this 'Alcoholic's Delight' at our AA meetings. So here's an 'Alcoholic's Delight' toast to talent—wherever it is. May it long endure."
Anne nodded. "You know Charles Grodin, the actor? He wrote a book about acting and he made the same point. He said that he was successful just because he'd hung in there all those years, determined to make it. But he said that a lot of actors he worked with, people he said were a lot more talented than he is, dropped out because they couldn't take all the rejection or they had families to feed."
Dinner came and it was just as good as Cobey had promised.
Toward the end of the meal, the girl singer came back, shimmering in her tight, blue gown, her blonde hair giving her a Veronica Lake type of sultry beauty.
This time, she chose songs from later in the decade and into the early fifties, just before rock-and-roll took over the record business forevermore. She did "Red Sails in the Sunset," and "Nature Boy," and "Tennessee Waltz" and "Three Coins in the Fountain," and charmed the asses off, everybody listening to her, including one young busboy who was so obviously entranced by her beauty that he stared at her with beatific lust.
T here were only two people in the nightclub not paying any attention to the singer. One was the maitre d', a stuffy Polish fellow who hoped that his black tuxedo gave him a continental look, and a kind of dumpy man in a dramatic trench coat who was showing the maitre d' his identification.
"You're a policeman?" the man whispered.
"Cozzens," the man whispered back. "Now where is he? His hotel told me he was here."
The maitre d' frowned. It was not often that the restaurant entertained bona fide TV stars. They finally got one—and one no less a personage than Cobey Daniels, who was about to get another network TV show—and what happens?
A frigging cop, all dressed up like Mike Hammer, comes in and wants to spoil everything.
And just why would a Chicago cop be interested in Cobey Daniels, anyway?
But what choice did the maitre d' have?
He raised a plump hand and pointed it to the east wall of the place and said, "There."
"Thank you," Cozzens whispered back.
And set off to talk to Cobey Daniels.
A t first, Cobey saw the guy only peripherally, too busy drinking in the chanteuse to pay any attention to anybody else.
Veronica had rightly suspected that Cobey was becoming seriously enamored of the girl singer. He was trying to get a better look at the way her breasts moved beneath the sequined gown, of the gentle but erotic way her mouth widened when she reached for a high note, of the tender but sexy way her hands moved in the spotlit darkness. It was a marijuana dream of lust...
Until he saw the guy moving toward the table, that is, and then it all ended, because Cobey had had enough trouble with cops over the years to spot one immediately. For one thing, only a real cop could get away with wearing a dork-o- rama trench coat like that...
And for another
For another... Cobey had never been made to face what happened in Beth's apartment five nights earlier...
Images: brutally severed head inside refrigerator, blood pooling on the floor.
Images: Cobey at trial...DA parading all of Cobey's sins past the jury...including that incident with the fourteen-year-old girl in Florida.
Images: Cobey in reeking, steamy shower room...two beefy, naked queens moving toward him, shark grins on their faces...ready to divide the spoils.
Cobey started to get up from his seat just as the trench coat arrived...
P uckett made him right off, too. Cop. More specifically, detective.
Coming here. Now.
Puckett saw the way Cobey writhed in his seat. Scared.
Puckett wondered what Cobey had to be scared about.
And, just then, the girl singer ended her performance. This time, the ovation was so generous it probably got the club owner to double the singer's money.
Lights came up. Red-jacketed waiters scooted about. The detective came over and said, "Evening,
Anne nodded. "You know Charles Grodin, the actor? He wrote a book about acting and he made the same point. He said that he was successful just because he'd hung in there all those years, determined to make it. But he said that a lot of actors he worked with, people he said were a lot more talented than he is, dropped out because they couldn't take all the rejection or they had families to feed."
Dinner came and it was just as good as Cobey had promised.
Toward the end of the meal, the girl singer came back, shimmering in her tight, blue gown, her blonde hair giving her a Veronica Lake type of sultry beauty.
This time, she chose songs from later in the decade and into the early fifties, just before rock-and-roll took over the record business forevermore. She did "Red Sails in the Sunset," and "Nature Boy," and "Tennessee Waltz" and "Three Coins in the Fountain," and charmed the asses off, everybody listening to her, including one young busboy who was so obviously entranced by her beauty that he stared at her with beatific lust.
T here were only two people in the nightclub not paying any attention to the singer. One was the maitre d', a stuffy Polish fellow who hoped that his black tuxedo gave him a continental look, and a kind of dumpy man in a dramatic trench coat who was showing the maitre d' his identification.
"You're a policeman?" the man whispered.
"Cozzens," the man whispered back. "Now where is he? His hotel told me he was here."
The maitre d' frowned. It was not often that the restaurant entertained bona fide TV stars. They finally got one—and one no less a personage than Cobey Daniels, who was about to get another network TV show—and what happens?
A frigging cop, all dressed up like Mike Hammer, comes in and wants to spoil everything.
And just why would a Chicago cop be interested in Cobey Daniels, anyway?
But what choice did the maitre d' have?
He raised a plump hand and pointed it to the east wall of the place and said, "There."
"Thank you," Cozzens whispered back.
And set off to talk to Cobey Daniels.
A t first, Cobey saw the guy only peripherally, too busy drinking in the chanteuse to pay any attention to anybody else.
Veronica had rightly suspected that Cobey was becoming seriously enamored of the girl singer. He was trying to get a better look at the way her breasts moved beneath the sequined gown, of the gentle but erotic way her mouth widened when she reached for a high note, of the tender but sexy way her hands moved in the spotlit darkness. It was a marijuana dream of lust...
Until he saw the guy moving toward the table, that is, and then it all ended, because Cobey had had enough trouble with cops over the years to spot one immediately. For one thing, only a real cop could get away with wearing a dork-o- rama trench coat like that...
And for another
For another... Cobey had never been made to face what happened in Beth's apartment five nights earlier...
Images: brutally severed head inside refrigerator, blood pooling on the floor.
Images: Cobey at trial...DA parading all of Cobey's sins past the jury...including that incident with the fourteen-year-old girl in Florida.
Images: Cobey in reeking, steamy shower room...two beefy, naked queens moving toward him, shark grins on their faces...ready to divide the spoils.
Cobey started to get up from his seat just as the trench coat arrived...
P uckett made him right off, too. Cop. More specifically, detective.
Coming here. Now.
Puckett saw the way Cobey writhed in his seat. Scared.
Puckett wondered what Cobey had to be scared about.
And, just then, the girl singer ended her performance. This time, the ovation was so generous it probably got the club owner to double the singer's money.
Lights came up. Red-jacketed waiters scooted about. The detective came over and said, "Evening,
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