THIRTEEN
Smithback took his usual place in the darkest corner of the Bones, the dingy restaurant behind the museum favored as an after-hours hangout by museum employees who-it seemed-never tired of the sight of bones. The official name of the place was the Blarney Stone Tavern; it had acquired its nickname from the owner's penchant for hammering bones of all shapes, sizes, and sources onto the walls and ceiling.
Smithback looked at his watch. Miracle of miracles, he was ten minutes early. Maybe Nora would be early, too, and they could have a few extra minutes to talk. He felt like he hadn't seen his new wife in ages. She had promised to meet him here for a burger and beer before she returned to the museum to work late on the big upcoming show. And he himself had a story of sorts to write up and file before the 2 a.m. deadline.
He shook his head. What a life: two months married and he hadn't been laid in a week. But it wasn't so much making love he missed as Nora's companionship. Talk. Friendship. The truth was, Nora was Smithback's best friend, and right now he needed his best friend. The Duchamp murder story was going badly: he'd gotten nothing more than the same crap as the other papers. The cops were keeping a tight lid on information, and his usual sources could offer nothing. Here he was, Smithback of the Times, and his latest stories were nothing more than the reheated leftovers of a few briefings. Meanwhile, he could almost smell Bryce Harriman's ambition to muscle in on the story, take it away from him, leave him with the damn Dangler assignment he'd managed to slough off so adroitly when the Duchamp case first broke.
"Whence the dark look?"
Smithback looked up, and there was Nora. Nora, her bronze-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, her freckled nose wrinkled by a smile, her green eyes sparkling with life.
"This seat taken?" she asked.
"Are you kidding? Jesus, woman, you're a sight for sore eyes."
She slid her bag to the floor and sat down. The obligatory droopy-eared, hangdog-faced waiter appeared, like a pallbearer at a funeral, and stood silently awaiting their order.
"Bangers and mash, fries, glass of milk," said Nora.
"Nothing stronger?" Smithback asked.
"I'm going back to work."
"So am I, but that never stopped me. I'll take a shot of that fifty-year-old Glen Grant, backed up by a steak and kidney pie."
The waiter gave a mournful dip of his head and was gone.
Smithback took her hand. "Nora, I miss you."
"Likewise. What a crazy life we lead."
"What are we doing here in New York City? We should go back to Angkor Wat and live in some Buddhist temple in the jungle for the rest of our lives."
"And take a vow of celibacy?"
Smithback waved his hand. "Celibacy? We'll be like Tristan and Isolde in our own jeweled cave, making love all day long."
Nora blushed. "It was quite a shock, coming back to reality after that honeymoon."
"Yeah. Especially to find that circus ape Harriman, grinning and bobbing in my doorway."
"Bill, you're too obsessed with Harriman. The world's full of people like that. Ignore him and move on. You should see the people I have to work with at the museum. Some of them should be numbered and put in a glass case."
Their food arrived within minutes, along with Smithback's drink. He picked it up, clinked Nora's glass of milk. "Slainte."
"Chin-chin."
Smithback took a sip. Thirty-six dollars a shot and worth every penny. He watched Nora tuck into her meal. Now, there was a woman with healthy appetites-no fussy little salads for her. He recalled a certain moment that illustrated his point, back in the ruins of Banteay Chhmar, and felt an amorous stirring in his loins.
"So how are things at the museum?" he asked. "You whipping them into shape over that new show?"
"I'm only the junior curator, which means I'm mostly a whippee."
"Ouch."
"Here we are, six days from opening, and a quarter of the artifacts haven't even been mounted yet. It's a zoo. I've got only one more day to write label copy for thirty objects, and then I have to curate and organize an entire exhibit on Anasazi burial practices. And just today they said they want me to give a lecture on southwestern prehistory for the lecture series. Can you believe it? Thirteen thousand years of southwestern prehistory in ninety minutes, complete with slides." She took another bite.
"They're asking too much of you, Nora."
"Everybody's in the same boat. Sacred Images is the biggest thing to hit the museum in years. And on top of that, the geniuses that run the place have decided to upgrade the museum's security system. You remember what happened with the security system the last time they had a blockbuster exhibition? You know, Superstition?"
"Oh, God. Don't remind me."
"They don't want even the possibility of a repetition. Except that every time they upgrade the security for a new hall, they have to shut and lock the damn place down. It's impossible to get around-you never know what's going to be closed off. The bright side is that in six days it'll be over."
"Yeah, and then we'll be ready for another vacation."
"Or a stretch in a padded cell."
"We'll always have Angkor," Smithback intoned dramatically.
Nora laughed, squeezed his hand. "And how's the Duchamp story going?"
"Terrible. The homicide captain in charge is a woman named Hayward, a real ballbuster. Runs a tight ship. No leaks anywhere. I can't get a scoop to save my life."
"I'm sorry, Bill."
"Nora Kelly?"
A voice broke in, vaguely familiar. Smithback looked up to see a woman approaching their table-small, intense, brown hair, glasses. He froze in astonishment, and so did she. They stared at each other in silence.
Suddenly, she smiled. "Bill?"
Smithback grinned. "Margo Green! I thought you were living up in Boston, working for that company, what's its name?"
"GeneDyne. I was, but corporate life wasn't for me. Great money, but no fulfillment. So now I'm back at the museum."
"I had no idea."
"Just started six weeks ago. And you?"
"Wrote a few more books, as you probably know. I'm now at the Times. Got back from my honeymoon just a few weeks ago."
"Congratulations. Guess that means you won't be calling me Lotus Blossom anymore. I assume this is the lucky woman?"
"She sure is. Nora, meet an old friend of mine, Margo Green. Nora works at the museum, too."
"I know." Margo turned. "In fact, Bill, no offense, but I was actually looking for her, not you." She stretched out her hand. "Perhaps you don't remember, Dr. Kelly, but I'm the new editor of Museology. We met at the last departmental meeting."
Nora returned the handshake. "Of course. I read all about you in Bill's book Relic. How are things?"
"May I sit down?"
"To tell you the truth, we…" Nora's voice trailed off as Margo took a seat.
"I'll only be here for a moment."
Smithback stared. Margo Green. It seemed like another lifetime, it was so long ago. She hadn't changed much, except that maybe she seemed more relaxed, more confident. Still trim and athletic. She was wearing an expensive tailored suit, a far cry from the baggy L. L. Bean shirts and Levi's of her graduate student days. He glanced down at his own Hugo Boss suit. They had all grown up a little.
"I can't believe it," he said. "Two heroines from my books, together for the first time."