Emory Bates woke in the morning, looked over at the woman, who was curled up on the other side of the bed.
“Goddamnit!” he shouted, and kicked her to the floor.
“Wha-wha—” she stammered, looking around. “What happened?”
“You were supposed to sleep pressed up against me,” he said.
“I did,” she said. “I mean, I was . . . I did, last night. I must have rolled away.” Actually, she thought he might have pushed her away in his sleep, but she couldn’t tell him that.
“Get dressed and get out,” he told her. “Silas will pay you the rest of your money—and you’re lucky to get it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bates.”
She dressed quickly and left the room. Downstairs, Silas waited at the door. She wondered how he always knew when she was leaving.
He handed her the rest of her money and opened the door for her without a word. Then he went to draw a bath for his boss.
~*~
At Nadine’s rooms Clint waited for her to change into fresh clothing. When she came out, smelling sweet and looking clean, it was obvious she had washed as well, maybe even taken another bath.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he said. “It was worth it.”
She looked down at herself, dressed for work in a green business suit, cut severely, but not enough to hide what was beneath it. Her hair was pinned up, and she was wearing a pair of glasses with dark rims.
“I’m dressed for business,” she said.
“Sexy,” he said.
“No, really?”
“You just can’t help it.”
She studied him a moment, then said, “Oh, you’re just being silly. Come on, get me to work so you can get on with your day. I’m sure you have people and places to see.”
“Nobody more worth seeing than you,” he assured her.
“Well, you’ll have to leave me alone at the gallery so I can get some work done,” she told him. “You can come back later if you like, when I close, for supper together—unless you get a better offer.”
“I doubt that,” he said, taking her arm.
~*~
As she had said, he did have some places and people to see. Clint always enjoyed having a look at the Brooklyn Bridge, since he had been there when it first opened. And then whenever he was in New York he enjoyed the museums.
As for friends, it was hit and miss with them. Several who he thought he might see turned out to either be out of town temporarily, or permanently.
So he spent a lot of the afternoon walking the streets, hoping that someone was still following him, and that they were getting frustrated because Clint was actually doing nothing. At one point he stopped into a Chinese restaurant for lunch, enjoyed some beef and noodles— “low mein” the smiley-faced Chinese waiter called it—washing it down with hot tea. It was the best Chinese fare he’d had since a restaurant in Deadwood, and one in San Francisco.
Before leaving, he took the time to peer out the window, standing so that he couldn’t be seen from outside. He didn’t see anyone in the doorways across the street.
When he turned he found the smiley-faced waiter looking at him.
“You want go out back door?”
“What?”
The waiter pointed. “Back door. You want?”
“Why would I want the back door?”
“You maybe follow?” the waiter asked. “Jealous husband, maybe?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’m not being followed by a jealous husband.”
The waiter shrugged.
“Do you get a lot of men in here who are being followed?” Clint asked.
“Big city,” the waiter said. “Lotta men like use back door.”
“I’ll bet,” Clint said. “No thanks, I’ll go out the front. Thanks for the food. It was very good.”
The smile widened.
“We glad you like,” the waiter said. “You come back.”
“Maybe I will,” Clint said.
The waiter smiled, nodded, and kept staring at him as left.
Outside he looked both ways, and across the street, finally satisfied that he actually wasn’t being followed today.
Unless it was being done by somebody who was exceptionally good at it.