The next day was relatively uneventful, at least until nightfall. After that, well …
I didn’t wake up until nine-twenty-five a.m., so I’m not sure Ms. Noor, who begrudgingly allowed me to call her Bettina, arrived at five-forty, but knowing her, I assumed she did. As I emerged, showered and shaved, from my bedroom suite, she was in the hall, sitting on a chair she’d taken from the guest room, pinning me with her dark-brown critical eyes.
She was listening to music or news or, for all I know, a Bollywood soundtrack, via an MP3 player. The device, I later suspected, was like the book I always took with me on commercial flights, an excuse to avoid conversation.
She followed me, two paces back, as I went downstairs for a breakfast of a smoked salmon, onion, and capers omelet, two slices of toast, and two cups of fully caffeinated coffee, dark as sin. She refused to join me in anything but the coffee, which she had the good grace to say was delicious.
She continued following me on my power walk and on my quest for Traditional Fit Boxers at Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue. She followed me to the Village, where, in a little hole-in-the-wall tobacco store that will not be named, I purchased an illegal box of Cuban cigars for a friend. There she faltered, in a room so filled with cigar smoke that a gas mask should have been required. But she stuck to the task, saying not a word.
At the Bistro, while I devoured a roast-beef sandwich, she settled for a mixed green salad. Dry. Okay, I can understand her refusing the dressings we have, since most had been made with some dairy product or other. But she also gave oil and vinegar a thumbs-down. No point in enjoying anything, right?
Shortly after two p.m., my cellular played its little tune—the first several notes of “The 1812 Overture,” if you must know. No personal significance, just happened to be on the phone when I bought it.
The sound of the first note put Bettina on alert. She got up from her chair and approached the desk. I picked up the phone, clicked it open, and said hello.
“Hi, Billy,” Ted Parkhurst said. “Just calling to thank you for taking care of me Wednesday evening.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” I answered, smiling to let Bettina know the call was from a friend, not a foe. “You and Gin okay?”
“So far so good,” he said. “What about you? I understand, via the WBC grapevine, that you were attacked yesterday.”
“Paintballed. Joe and the car took the brunt of it.”
He’d heard pretty much the whole story of my adventure from Gin, of course, who’d heard about it from Gretchen or maybe Trina.
“Think it was Felix?” Ted asked.
“Probably,” I said. “What are you and Gin up to tonight?”
“What we’ve been up to the last two nights,” he said. “She’s working on her interview with Goyal Aharon like a brainiac studying for a final. And I’m watching bad TV.”
“If you guys can break away, have dinner with me here at the Bistro.”
“We’ll break away,” he said. “Eight okay?”
“Perfect.”
I closed the phone and stared at Bettina. “What are you listening to?” I asked.
“An audiobook,” she said, unblinking. Poker-faced. “It’s a fascinating study of why some people succeed and others don’t.”
“Sounds like something I should read,” I said.
“It may be too late for you,” she said.