“I don’t know.”
“Let’s find out.” She turned the proper knob on the gas range, and after a moment there was a whoomp of flames in the broiler. “It works. Can you make a salad?”
“I think so, but why don’t we relax for a minute first. I’ve got bourbon.”
“Bourbon is fine. I’ll put the potatoes in the oven. It takes them a while to bake.”
Corey poured the drinks, adding ice and a splash of water to generous shots of Wild Turkey while Dena scrubbed the potatoes and put them into the oven. Corey was waiting for her when she came into the small living room. She sat down next to him on the couch and picked up her drink. They maintained a careful space between them.
“Let’s make a deal,” Corey said.
“What’s that?”
“Just for tonight, let’s forget all about the brain eaters. Tomorrow we’ll be back in the real world, but tonight I’d just like to relax and pretend we haven’t a thing to worry about.”
“I’m not very good at pretending.”
“Try.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
They touched glasses and drank. Corey appreciated the fact that Dena did not question the strength of the drink.
“I assume you’re not married,” she said.
“Nope. I was when I was twenty-three. She was a cocktail waitress. Looked great in black net stockings. Six months later I was in Vietnam, and she was back hustling drinks. I got the divorce papers while I was in the hospital.”
“Leave you bitter, did it?”
“Nah, I figure I got off easy. Anyway, bitter people are a pain in the ass. Everybody makes mistakes.”
“Have you made any more? Do you mind talking about it?”
“Not as long as it doesn’t dominate the conversation. While I was working in San Francisco, there was Barbara. She was a dancer. She thought it was kicky to live with a hotshot reporter. Kicky. That was one of her words. Imagine her chagrin when the hotshot husband got himself fired and asked if she wanted to come with him to Milwaukee, of all places. Adios, Barbara.”
“Sad story,” Dena said.
“Not really. I only asked her to come along because I knew she wouldn’t.”
“So you’ve survived.”
“Sure. How about you?”
“I came close once to getting married. Or so I thought, to a doctor in Chicago. Trouble was, he already had a wife. I knew that, of course, but like the little simp I was, I thought he’d leave her.”
“They never do,” Corey said.
“So I found out.”
“What about the copter pilot?”
“Stu? He was fun, and I liked him a lot, but there was no commitment there. Neither of us wanted it. We were both more interested in our work than in starting a heavy romance.”
“Do you like what you do?”
“Biochemistry? Sure I like it. Why?”
“Just curious. I get a bad taste from people who hate their jobs. Hell, nobody’s chained to his machine. If they hate it, let them find something else. Do ‘em good to know what it feels like to be out of work for a while.”
“Do you like what you do, Corey?”
“Hell, yes. What I don’t like is not being as successful at it as I ought to be.”
“You’ve still got time.”
He sobered for a moment. “I hope so.” Then he brightened. “Want another drink?”
“Are you going to make a move on me?”
“Maybe. I can’t promise anything.”
“My life is full of men who can’t make promises.” She handed him her empty glass. “Easy on the water.”
By the time they were well into their second drinks, both were feeling the effects. Corey had put on an old Johnny Mathis album, Dena had kicked off her shoes, and they were dancing awkwardly on his living room carpet.
“I think it’s time to put the steaks on,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
She tapped her head with a forefinger. “Women’s intuition. Besides, I can smell the potatoes.”
“Amazing,” he said. “I’ll open the wine. Let it breathe. Whatever that means.”
“Don’t forget the salad.”
The steaks were done rare, really rare, the way Corey liked them and was never able to get them in a restaurant. For some reason restaurant chefs thought “rare” meant “medium rare.” The asparagus in butter was tender, the potatoes fluffy with sour cream topping, and the salad was crisp and cold. They finished one bottle of wine and started on the second.
“Delicious dinner,” he said.
“Anybody can cook a steak.”
“No they can’t. I’m living proof.”
“You give great salad, though.”
“Just lucky.”
After dinner they sat again on the couch, this time with no space between them. What was left of the wine sat on the coffee table in front of them. Corey had Mose Allison on the turntable, the volume turned low.
“I know we had a deal,” Dena said, her head against his, “but …”
“But …” he prompted.
“Corey, how serious do you think this is?”
“You and me?”
“No, damn it, the brain-eater thing.”
“It’s serious,” he said, “but not critical. At least I hope not. I give it a couple more weeks; then people will find something else to worry about.”
Dena drew back and looked at him. “Just how do you see this coming to an end in a couple of weeks?”
He shrugged. “Everything ends.”
“Sometimes I think …” She hesitated, searching his face.
“You think what?”
“That all the brain eaters mean to you is a story. Your story. Something that will make you famous. And maybe rich.”
“Hey, like I told my publisher the other day, I didn’t invent the damn things. I just named them. If the story brings in a few bucks for me, why not? Who loses?”
Dena sighed. She did not protest when Corey put an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I’d feel better if you showed a little more concern for the victims.”
“Dena,” he said, “I put in some time as police reporter in San Francisco. I’ve seen babies left in trash cans after their little heads were twisted around so they’d stop crying. I’ve seen a teenaged heroin addict who drowned in her own vomit. I’ve seen a man who raped and murdered two little boys and was then turned loose by a judge because the police questioned him before his lawyer got there. I had so much concern for the victims I damn near became one myself. You never get used to it, but you learn to lock it away until there is time to cry.”
“Do you cry, Corey?”
“I kind of mist up at movies about the crusty old grandfather who goes all soft and chuckly when the cute little kid climbs in his lap.”
She gave him a punch on the shoulder. “Okay, tough guy, I shouldn’t have brought it up. But if we’re going to have a relationship, we’ll have to sit down sometime and tell each other where we stand.”
“Are we going to have a relationship?”
“That depends on what we learn about each other.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Shall we go to bed?”
“Just like that?”
“What the hell, I bought you dinner.”
“All right.”
He sat on the bed and watched her undress. Her movements were as graceful and unself-conscious as a Degas ballerina. She laid her clothes over a chair and turned to look at him. Clearly, she was proud of her body. Justifiably.
She slipped into the bed and pulled the covers up. “Are you going to join me, or are you having second thoughts?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Be right with you.” He moved toward the living room.
“Hey, no fair,” she said. “You watched me; now it’s my turn to watch you.”