I pushed the cocktail glass back across the table.
“And I can’t go mine,” Lucille said. “It’s nauseating.”
The waiter hovered over us and coughed significantly.
“Two more Martinis,” I said. “We were interested, talking, and let these get a little warm. I can’t stand a warm Martini.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, picking up the glasses.
“Why do you do that, Donald?” she asked.
“What?”
“Give them a chance to rub it in.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m built that way.”
She said abruptly, “Would you have tried to pick me up and be my escort if I hadn’t made the break?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“You’re wondering why I wanted to come in here, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“What?” she asked, startled. “Of course you are.”
I said, “It’s the redhead, isn’t it? The one with the grey eyes?”
She looked at me with just the faintest suggestion of a scowl. Her eyes were big. “Say, who are you?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh, forget it,” I said. “I’m sorry I said anything.”
“Say, what kind of a frame-up is this?” she demanded.
“Skip it,” I told her.
The waiter brought two more Martinis, together with a check. I pulled out two dollar notes from my pocket. He scooped up the two dollars and put down two quarters. I took a dime and two pennies from my pocket, and put the assortment on the table and picked up the two quarters.
As the waiter glowered at the twelve cents, I said, “Eat your olive before the water gets to it, Lucille.”
The waiter scooped up the money, walked over and said something to the manager.
The manager came over to the table. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Did you drive down, Lucille?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then you shouldn’t drink more than ten or fifteen of these cocktails.”
She smiled and we drank.
The manager waited for me to say something after I’d tasted the cocktail. I smacked my lips, put it down and said, “Delicious!”
He reluctantly moved away.
“Come on,” Lucille said. “Come through with the lowdown.”
I said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Don’t be coy. What’s the answer?”
I took the notecase from my pocket, took out one of my business cards and handed it to her.
She read it, “Coot & Lam Private Detectives, Presented by Donald Lam.”
She started to get to her feet.
“Take it easy,” I said. “It’s purely coincidental.”
“What is?”
I said. “It’s Saturday afternoon. I’d finished the last job I was working on and sat down to read the racing news before I went out to dinner. I’m unmarried, unattached, and there’s nothing romantic about my job. It’s a business. I’ve never seen you before, and, as far as I know, I don’t think we have a client that has either. No one’s paying for this and I’m not sending in any report on you. You wanted an escort and you’re the one who picked a detective. I didn’t even give you the eye.”
“You looked — at my legs.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Who’s this Cool?” she asked.
“Bertha Cool,” I said.
“A woman partner?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Oh,” she said, elevating her eyebrows, “it’s like that, eh?”
“Not like that,” I explained. “Bertha Cool is middle-aged, weighs a hundred and sixty-five pounds, has a broad beam, a bulldog jaw, little glittering, greedy eyes, and is just as hard and tough and difficult to handle as a roll of barbed wire.
“She was running the business several years ago, when I was up against it for almost any kind of a job. I’ve had legal training, and Bertha hired me and worked the hell out of me. Later on I graduated into a full partnership.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
I said, “Bertha Cool used to do divorce work, automobile accident stuff, and in addition to that a lot of little things that most of the agencies wouldn’t bother with. Now I haven’t any way of describing exactly what we do. I’m an opportunist and we’ve been lucky.”
“You mean you’ve made money?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s only part of it. We sharp-shoot.”
“What kind of cases?”
“All kinds.”
She said, “You’re a rotten detective.”
I said, “You should know Bertha Cool. You have a lot in common.”
“I like that!” she flared. “Broad of beam — bulldog jaw—!”
“Mentally,” I said. “When it comes to judging my qualifications as a detective.”
She said, “You think I’m interested in the red-head with the grey eyes?”
“Yes.”
Her laugh was scornful. “Let’s get out of this dump. The only reason I wanted to come in here was because they told me I couldn’t. If you want to know it, I’ve had a heartbreak and had decided to get drunk. The man I was carrying the torch for turned out to be a rat, and the only other man I knew well enough to go out and get cock-eyed with would have felt I was trying to make him a second choice. I didn’t want him to do that because if I can wait a few weeks he’ll start coming around of his own accord and then I’m going to give him a break. I’ve been a little fool and the taste of my folly is as bitter in my mouth as a chicken liver when the gall bladder has been ruptured by a poor cook.”
“The trouble with you detectives is that you have to see murder cases lurking behind every lamp-post. When I found I had to have an escort, I thought you looked good. Now you bore me.”
“So you’re going out and get tight alone?” I asked.
“You’re damn right. And as far as you’re concerned... No, wait a minute, guess I’ll have to vamp you to make up for this outburst. Apparently I can’t get tight without an escort. I... come on, let’s get out of this dump.”
We got up and started for the street door.
“Everything all right?” the manager asked suavely.
“Fine,” I assured him. “Two of the best olives I’ve ever tasted.”
“Come back any time you want more of the same,” he said.
“I might surprise you,” I told him.
We walked past the table where the salesman was talking to the girl with the grey eyes. She gave us a flicker of disinterested appraisal, then suddenly looked at me — hard. The grave man kept on talking.
Lucille didn’t show the faintest interest as she swept by.
Out on the street I said, “Well, Lucille, have a good time.”
She said impulsively, “Let’s go to a place where we can get a real drink. My mouth tastes like a cocktail shaker smells the next morning.”
I hesitated.
She put her hand on my arm, said, “It’s my party, you know.”
“Will you tell me all about your broken romance?”
“Every word,” she said. “I’ll withhold nothing. I’ll be like the girl in the Arabian Nights who told stories to keep her lord and master amused. I lost my temper and shot off my big mouth about you being a lousy detective and now your professional pride is insulted. But I need an escort and if I let you go, the other one may be terrible. You’re nice as an individual. It’s only your detective ability that has a slight odour. So I’ll tell you about my shattered romance and broken heart. Do you want the spicy, intimate version of my romantic entanglement, or would you prefer the psychological reaction motif?”
“The psychological reaction motif,” I said.