strands of kelp.
Even from the sidewalk down below, I could hear the trumpeting laughter of the heavy drinkers. I climbed the wide wooden steps to the entrance and in through the glass doors. A second set of stairs ascended to the right, and I made my way up toward the smoke and recorded music in the bar above. The room was L-shaped, diners occupying the long arm, drinkers confined to the short, which was just as well. The noise level was oppressive given the fact that most of the dinner crowd had departed and the bar was only half-filled. The floor was carpeted, the entire upper story wrapped in windows that overlooked the Pacific. By day, club members were treated to panoramic ocean views. At night, the black glass threw back smudged reflections, pointing up the need for the rigorous application of Windex. When I reached the maître d’s pulpit, I paused, watching him approach me from across the room.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. I guessed he’d been recently promoted from his job as headwaiter because he held his left arm at an angle, a ready rack for some wine towel he no longer had to tote.
“I’m looking for Carl Eckert. Is he here tonight?”
I saw his gaze flick downward, taking in my scruffy boots, the long skirt, the vest, shoulder bag, and my ill-cut hair, which the sea wind had tossed into moplike perfection. “Is he expecting you?” His tone suggested he’d expect invading Martians first.
I held out a discreetly folded five-dollar bill. “Now he is,” I said.
The fellow slipped the bill in his pocket without checking the denomination, which made me wish I had given him a single. He indicated a gentleman sitting at a window table by himself. I had plenty of time to study him as I crossed the room. I put him in his early fifties, still of an age where he’d be referred to as “youthful.” He was silver-haired and stocky. His once handsome face had gone soft now along the jawline, though the effect was still nice. While most of the men in the bar were dressed casually, Carl Eckert wore a conservative dark gray herringbone suit, with a light gray shirt and navy wool tie with a grid of light gray. I wound my way among the tables, wondering what the hell I was going to say to him. He saw me headed in his direction and focused on me as I drew within range. “Carl?”
He smiled at me politely. “That’s right.”
“Kinsey Millhone. May I join you?”
I held out my hand. He half rose from his chair and leaned forward courteously, shaking hands with me. His grip was aggressive, the skin on his palm icy cold from his drink. “If you like,” he said. His eyes were blue, and his gaze was unyielding. He gestured toward a chair.
I placed my handbag on the floor and eased onto the seat adjacent to his. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“That depends on what you want.” His smile was pleasant but fleeting and never really reached as far as his eyes.
“It looks like Wendell Jaffe is alive.”
His expression shifted into neutral and his body went still, animation suspended as if from a momentary power loss. For a split second it flashed on me that he might have been in touch with Wendell since his disappearance. He was apparently willing to take my word for it, which saved all the bullshit Dana’d put me through. He assimilated the information, sparing me additional expressions of shock or surprise. There was no hint of denial or disbelief. He seemed to shift into gear again. He reached in his jacket pocket smoothly and took out a pack of cigarettes, his way of stalling until he could figure out what I was up to. He shook several cigarettes into view and held the pack out for my selection.
I shook my head, refusing.
He put a cigarette between his lips. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”
“Not a bit. Go ahead.” Actually I abhor smoking, but I wanted some information and I didn’t think it was the time to voice my prejudice.
He struck a paper match and cupped his hands around the flame. He
Even from the sidewalk down below, I could hear the trumpeting laughter of the heavy drinkers. I climbed the wide wooden steps to the entrance and in through the glass doors. A second set of stairs ascended to the right, and I made my way up toward the smoke and recorded music in the bar above. The room was L-shaped, diners occupying the long arm, drinkers confined to the short, which was just as well. The noise level was oppressive given the fact that most of the dinner crowd had departed and the bar was only half-filled. The floor was carpeted, the entire upper story wrapped in windows that overlooked the Pacific. By day, club members were treated to panoramic ocean views. At night, the black glass threw back smudged reflections, pointing up the need for the rigorous application of Windex. When I reached the maître d’s pulpit, I paused, watching him approach me from across the room.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. I guessed he’d been recently promoted from his job as headwaiter because he held his left arm at an angle, a ready rack for some wine towel he no longer had to tote.
“I’m looking for Carl Eckert. Is he here tonight?”
I saw his gaze flick downward, taking in my scruffy boots, the long skirt, the vest, shoulder bag, and my ill-cut hair, which the sea wind had tossed into moplike perfection. “Is he expecting you?” His tone suggested he’d expect invading Martians first.
I held out a discreetly folded five-dollar bill. “Now he is,” I said.
The fellow slipped the bill in his pocket without checking the denomination, which made me wish I had given him a single. He indicated a gentleman sitting at a window table by himself. I had plenty of time to study him as I crossed the room. I put him in his early fifties, still of an age where he’d be referred to as “youthful.” He was silver-haired and stocky. His once handsome face had gone soft now along the jawline, though the effect was still nice. While most of the men in the bar were dressed casually, Carl Eckert wore a conservative dark gray herringbone suit, with a light gray shirt and navy wool tie with a grid of light gray. I wound my way among the tables, wondering what the hell I was going to say to him. He saw me headed in his direction and focused on me as I drew within range. “Carl?”
He smiled at me politely. “That’s right.”
“Kinsey Millhone. May I join you?”
I held out my hand. He half rose from his chair and leaned forward courteously, shaking hands with me. His grip was aggressive, the skin on his palm icy cold from his drink. “If you like,” he said. His eyes were blue, and his gaze was unyielding. He gestured toward a chair.
I placed my handbag on the floor and eased onto the seat adjacent to his. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“That depends on what you want.” His smile was pleasant but fleeting and never really reached as far as his eyes.
“It looks like Wendell Jaffe is alive.”
His expression shifted into neutral and his body went still, animation suspended as if from a momentary power loss. For a split second it flashed on me that he might have been in touch with Wendell since his disappearance. He was apparently willing to take my word for it, which saved all the bullshit Dana’d put me through. He assimilated the information, sparing me additional expressions of shock or surprise. There was no hint of denial or disbelief. He seemed to shift into gear again. He reached in his jacket pocket smoothly and took out a pack of cigarettes, his way of stalling until he could figure out what I was up to. He shook several cigarettes into view and held the pack out for my selection.
I shook my head, refusing.
He put a cigarette between his lips. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”
“Not a bit. Go ahead.” Actually I abhor smoking, but I wanted some information and I didn’t think it was the time to voice my prejudice.
He struck a paper match and cupped his hands around the flame. He
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