She doesn’t need to push me to find her mother. It’ll be pretty straightforward.”
“Ah, the mother ... You know, I’m very curious about the mother, Tim. When you make it up with Ellie, ask her about her family. For instance, has she ever met her grandparents?”
“You think this gift is inherited.”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it? Who were her ancestors? Are they in the history books? If it works like she says, this seeing thing could be a powerhouse. Ruby Quartern is trifling. A loser. But if she were male and maybe a graduate of an Ivy League university, who can say? She could be in the White House.”
I snorted. “Oh, come on. You’re joking.”
“What do politicians do, but speak to our desires? You’re too young to remember the New Deal.”
“You’re not the first person to call politicians whores.”
“Listen to this, Tim.” He picked up a fat book that lay open on his desk and read aloud:
“Age cannot wither, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where she most satisfies ...”
I stared. Surely there wasn’t a poem about Ellie. “Who wrote that?”
“It’s Shakespeare,” he said reprovingly. “Describing Cleopatra. A queen, Tim. Nowadays ladies don’t participate in public affairs much in their own right. What if they did? How many votes do you think your Ellie could get?”
I had to laugh, at the idea of Ellie running for, say, mayor of New York. “All the girl has ever needed was someone to love her,” I declared. “And now she’s got me.” I grinned like a fool just thinking about it.
Ernie sighed and closed the book. He stuck it back into the bookcase and stood stiffly up. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
I spent the afternoon on the telephone. All the car registries got a follow-up call. Then I started on the state police departments. It was a long shot but maybe Ruby had been ticketed for speeding somewhere. I began with the New York State Highway Patrol and worked south. It was uphill work, because cops aren’t supposed to tell who they’ve ticketed.
But then suddenly I got warm. A Delaware state trooper remembered seeing a Rambler on the monthly list of found vehicles. They list abandoned and unclaimed cars and circulate it, in case someone in another jurisdiction recognizes one. “There aren’t all that many Nashes around any more, is how I remembered,” he said.
“Where was this one found? And when?”
“I don’t have the list in front of me,” he said. “But it was a while ago, maybe month before last. And it was either the District or one of those nearby Maryland counties — P.G. or Anne Arundel.”
I thanked him passionately, almost choking with excitement. It was getting late, past four. I’d get only one more shot at the bureaucracy today.
I chose the District, and was immediately sorry I did. It took four or five calls just to find the right office to talk to, and then they put me on hold forever. I watched the clock tick past the half hour, on towards quitting time, and cursed every government worker to hell and damnation.
At last I hooked up with a clerk who could look up the abandoned vehicle records. To save explanations I told her it was my own car, a Rambler Nash, light gray, red interior.
“A red interior, you say.”
“Yes ma’am, red vinyl.”
“This Rambler here’s got no interior. It was vandalized.”
“Is it light gray?”
“Says here white.”
“Close enough. Do you have the vehicle identification number?”
The young lady let me know that this was too much to hope for, even though the manufacturers etch the number on the bodywork. Obviously I would have to go down and see for myself. With great difficulty I extracted from the clerk the location of the impoundment lot. Then I closed up shop and left a note for Roberta to say where I’d be. If I caught a late train I could sleep on the way down and be in D.C. when the lot opened.
On my way home to pack I stopped at a florist and ordered the biggest bunch of roses they could muster on such short notice. I hesitated over the card. The apology about lunch was simple, and the sentence about going to Washington. I had said ‘I love you’ to her at least once, and had thought it to myself over and over. It should have been easy. But words have power, even words written on a stingy little florist’s card. Once I wrote it to her there was no going back. Besides, wouldn’t it mix business with pleasure again?
The florist tapped her pen against her teeth, waiting. I decided it was stupid to balk after going this far. So I wrote it, and for good measure added, ‘s.w.a.k.,’ sealed with a kiss, just like a high school kid.
The District’s auto impoundment lot is nowhere near the parts of Washington that tourists see. I took a cab there and realized I’d probably wind up walking or busing back. No cabby in his right mind would cruise for a fare around here. There were empty lots and boarded-over warehouses and burnt-out buildings from the race riots last year. You would never know it was the nation’s capital.
The lot was grim, a wasteland of grungy cars parked in rows on the rutted red dirt. A tall chain-link fence was topped with a token strand of barbed wire. The chain-link gates were padlocked. The office was supposed to open at eight but they didn’t unlock the door until quarter past. By then two or three other folks were in line behind me.
The lot supervisor informed me with satisfaction that cars couldn’t be released without a paid receipt from the Accounting Office: fines, towing, and storage. “Good god,” I exclaimed. “Can’t you do it here? How much will it run to?”
He shrugged. “I don’t set these things, mister. Accounting handles the money. It’s down on 14th Street.”
“Way across town,” I said with dismay.
He nodded, very pleased. “If you can’t get all the paperwork together by four, you might as well come back tomorrow. We close at four.”
“And for lunch too, I bet.”
“Yep — twelve-thirty to one.”
“I don’t even know if it’s actually my car,” I protested. “Can I at least see it, and check the tags and ID number?”
“You’re supposed to already know that,” he said, indignant. After much paper shuffling and looking through files it developed that the Rambler hadn’t had any license plates when it was brought in. In spite of this no one had bothered to note the ID number. I stuck to my guns and insisted on actually seeing the car. The supervisor devoutly believed that all fines and charges should be paid first, even though he admitted it might not be my car at all. “If it turns out to be the wrong car you could get a refund,” he assured me. I didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile.
