“Then that’s the reason not to go.”
Laughing, she said, “You’re still recommending inaction, aren’t you?”
“Nothing is usually the best thing to do.”
“Not this time.”
I very nearly said I’d miss her, but that wouldn’t have been appropriate, would it? We’d become chummier over the last two days, but we were still nevertheless only employer and employee. Come to think of it, no matter what happened I would never know how the story came out; whatever plane she took tomorrow from Kansas City, the story surely wouldn’t end there. Wouldn’t she have more second thoughts in midflight, and land facing the opposite direction again? Obviously it all had to end sometime, if only because Barry was clearly not going to be able to play his role in the farce forever, but what the ending would be, and what would happen after the ending — because in life, of course, unlike stories, the only real ending is death — none of that would I ever learn. I was like a transient in a town, who goes to the local movie and sees Chapter Seven of a serial; I could dope out some of what had gone before, and I could make guesses about what would happen in later chapters, but Chapter Seven would remain the only part I actually knew.
While I brooded about all this, Katharine paid the check — her handwriting was large tonight when she added the tip — and we got up to go. I steered us slightly out of our way to bring us past the table at which the couple who’d been staring at the cab were now eating their desserts; banana split for him, butterscotch sundae for her. His cigar smoldered in the ashtray, ready to his left hand. His clothing was still all burgundy and white, with white patent leather shoes. As we went by, I leaned down and said to him, “You wear that outfit in the Belmore Cafeteria, they’ll think you’re the soup of the day.”
He looked up, startled, just beginning to get it as I quickly led Katharine on out of the restaurant. Outside, still looking back in a puzzled way, she said, “And what was that all about?”
“A local joke,” I told her, and we walked back to our rooms.
15
I spent a depressed evening thinking about Katharine’s latest decision. Would it all end tomorrow afternoon in Kansas City, of all places? The only ray of light in the gloom was that she hadn’t made it definite. She’d called it a ‘sub-deadline,’ meaning she was already prepared to forgive herself if she didn’t keep it. But what if she did? Drat.
By ten-thirty, the TV set and my own gloomy thoughts drove me to the outer darkness. Like a fool, I hadn’t brought anything along to read, but would there be a magazine stand in the lobby?
There would not. But there would be a couple of paperback racks over near the desk; I brooded at them a while, finally realizing that among the variety of titles and covers I really only had three types of book to choose from. I could read a story in which a John Wayne-type hero saves the world or some portion of it from terrorists. Or I could read a ‘historical’ about a woman who loves a man despite — or because of — his cruelty. Or I could read a saga of four generations of a family; from farm to bank seemed to be the usual progression. I finally chose one of the sagas, primarily because I expected to be reading it in short bits at odd moments, and the saga would be the least likely to have a plot to remember. Also, all the characters in the saga would have the same last name, and I wouldn’t have to wonder who they were every time I picked up the book.
But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to go immediately back to the room and plunge directly into life on the old Gritbone farm. Next to the Hills of Rome restaurant was the Coliseum Cocktail Lounge; tucking my saga into my hip pocket, I drifted in.
There didn’t seem any particular reason to name this place after the Coliseum. In fact, The Minepit was about the only appropriate name I could think of for it. If it hadn’t been for the light on the cash register, I might never have found the bar. The other illumination in the place consisted of six-watt blue bulbs deeply recessed in the dark ceiling. Black vinyl and dark walnut fake wood veneer covered most surfaces. It was brighter in the parking lot.
I climbed up on a massive stool and told the bartender-silhouette I’d like a beer. He mentioned two or three brands, and I mentioned back the one I hadn’t immediately forgotten, and he brought me a small bottle, with a glass, and only charged a thousand dollars. Well, not quite that much.
As my eyes became more accustomed to the black, I became aware of two, or possibly three, other customers: all male, all solitary, all drinking beer. There was one at the end of the bar to my right, another one partway around the curve to my left, and I think there was one at a banquette behind me. There was no conversation, except the occasional murmur of a customer requesting a refill.
Could any family saga be worse than this? I was about to gulp down my beer and depart when someone else came in, stood at the bar to my right, and said, “Okay, Fred, here’s the tabs.”
A female voice. I looked over, and made out the profile of the headwaiter from next door. She handed a stack of checks to the bartender, then turned and saw me, smiled broadly, and said, “Hello, there.”
“How you doing?”
“Long hard day,” she said.
“Care for a drink?” It was the natural response, said prior to calculation.
She hesitated. I could see she’d like to say yes, but there was a question in her mind that first had to be resolved. She asked it: “Where’s your friend?”
“Up in her room.” Then I said, “You know she and I aren’t hanging out together.”
She slid onto the stool next to me. “To tell the truth, I was fascinated by you two.”
“It’s a long story. Sure you won’t have a drink?”
She peered in the dimness at the glass and bottle in front of me. “What’s that? Beer? I can’t drink beer, it goes right to my hips. I have to watch my girlish figure.”
She did have a girlish figure, as a matter of fact, long and rangy, and a long rangy face. She was about my age, maybe a couple years older. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was attractive; rather like the younger women in the family saga in my hip pocket, I supposed. I said, “They’ll serve you anything you want here, it’s a regular joint. Right, Fred?”
“Sure,” said the Fred-silhouette. I still hadn’t seen his face, didn’t know if he ever smiled or frowned or anything, but his voice sounded friendly enough.
“Then I’ll have a Scotch and water,” she said. “My name’s Sue Ann, by the way.”
“Hi, Sue Ann, I’m Tom.” And we shook hands; hers was long-fingered and hard-boned and cool.
Our first topic of conversation was the relationship between Katharine and me, which took a while to describe, with several detours. For instance: “Oh, that’s your taxi out there! I recognized it right away for a New York cab. I lived in New York three years.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“My ex-husband was in construction,” she said. “He worked on the World Trade Center. We had a nice house on Staten Island; off Drumgoole Boulevard, you know that section?”
“Not really.”
“We used to go up to Manhattan all the time. Go to the movies on Broadway, or some nice Italian restaurant in the Village. Do you know Rocco’s, down on Thompson Street?”
“Afraid not.”
“Great Italian food.” And she leaned close, resting her hand on my forearm and speaking confidentially. “Not like this place.” Then she straightened again, saying, “But how come your passenger’s taking a taxi all the way out here?”