"That's all right," she said. "I just wanted a nightcap. You have a cocktail bar?"
"But of course!" he cried. "The Palace Lounge. Through that back doorway, if you please."
The Lounge was jammed, noisy, smoky. Rita swung onto a barstool, turned sideways, crossed her legs. She ordered a vodka stinger from the baldy behind the bar.
It was served in a glass big enough to float a carp. She took a sip.
"Okay?" Ernie asked.
"Just right," she said. "Busy night."
"It's always like this. On Saturday we have a three-piece jazz combo."
"I'll have to catch that."
"You can't go wrong," he told her.
"In that case I'll skip it," she said, and he gave her a knowing grin.
She turned and surveyed the Lounge casually. It wasn't hard to spot David Rathbone. He was seated at the head of a big table in the corner. He was even better-looking than his photograph, a golden boy, and he was staring at her.
She turned back, waited until baldy was down at the other end of the bar, then opened her shoulder bag and took out a pack of Virginia Slims. She kept rooting in her bag as if looking for a match. It was a corny ploy, but she reckoned if the guy was on the make he'd catch the signal and come running. He did. A gold Dupont lighter was proffered.
"May I?" he said.
She liked his voice. Deep, throaty, with a burble of laughter.
"Thank you," she said, and lighted her cigarette.
He looked at the pack. "You've come a long way, baby," he said.
"So they tell me," she said.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.
"I've hardly touched this one."
"So? The night's young. May I join you?"
"If you like."
He took the barstool alongside her, not too close.
"First time here?"
She nodded.
"You'll like it. Good crowd. Big drinks."
"Uh-huh. And not exactly cheap."
"They're expensive," he acknowledged. "But there are a lot of fringe benefits." He gave her a dazzling smile. "I'm one of them."
She laughed and worked on her stinger.
"Where are you from?" he asked her. "I've been in Florida for years and I've never met anyone who was born here. Everyone's from somewhere else. I'm from Boston originally, then New York. You?"
"New Orleans originally, then Tallahassee."
"Work down here?"
"Hope to. I just arrived. I'm a schoolteacher."
"Oh? And what do you teach?"
"Spanish."
' 'A otro perro con ese hueso. ''
Rita laughed again. "Do you know what that means?"
"Not really. But I once told a Spanish lady that I loved her, and that's what she said. I always thought it was the Spanish equivalent of 'And I love you, too.' "
"It's the Spanish equivalent of Tell it to the Marines.' "
Then he laughed. "I better stick to English. Ready for a fresh drink? I am."
"Sure," Rita said. "Why not."
Ernie brought them a vodka gimlet and a stinger and left them alone.
"I love your Chanel suit," Rathbone said.
"It's a cheap copy."
"You're joking." He examined one of the brass buttons. "It even has the insignia." He shook his head.
"Those rip-off artists are really something. Do me a favor, will you?"
"What?"
"Never cut your hair. It's glorious."
"Thank you. But it's a pain in the ass to wash."
"I'll help," he said, and they stared at each other.
"My name is David Rathbone," he said.
"My name is Rita Sullivan," she said, and they shook hands.
"Where do you live, Rita?"
"I just got in a few days ago. I'm staying at the Howard Johnson in Pompano Beach."
"You want to go back to HoJo tonight?"
"Not particularly."
"You have a car?"
"Yes."
"So do I. I also have a town house on the Fourteenth Street Causeway. The drinks are free. Will you follow me there?"
"All right," she said, "I'll follow you."
They rose to leave. Ernie, watching covertly from the end of the bar, wondered who was hustling whom.
Rathbone's home was between A1A and the Waterway. They stood on the lawn and looked up.
"It's enormous," Rita said.
"Not really," he said. "Two bedrooms and a third I use as an office. Three and a half bathrooms. Florida room. Terrace. The pool is for the entire development, but no one uses it; they walk to the ocean."
"You live alone?"
"I have a houseman and a cook-housekeeper. Theodore and Blanche. Jamaicans. Nice people. But they don't live in."
The vaulted living room was all white, beige, gold.
There was a forty-one-inch rear projection TV. The kitchen was white with black plastic panels on the appliances. A restaurant range, microwave, overhead rack of coppered pots and pans.
"You know how to live," Rita said.
"Everyone knows how to live," he said. "There's no trick to it. All you need is money. Want to stick to the stingers?"
"Please."
"I'll have one, too."
They took their drinks into the living room, sat on the couch, kicked off their shoes.
"What do you do to afford all this?" Rita asked. "Rob banks?"
"No," he said with a tight smile. "I manage O.P.M.-Other People's Money. I'm an investment adviser."
"I'd say you're doing all right," she said, looking around.
He shrugged. "I work hard. And I've been lucky. Luck is very important."
"It's been in short supply with me lately."
"Married? Separated? Divorced? Or widowed?"
"No, no, no, and no," she said. "Just a single lady. Disappointed?"
"Of course not."
"What about you?"
"Married," he said. "Once. And now divorced. Thank God."
"And never again-is that what you're saying?"
"That's what I'm saying. Today. Tomorrow I might feel differently."
"You might," she said, "but I doubt it. You know, if I was a man, I'd never get married. What for? Sex?
Companionship? A nurse if you get sick? A housekeeper when you get old? You can buy all that."
"If you've got the money," he reminded her. "You have a very cynical outlook, Rita."
"Not cynical, just realistic. Am I going to spend the night?"
"I want you to, but it's your decision."
"The bedrooms are upstairs?"
"Yes."
"Mix us another and let's take them upstairs."
"Wise decision," he said.
"You want me out of here tomorrow morning before your servants show up?"
"That's the first dumb thing you've said tonight."
Upstairs, she looked around the master bedroom and whistled. "I like everything about it except for the engraving over the bed. Who the hell is that-your grandfather?"
Rathbone laughed. "Big Jim Fisk. I'll tell you about him someday. A romantic story. He was murdered at the age of thirty-eight."
"Oh? How old are you, David?"
"Thirty-eight."
"Whoops!" she said. "Can I use the john?"
She did, and then he did. When he came out, she was lying naked atop the silver coverlet, black hair spread over the pillows. He stood looking down at her long body, dusky, with raspberry nipples.
"Ah, Jesus," he breathed.
She watched him undress. "You really are a golden boy," she said. "Where did you get that allover tan?"
"Show you tomorrow," he said, and joined her.
He was very good. She was better.
The morning sun was hot, bright. She roused slowly, staring at the ceiling, wondering where she was. Then Rathbone was at the bedside, looking down at her without smiling. He tossed a yellow terry robe onto the coverlet.
"Breakfast on the terrace in fifteen minutes," he said, no laughter in his voice now.
She came out into the sunlight, wearing the robe, toweling her hair.
"Glorious day," she said.
"It may be," he said. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt of cotton gauze, pale linen slacks belted with a neck tie, espadrilles.