The guy next in line was beginning to mutter and swear. Absentmindedly I took a five-dollar bill out of my pocket and rolled it between my fingers. An idea seemed to occur to the supervisor. “If Joe isn’t busy he might be able to take you out for a look,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I would love to meet Joe.”
Joe was readily found, a little old black man in a faded green coverall. Forgetful to the last, I left the five on the counter. “I think it’s over near the culvert, Joe,” the supervisor said with sunny helpfulness. “But don’t let him touch, now. These old junkers aren’t safe.”
How I was supposed to look at the ID number without touching he didn’t say. I followed Joe across the lot. The July sun was brutally hot, and the notorious Washington humidity hung in the air like a woolen blanket. I took off my jacket and mopped my forehead. “All I want is to see the ID,” I said. “Could I just open the door to look?”
“Sure, mister,” Joe said kindly. “‘Fact, if you as active as you look, you could hop the fence any time. Down by the culvert, it’s pretty lonesome there. That’s where the cars that been here a while are.”
I mulled it over as we trudged along. If it were really my own car I’d do it, just to thumb my nose at authority. But I didn’t want to get Ellie or Ruby into trouble with the D.C. government. And what I had in mind for the Rambler would take time and tools. “I better stay legal. But I appreciate the thought.”
The Rambler was indeed light gray, not white. I approached it with a beating heart. The wheels were gone and no one had bothered with blocks, so the axles were sunk deep in dried mud. The hood was up. I shaded my eyes and peered into the broken side window. The interior was blackened and charred. Some fun-loving types torched it, after joy-riding until the tank was dry.
I copied the ID number carefully. I recognized it right away, but compared it anyway with the one Candle had recited to me in Norfolk. It was the same. I was so delighted I gave Joe five dollars too.
From a booth I phoned New York. Ellie wasn’t at the Plaza so I left a message. I spent the rest of that day paying up at the Accounting Office and then setting up a place to take the car to. Without wheels the Rambler couldn’t be towed. I had to hire a roll-back flatbed truck. It took a hundred bucks to persuade a gas station manager to do it tomorrow morning, and another hundred to park the wreck temporarily in his side lot — junking it to cost extra. He was milking me, but I couldn’t afford to haggle. Ellie was in a hurry, and anyway she was paying the bill.
I called her again from the gas station phone booth. “Oh, I’ve been calling and calling you, Tim!” she cried. “Have you found her?”
“I found the car in a junkyard. Tomorrow I’m going over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I want to see it. I’m coming down. Can you pick me up tonight at the airport? I’ll make the eight o’clock Eastern shuttle, and be there at nine.”
“Sure.” I hesitated. “You want me to, uh, book you a room somewhere?”
She laughed as if she could see my wish over the phone line. “Couldn’t I come in with you?”
“Oh yeah, sure,” I babbled. When I hung up I beamed at the gas station manager like he was my best friend.
At National Airport I also picked up a rental car. The shuttle was on time and right away I saw Ellie’s buttercup head bobbing through the rush of deplaning passengers. She ran into my arms and I whirled her off her feet and kissed her. All around us I felt the envious glances. It was glorious. “God, I love you,” I exclaimed. “I must be the luckiest guy in the world.”
“And nice, don’t forget nice. Tell me all about it, Tim.”
I told her everything I did today as we drove into town. “I hope you brought jeans or something. What you’re wearing now would be murder at the impoundment lot.” She looked good enough to eat, in white high heels and a natty white suit with sailor pretensions.
“Sometimes I think you think I’m dumb,” she said laughing, and laughed even more at my guilty expression. “I’m just not cunning like you.”
“Cunning is right. And while we’re on the subject — I’ve told the hotel that we’re Mr. and Mrs., is that okay? Just to save you some hassle.”
We pulled up at the Hay-Adams Hotel, and the doorman opened her door. The bellboy took her bag, and the valet took the car away. We rode in silence with the bellboy up the elevator. My last words played over freakishly in my mind. Maybe I should go in with Ernie, and we could get a discount on rings?
The Hay-Adams is historical and doesn’t care who knows it. Our room had mahogany Colonial furniture and a brass chandelier. Ellie looked out the window, where the White House glimmered through the trees on the other side of Lafayette Park. “Wow! Do you always go first class on expense account?”
I collapsed into a blue wing chair. “Oh Ellie, have some mercy! Usually I stay in cheap motels. But how could I bring you from the Plaza Hotel to the Budget Lodge?”
Ellie bounced cautiously on the high four-poster bed, turned down ready for the night. “Tim, you don’t have to do this for me. The last time I was in Washington I slept under a bush — did I tell you?”
“No — good god, how did that happen? Was it while you were hitching?”
She shook her head in wonder. “You constantly amaze me, Tim. I would have bet any money that you’d hop into bed right off.”
“What do you think I am, a sex maniac? Knowledge is power.” I unlocked my bag. Even in a first-class hotel there’s no point in tempting the staff. My tape recorder was at the bottom.
“No,” she said sharply. “No more transcripts.”
“But —” Her face was like flint. I snapped the bag shut again. “All right, sweetheart. We’ll do it your way.”