I said, “Sit down!”
She didn't move.
I came half out of my chair. “Listen to me!” I said. “You try to leave this room and I'll cause the goddamnedest scene you ever saw! I'll tie you up with the Burton murder and get your name in headlines if I have to print the papers myself! Now sit down!”
She dropped as though she had been shot.
“That's better. Now drink your Martini and calm down a little.”
She glared at me, then downed the drink angrily. The well-trained waiter was right at my elbow, ready to pick up the empty glass. “Another of the same,” I said, “for the lady.”
We sat in absolute silence until the drink arrived. I hadn't meant for it to be like this at all, I had meant for it to be a nice, smooth operation carried off in a civilized manner. But, goddamnit, people simply would not allow me to be civilized.
Jesus, I thought, I don't enjoy this sort of thing; I'm no goddamn sadist. A certain amount of violence, sure; like a good fighter, I needed a certain amount of violence to keep my reflexes in condition.
The waiter came and went away again, and still we sat there in silence. But she didn't look quite as angry now. I could almost see her taking control of her emotions, and some of the fire went out of her eyes, and she sat there for a long while, studying me coldly, calmly.
“Well,” I said at last, “what do you see?”
“... I'm not sure.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I didn't enjoy that little scene. I hadn't meant for it to be that way at all. Now, have you calmed down a little?”
“... Yes.”
“Fine. Finish your martini, then if you still want to walk out, I won't try to stop you. Is that fair enough?”
“Mr. O'Connor,” she said coldly, “I want to ask you once more. What do you want from me?”
I sighed. “I don't know what's wrong here, I honestly don't. We speak the same language, don't we, the American language? I've told you three times, it's a universal plot: boy meets girl, the oldest plot in the world. My methods were unorthodox, I admit it, and perhaps they were all wrong, I admit that too, but believe me, that's all there is to it. To put it bluntly, I saw you, I wanted you, I went after you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Things you want... Do you always go after them like this?”
“That depends on the situation and the value of the object desired.”
“I see.” Her hand was perfectly steady as she lifted the martini to her Ups. “Do your methods work?” she asked, her gaze lowered.
“Yes,” I said, “my methods usually work. Not always, of course; nothing is perfect. But ninety per cent of the time, yes, they work.”
“See something you want, take it,” she said.
“You amaze me,” I said. “Yes, that sums up my philosophy pretty well. It is simple, direct, completely honest.”
She lifted her gaze to stare at me. “Honest?”
She was interested now; at least, she was curious, and this pleased me. I said, “Of course. The strong take from the weak. They always have and always shall. That is the first law of Nature, and what could be more honest than Nature?
“That sounds pretty pat for a philosophy.”
“Of course it's pat, because it is simple, and honesty is a straight line between the question and the answer.”
“It sounds like a negative philosophy, at the very least.”
“Negative? That depends on one's definition of good and evil. But first philosophy itself must be defined. 'Philosophy,' said a certain Frenchman, 'is the pursuit of pleasure.' What could be more sensible? Now, how do you achieve this philosophic pleasure? Pleasure is brought about through the fulfillment of personal ambition, the acquisition of wealth or power, or the titillation of our senses and appetites.”
She sat there for a moment, still staring very soberly at my face. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to bore you.”
“... I'm not exactly bored,” she said, after a moment. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Who is the Frenchman you admire so much and love to quote?”
I laughed. “I was afraid you would ask that—please don't allow his reputation to obscure his logic. His name was the Marquis de Sade.”
“Where did he die, this hero of yours, this Marquis de Sade?”
“... In a madhouse, I believe.”
She smiled thinly. “That's some philosophy you've adopted, Mr. O'Connor!”
I could have carried my argument forward and perhaps made a point or two, but I was no longer interested in abstract criminal theory. It had served its purpose for the present, it had got Pat Kelso curious as to just what the hell kind of guy I was, anyway.
Then she jarred me. “I met a man once,” she said, “who had ideas much the same as yours. His name was Venci. John Venci, I believe.”
“Venci?”
How much did she know? How much was she guessing?
I said, “I don't believe I know the name. Who is he?”
“He is dead,” she said flatly. “He was a gangster and very powerful, but now he is dead.”
“... I see.” Then I said, “I find this interesting—you and a gangster, I mean. You don't seem to go together. How did you meet?”
“Through a... friend.”
“Alex Burton?”
That was the sensitive nerve. Something happened to her, especially to her eyes, when his name was mentioned. I said, “All right, it isn't important, we'll forget it.” I noticed that her glass was empty again, and I remembered that I had made a promise and would have to keep it. Pat Kelso was no person to be held by chains alone; there had to be something stronger than that: curiosity, hate, fear. But some attraction had to be there, and it had to be a good deal stronger than mere intimidation. There came a time, after the first show of force, when a trainer had to take a dog off a leash and see if he would heel of his own accord.
The waiter was there again, ready to pick up the glass. I said, “It's up to you. Do you still want to go home?”
For a moment I thought she was going to say yes. She glanced at me, surprised at first, then suddenly she amazed me by laughing. “I don't think I ever saw a man so sure of himself!”
“Does that mean you'll have dinner with me?”
“... Yes. I believe it does.”
I felt like a million dollars. I was beginning to live, actually beginning to enjoy myself for the first time since I crashed off that prison work gang. We left the Lake Hotel and went to a place called Moranis, an old Colonial mansion—rather, what looked like an old Colonial mansion. The owner himself hustled forward when he saw who we were, looking mildly shocked and grieved, and I guessed that this was one of the places that Burton and Pat had favored while Burton had still been alive. This suited me fine; it amused me to walk in and take over where the late ex-governor had left off, right down to his girl and favorite restaurant.
“Miss Kelso,” the owner said gravely, “I can not tell you how very pleased to...”
“To see me back again?” Pat laughed and patted his hand. “Angelo, you know I could not live in Lake City and not visit the famous Morani! Angelo, this is Mr. O'Connor, an old friend, and we are starved. Do be a dear, will you, and tell Mario we are here.”
Angelo Morani shook my hand, but his heart wasn't in it. After we were seated I said, “Who's Mario?”
“The chef, of course.”
“Oh, I see. The minute we come in the chef drops everything and takes our order personally. Who are we supposed to be, anyway, visiting royalty?”
She smiled. “They remember me as Alex Burton's... friend. I'm not kidding myself; the reflected glory won't last long, but as long as it does last I can't see why I shouldn't take advantage of it, do you?”