Kill Me Tomorrow by Richard S. Prather Page B

Mr.—what’s your name? Vivian? I’ll call you Viv—”
    â€œThe hell you will. It’s Shell. Shell Scott.”
    â€œMr.—Shell. I didn’t know you were a friend of his .”
    â€œWhat’s so great about him?”
    She was still kneading and doodling with my hand, and then she pulled it toward her and pressed it artlessly against the front of her dress, which of course was also the front of her, and said, “I’d never have talked like that to you if I’d known you were a friend of Paul’s. Can you ever forgive me?”
    â€œI probably could. Yeah, I think I could.”
    Paul glanced around, poked the air with a long index finger. “Couple leaving that table, Shell. Grab it and I’ll join you in a trice. Which is approximately four and a half hours.”
    I probably wouldn’t have left in time, except that Janelle let go of my hand. She even gave it a little push. I suppose by then she figured she’d have to push it a little if she wanted it to go away.
    I got to the table just as it was vacated by a very happy—very drunk—young couple. Harriette tripped over and, while smilingly evading her questions about Lucrezia Brizante, I ordered two bourbon-and-waters. If Paul didn’t get here I could always force myself to drink both of them.
    He joined me in less than three minutes, however. I actually saw him whisper in Janelle’s delicate ear, then take a key from his pocket and slip it to her. She slid off the stool and bounced smiling out of the bar.
    Paul sat down, swallowed a third of his highball, and said, “Tell me everything. Was it Lucrezia Brizante?”
    I told him as little as possible about Lucrezia. But over our drinks I did tell him the rest of it—Lecci, Jimmy Ryan, coming within a hair of getting killed.
    â€œYou mean you haven’t even kissed her yet?” he asked when I’d finished.
    â€œPaul, can’t you think of the finer things in life? Cleanliness, goodness, exercise, like that? This girl is a shining star, a girl who honors her father and mother and … well, honors a little too much, maybe.” I paused. “I shook hands with her.”
    â€œThat’s the stuff,” he said, as Vera walked by. He caught her eye, and when he said, “Couple more bourbon highs, dear?” with his face lit up like a lighthouse lamp, she smiled and buzzed off and zipped back with two more highballs.
    By the time we finished them Paul had told me about his last few days in L.A., and much of his day here, including the first lectures of the convention. He’d been in the convention hall from eight P . M . till ten—but hadn’t wasted a lot of time after that, apparently.
    â€œDamndest thing,” he said. “The first medical papers and demonstrations won’t be presented till tomorrow, and that’s mainly what I came up here for. But I’m glad I didn’t miss the show tonight. Nearly the entire program was on applications of the laser.” He paused, swallowed some of his drink, and eyed me. “You know what lasers are?”
    â€œNo,” I said stuffily. “Not lasers, or masers, or atoms, or molecules, or flashlights—”
    He raised an eyebrow, then the other one. “You may think you know what a laser is, but you do not, you simply do not, my ignorant friend. You may know that laser is an acronym for light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation, which describes a concentrated source of coherent light all of the same wavelength, and you may realize that with lasers men can drill holes through little jewels and also bounce signals off the moon and make holograms, and you may be vaguely aware that men even now perform delicate retinoneural surgery—weld eyeballs, to you—and even more delicate microsurgery on single cells, and do other exciting things such as etching halftone plates and fixing decayed teeth. But you do not