She turned back, to see that Alex was still standing there. She grabbed the mouthpiece, squeezed her hand around it. «It's Steve,» she said, smiling as brightly as she could.
«My regards to the good Left- tenant,» Alex said, and bowed himself out of the apartment before Bernice Toland-James could ask a third time: «Maggie? Is that you?»
«I'm sorry, Bernie.» Maggie collapsed into her desk chair. «I don't know why I did that.»
«Did what? Oh, never mind. Look, I want to come over, okay? I've read the manuscript.»
«And?»
«And I'll bring lunch.»
Uh-oh. Instant panic, insecurity about talent being the curse of every writer. Had her talent disappeared? Had she ever really had any talent? Maybe she'd been faking it for years, and now it had finally caught up with her. «Bernie? What did you think of the book? You have a problem with the book? What's wrong with the book? Nothing's wrong with my book, Bernie. Is it?»
«Give me an hour. I'll be there in an hour.»
As she listened to the dial tone, Maggie considered, then discarded, the idea of collapsing headfirst onto her desk once more. «This day just keeps getting better and better…»
Chapter two
Saint Just returned to his own apartment, caught between amusement at Maggie's rather adorable fierceness when dealing with the vagaries of the uncaring world and a small sadness that the breech between them still sat like a huge elephant in the middle of her living room, with neither of them daring to do more than periodically mention its existence.
She could, it seemed, create a hero… she just couldn't understand one.
«Sterling?» he called out, snatching up his sword cane from its resting place in—how coincidental?—a plaster stand in the shape of an elephant. «Have you changed your mind about accompanying me to the bank?»
Sterling Balder, wiping his hands on the «Kiss the Cook» apron tied around his pudgy waist, emerged from the kitchen, his cheeks floury white. «I've nearly got it, Saint Just,» he said, shoving his spectacles higher on his nose. «I think this next batch will be the charm.»
«More scones, Sterling? I thought we'd discussed this. We have enough paperweights as it is.»
Sterling's lower lip came out in a pout. «That's not nice, Saint Just. Mrs. McBedie insists on serving those English muffins, as she calls them, but I just know scones would be much more the thing, if I could only master them. You should have more faith in me, and all of that. Besides, Henry likes my scones. He's living in one of them, as a matter of fact, having eaten his way in.»
Saint Just winced. He'd told himself to forget about the tension between Maggie and himself, but obviously he'd allowed it to color his mood. «My deepest apologies, Sterling, I've become a beast. I'll be happy to sample one of this new batch with my tea the very moment I return.»
«Could you possibly stop at Mario's on your way back? It being Mrs. McBedie's day off, I thought we could have cold sliced meat for dinner.»
«Maggie has already requested pizza, if that's all right?» Saint Just asked, heading for the door once more. «And you have enough on your plate with the scones.» Saint Just knew that he'd have more than enough on his own plate—more stone-hard scones. «I'm also convinced this batch will be the charm.»
«Thank you, Saint Just. You're a good man.»
Saint Just considered Sterling's praise as he employed the tip of his sword cane to depress the call button for the elevator. Sterling was a good man, a good soul. He wasn't quite that certain about himself.
Once out on the street, Saint Just donned his new black, wide-brimmed hat—the one Maggie called his Riverboat Gambler hat—and tucked his cane under his arm, not in the least believing either accessory an affectation, or at all out of place with his midnight-blue silk knit pullover and tan slacks. And, because he was Saint Just, it all worked.
His confident, long-legged stride took him the few blocks to his bank, the one he had chosen after much online research; a choice Sterling had seconded because new account holders were rewarded with a chrome-and-black toaster oven.
He stepped into the building, his hat in his hand, and easily made his way to his favorite teller, Mrs. Halliday, as there was only one other customer in the bank at the moment. Two, if he counted a second gentleman at one of the tables, scribbling on a deposit slip.
«Good afternoon, my dear,» he said. «Aren't you looking well today. And how is your son? Still with the footballers?»
«Yes… er, thank you,» Mrs. Halliday said, not looking at him. «How may I help you today, sir?»
Saint Just frowned, lowered his voice. «Is something amiss, Mrs. Halliday?»
She smiled then, a rather plain woman whose smile could make her quite attractive. Except this smile was more of a rictus and eminently unflattering. «A very fine day, yes, it is.»
The hairs on the back of Saint Just's neck began to prickle as he felt someone looking hard at his back. He reached into his pocket, slowly extracted his money clip. «I was hoping you could exchange this for smaller bills,» he said, pulling out a one-hundred-dollar bill and slipping it across the countertop.
With fumblings fingers, Mrs. Halliday opened the drawer and pulled out five twenties, quickly counted them out. Not at all usual; Mrs. Halliday always gave him three twenties, three tens, and two fives, just as he preferred. «Have a nice day, sir,» she said, folding her hands on the counter without picking up the larger bill.
«I'll make a point of it, madam. Good day,» Saint Just said, then turned, seemingly oblivious of the man at the desk, the second man at the first teller's cage.
His cane in his hand, no longer tucked under his arm, he replaced his hat, setting it at a slight tilt, and strolled leisurely toward the door, then out into the street.
Where he stopped, stepped in front of the thick wall be-side the glass doors, flipped open his cell phone, and pushed two buttons. Lieutenant Wendell's number was one Saint Just had in the phone's memory.
Three rings, and the Lieutenant answered.
«Wendell, my good man, Alex Blakely here. Would it be at all possible for you to stop by my bank?» He gave him the address. «You are nearby, correct? Or is Maggie meeting you somewhere?»
«Maggie? I haven't talked to Maggie in a week. She doesn't return my calls. I know she's got a deadline and everything, but I was beginning to—why should I meet you at your bank? What's up?»
«Possibly nothing, possibly quite a bit. You haven't answered me. Are you close by?» As for the other—how very interesting. But he'd have to consider Maggie's fib another time; Mrs. Halliday had very clearly put her dependence upon him.
«No, I'm way the hell up in—Blakely, what in hell did you do now? Are you playing hero again? No, don't tell me. Oh, cripes—tell me.»
«So indecisive, my friend. Is it any wonder Maggie can't find it in herself to perceive you as a serious beau?» Saint Just stepped forward, held up his hand to a woman approaching the door to the bank, shook his head. «As you're unavailable, perhaps you'd allow for a substitute? Any of your number will do. Lights and sirens are always so welcome. But I really must go now.»
He folded the phone, slipping it back into his pocket as he smiled at the woman. «I'm dreadfully sorry to inconvenience you, madam, but it would appear the bank is being robbed at the moment. Perhaps you could visit our branch on Broadway? It's also a full-service facility. Thank you, and please call again,» he said, bowing, giving a slight tip of his hat as the woman all but ran down the street.
Saint Just then smiled at passersby, tipping his hat an-other time or two, before taking a final, quick peek through the gold-toned window, and moving to just beside the door, to stand at the ready.