intentions were honorable, that kind of crap. He wanted to go over and talk to the old man in person. It made me sick to see him groveling like that over a woman, but it kind of amused me at the same time. Tom Nash, oblivious to the female species, gaga over some girl.”
Yeah. But that “some girl” was some girl, I wanted to say. I found Cosgrove’s seeming detachment just a little too studied and I was also confused by his contention that Nash and Randolph Talbot had been on speaking terms. If they were, Lydia sure as hell had never known. I’d need to find out more.
I didn’t think I’d get anything else useful out of Cosgrove. I could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind as he sat behind that desk. Everything from here on out was likely to be too self-serving to be useful. I thanked him for his time and stood to go.
“How about dinner?” he asked. “They make a great Cosmopolitan at Papa’s.”
“No thanks,” I told him. “I’m trying to quit.” I was sticking to my guns about red hair, I decided. Especially when it covered a devious mind like his.
He didn’t look too disappointed. He was a serial charmer and had asked out of habit, not desire. Screw him. Or, more to the point, don’t.
I took a look at Cosgrove’s new secretary on the way out. She was plain and plump, with pale stringy hair and a wrinkled blouse that gaped open at the bustline. Guess she’d been too busy ironing his shirts to give her own a glance. She gave me a quick look, toting up whether or not I was competition, then avoided my eyes. I felt bad about it. Her boss had started using her in less than two weeks and I knew she had a lot of heartache ahead of her if she was naive enough to think that Franklin Cosgrove gave a shit about her.
It was early evening and the secretary’s pathetic melancholy proved contagious. Feeling sorry for myself was getting to be a habit. Not even the thought of Bobby D. standing in front of his closet, trying to decide what to wear to a gay bar, could pull me out of my slump. I didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment, but I didn’t feel like having a drink, either. Maybe I needed to get a dog. I’d had one once—for twenty-four hours. Until he had pissed on my rug while stoned out of his gourd. If I wanted to put up with behavior like that, I’d get a steady boyfriend. So I’d found the old mutt a new home. Now I missed the company, wet spot and all.
I opted for a drink as the lesser of all available evils and headed to MacLaine’s to see Jack. MacLaine’s is located on 15-501, about halfway between Chapel Hill and Durham. It was happy hour when I got there, but it didn’t make me any happier. The place was jammed with off-duty nurses and cops, along with the usual office and university employees. I took a spot at the bar near the kitchen door and Jack brought over a Tanqueray and tonic without asking.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “Hard day at the office? You look kind of blue.” He gave me one of his famous smiles in an attempt to cheer me up, but it lacked its usual dazzling magic.
“Hard day at everyone else’s offices,” I told him. “I spent the entire day with a bunch of creeps.”
“You spend your nights with creeps all the time,” he pointed out, teasing me. At least, I hoped he was.
“Yeah, but it’s easier to spot them in the daylight.”
“You need to have a love affair, Casey,” he told me, glancing toward the far end of the bar. “With someone nice, not me. There’s a nice guy down at the other end. Owns a construction company. Not a bullshitter. Big. Smart. Your type.”
“I have a type?” I asked. Maybe if enough people told me that, I’d finally be able to figure out what it was.
“Sure.” He smiled broadly. “Me. But I get this sense I’m wearing thin.”
Poor Jack. He was a good-natured, faithless and basically insecure cad who was human flypaper to babes. He loved them and left them with the speed of a Canadian sprinter.
Yeah. But that “some girl” was some girl, I wanted to say. I found Cosgrove’s seeming detachment just a little too studied and I was also confused by his contention that Nash and Randolph Talbot had been on speaking terms. If they were, Lydia sure as hell had never known. I’d need to find out more.
I didn’t think I’d get anything else useful out of Cosgrove. I could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind as he sat behind that desk. Everything from here on out was likely to be too self-serving to be useful. I thanked him for his time and stood to go.
“How about dinner?” he asked. “They make a great Cosmopolitan at Papa’s.”
“No thanks,” I told him. “I’m trying to quit.” I was sticking to my guns about red hair, I decided. Especially when it covered a devious mind like his.
He didn’t look too disappointed. He was a serial charmer and had asked out of habit, not desire. Screw him. Or, more to the point, don’t.
I took a look at Cosgrove’s new secretary on the way out. She was plain and plump, with pale stringy hair and a wrinkled blouse that gaped open at the bustline. Guess she’d been too busy ironing his shirts to give her own a glance. She gave me a quick look, toting up whether or not I was competition, then avoided my eyes. I felt bad about it. Her boss had started using her in less than two weeks and I knew she had a lot of heartache ahead of her if she was naive enough to think that Franklin Cosgrove gave a shit about her.
It was early evening and the secretary’s pathetic melancholy proved contagious. Feeling sorry for myself was getting to be a habit. Not even the thought of Bobby D. standing in front of his closet, trying to decide what to wear to a gay bar, could pull me out of my slump. I didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment, but I didn’t feel like having a drink, either. Maybe I needed to get a dog. I’d had one once—for twenty-four hours. Until he had pissed on my rug while stoned out of his gourd. If I wanted to put up with behavior like that, I’d get a steady boyfriend. So I’d found the old mutt a new home. Now I missed the company, wet spot and all.
I opted for a drink as the lesser of all available evils and headed to MacLaine’s to see Jack. MacLaine’s is located on 15-501, about halfway between Chapel Hill and Durham. It was happy hour when I got there, but it didn’t make me any happier. The place was jammed with off-duty nurses and cops, along with the usual office and university employees. I took a spot at the bar near the kitchen door and Jack brought over a Tanqueray and tonic without asking.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “Hard day at the office? You look kind of blue.” He gave me one of his famous smiles in an attempt to cheer me up, but it lacked its usual dazzling magic.
“Hard day at everyone else’s offices,” I told him. “I spent the entire day with a bunch of creeps.”
“You spend your nights with creeps all the time,” he pointed out, teasing me. At least, I hoped he was.
“Yeah, but it’s easier to spot them in the daylight.”
“You need to have a love affair, Casey,” he told me, glancing toward the far end of the bar. “With someone nice, not me. There’s a nice guy down at the other end. Owns a construction company. Not a bullshitter. Big. Smart. Your type.”
“I have a type?” I asked. Maybe if enough people told me that, I’d finally be able to figure out what it was.
“Sure.” He smiled broadly. “Me. But I get this sense I’m wearing thin.”
Poor Jack. He was a good-natured, faithless and basically insecure cad who was human flypaper to babes. He loved them and left them with the speed of a Canadian sprinter.
Similar Books
