16

Lida hesitated, her eyes falling on each man in the room. There were several. She concentrated on the ones past sixty.

At a table in the back, a man stood and beckoned to her. Too young. She turned away, continuing her search. No one, however, seemed to be waiting for her.

The man did not resume his seat, but walked toward her. She measured him: pale blue spectacles, Mick Jagger mouth, the tensile movement of a street fighter, knife in hand. Nice, she thought, but not the reason I’m here.

Then he said her name.

“Why is it I thought you were older?” She eased into a chair.

On the table were several packs of matches, one, she noted, from a supper club that often made the Washington gossip columns. There was, as well, a heap of bills in varying denominations.

He didn’t reply to her question, but sat regarding her.

Lida felt very country-mouse.