about Dana. But Dana was actually more his type.
The two girls looked a little alike. The girl with the honey-blonde hair and the cast on her wrist and the perfect body reminded me some of Lauren Bacall. I knew with one look she was out of my league.
But the girl with the long dark hair wearing the glasses and the India cotton blouse and the long maroon skirt and sandals, different story.
“What do you think, Mr. McPherson?” said Patrick. “Would it not be correct and proper to venture over and make our new travelling companions welcome?”
I told him to keep his one-eyed bandit behind bars. I suddenly had the sweats and my hands were all greasy and some goose had laid an egg in the back of my throat.
I always have this problem with opening lines. And Dave’s no help. I’ve tried some of his and they’ve gone over about as well as a stripper at a Baptist picnic.
Patrick pointed out that Jenkins was already beating a path in their direction, which he was.
“That’s because he knows them,” I said. “One of them’s his girl friend.”
Patrick looked at me. “You’re a veritable fount of information, aren’t you, Mr. McPherson?”
“Yep, that’s me,” I said, taking a huge swig of wine to get rid of that dryness in my throat. “Now pay up.”
Patrick reluctantly pulled eight thousand lire out of his wallet and gave it to me.
I was sure glad to see it was the blonde that Jenkins hugged and kissed and not the brunette.
Me and Patrick did wander over to where they were sitting, eventually, after the chicken was just gristle and bones and Jenkins and the girls had time to get reacquainted.
By that time, Suzie and Dana had already moved in as well, and for a while there, naturally, the introductions were flying like lovesick geese. And when I gave Kelly my standard, how ya doin’, call me Mick number, our eyes met, and there was more than just a little tingle of chemistry there. I felt it. It was like I’d stuck a pin in an electric socket.
Kelly felt it too. She told me so later.
For the record, her eyes were brown. Which was perfect. I’ve never dated a blue-eyed woman in my life. Don’t know why, it’s just one of those things.
Jenkins and Charole took off somewhere fairly quickly to have what looked like a serious heart-to-heart, which left Kelly as the centre of attention. Which made her uncomfortable as hell, I could tell.
She explained that Charole had that cast on because she fell off a bike in Hyde Park and she did some talking about the hitch-hiking she and Charole had done down through Europe—they ran into a French pervert along the way, she said, who exposed himself to Charole while he was driving —and I just sat there, drinking in every word—she had a great voice, kind of soft and husky—and I’m not sure if it was her voice or that Italian rough red, but I ended up getting kind of drunk. Actually I was knocking back that rough red like it was Perrier. I love Perrier, and I can blame Hasheeba for that. She used to make this great drink, gin and Perrier and Blue Curacao, which she served in a champagne saucer and called a Tidy Bowl.
I didn’t say much until Kelly told us what she used to do, which was work with autistic kids in Great Falls, Montana. She mentioned how some of the autistic kids were able to throw her thoughts back at her as though they were psychic. I said, right out of the blue, I guess because I was drunk, “Oh, well, maybe that means I’m autistic.”
She said, “Pardon?”
By this time it was almost dark and there was a candle on the table, throwing nice shadows around her face.
I wouldn’t call it a beautiful face, exactly, but it had this nice healthy glow. Maybe it was her aura. Like I maybe mentioned before, Dave lets me see auras every once in a while, and when he showed me Kelly’s, think it was in Sivas, it was a nice banana yellow, with little prisms dancing around the edges of her skull.
I said, “Well, I’m a little psychic myself, I
The two girls looked a little alike. The girl with the honey-blonde hair and the cast on her wrist and the perfect body reminded me some of Lauren Bacall. I knew with one look she was out of my league.
But the girl with the long dark hair wearing the glasses and the India cotton blouse and the long maroon skirt and sandals, different story.
“What do you think, Mr. McPherson?” said Patrick. “Would it not be correct and proper to venture over and make our new travelling companions welcome?”
I told him to keep his one-eyed bandit behind bars. I suddenly had the sweats and my hands were all greasy and some goose had laid an egg in the back of my throat.
I always have this problem with opening lines. And Dave’s no help. I’ve tried some of his and they’ve gone over about as well as a stripper at a Baptist picnic.
Patrick pointed out that Jenkins was already beating a path in their direction, which he was.
“That’s because he knows them,” I said. “One of them’s his girl friend.”
Patrick looked at me. “You’re a veritable fount of information, aren’t you, Mr. McPherson?”
“Yep, that’s me,” I said, taking a huge swig of wine to get rid of that dryness in my throat. “Now pay up.”
Patrick reluctantly pulled eight thousand lire out of his wallet and gave it to me.
I was sure glad to see it was the blonde that Jenkins hugged and kissed and not the brunette.
Me and Patrick did wander over to where they were sitting, eventually, after the chicken was just gristle and bones and Jenkins and the girls had time to get reacquainted.
By that time, Suzie and Dana had already moved in as well, and for a while there, naturally, the introductions were flying like lovesick geese. And when I gave Kelly my standard, how ya doin’, call me Mick number, our eyes met, and there was more than just a little tingle of chemistry there. I felt it. It was like I’d stuck a pin in an electric socket.
Kelly felt it too. She told me so later.
For the record, her eyes were brown. Which was perfect. I’ve never dated a blue-eyed woman in my life. Don’t know why, it’s just one of those things.
Jenkins and Charole took off somewhere fairly quickly to have what looked like a serious heart-to-heart, which left Kelly as the centre of attention. Which made her uncomfortable as hell, I could tell.
She explained that Charole had that cast on because she fell off a bike in Hyde Park and she did some talking about the hitch-hiking she and Charole had done down through Europe—they ran into a French pervert along the way, she said, who exposed himself to Charole while he was driving —and I just sat there, drinking in every word—she had a great voice, kind of soft and husky—and I’m not sure if it was her voice or that Italian rough red, but I ended up getting kind of drunk. Actually I was knocking back that rough red like it was Perrier. I love Perrier, and I can blame Hasheeba for that. She used to make this great drink, gin and Perrier and Blue Curacao, which she served in a champagne saucer and called a Tidy Bowl.
I didn’t say much until Kelly told us what she used to do, which was work with autistic kids in Great Falls, Montana. She mentioned how some of the autistic kids were able to throw her thoughts back at her as though they were psychic. I said, right out of the blue, I guess because I was drunk, “Oh, well, maybe that means I’m autistic.”
She said, “Pardon?”
By this time it was almost dark and there was a candle on the table, throwing nice shadows around her face.
I wouldn’t call it a beautiful face, exactly, but it had this nice healthy glow. Maybe it was her aura. Like I maybe mentioned before, Dave lets me see auras every once in a while, and when he showed me Kelly’s, think it was in Sivas, it was a nice banana yellow, with little prisms dancing around the edges of her skull.
I said, “Well, I’m a little psychic myself, I
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