here at 2:48 A.M. in the morning?" she asked Arlo. He said nothing. She rolled down the window. "Can any body tell me what I'm doing here at this dumb hour with a very possibly axe murderer and rapist?" she screamed into the night.
There was no answer.
Helluva sense of whimsy , Arlo mused, edging closer.
"Tell me about yourself," Arlo gambited.
"This theatrical pose I wear is merely a snare and a delusion. I am, in reality, Anastasia, true Czarina of all the Russias, and I'm wearing a plastic nose. My father was Lamont Cranston, and he met an untimely end via the worst case of Dutch Elm Blight ever diagnosed at Johns Hopkins. He contracted it from Lupe Velez during a mad, passionate night deep in the heart of Mt. Etna, where my father was conducting guided tours. I am engaged to a Doberman Pinscher."
Helluva sense of whimsy , Arlo mused, edging closer.
"Stop edging closer," she suggested violently.
"Look!" Arlo said, "Here comes one."
The Boeing 707 came out of the night like Sinbad's roc, screaming shrilly, and Anastasia screamed shriller.
The great silvery bulk of it, totally obscuring the sky, sailed out of the blackness mere feet above them, all vastness and terror, like a flat stone two blocks long, skimmed over water, and shred their silences past them. The 707 touched down almost as soon as it passed over them, and an instant later was a half mile down the runway.
Anastasia had pulled closer to Arlo. She was now wrapped in his arms.
"Scary, isn't it?" Arlo smiled.
"I wet myself," she said. She did not seem delighted with Arlo.
He leaned across slightly and kissed her. "Easy," she said, inserting an elbow into the conversation. "And that's an order, not a description."
Progress! thought Arlo. "We'd better be getting back."
He started the car and made a U-turn.
"That was a helluva whimsical thing you said, when the plane passed over," Arlo chuckled.
"Which?"
"About what you did when the plane—
"It was a statement of fact."
•
At Arlo's apartment, after she had hung things up to dry, he offered her an omelet. "I can make seven different varieties, all delicious."
She aimed a finger at him. "You're lucky I share an apartment with a light sleeper, because underwear or no underwear, I wouldn't have let you con me into coming up here."
"Spanish, Viennese, Ranch-style, Albanian—"
"You have an indomitable will. Nothing seems to get to you. Brick walls and your head have much in common."
"Corsican, Paraguayan—"
"Look: I'm very hungry, mostly because you had the bad taste to remind me, and I'd like nothing better than a good omelet; but when I say nothing better, I mean exactly that. You are still a casual pickup, even though for some nutty reason we have managed to travel along this far together and my bikini briefs are drying over your shower curtain. Does my message penetrate?"
Arlo grinned infectiously. "Like a call from the spirit world. My father taught me. He was a master chef in New York hotels most of his life, except for a couple of years when he was captaining the kitchen of a luxury liner. Spanish, Corsican, Tibetan, German-Bavarian—"
She sat down on the arm of an overstuffed Morris chair, courtesy of the landlord. She pulled his blue bathrobe closer around her. A flash of leg reminded him there was nothing between them but the robe. "You know, Arlo, I have to tell you, concisely, I think you are the bummest trip I have ever been on. Not only are you funny looking, but there is a perceptible animal cunning in your face, and very frankly, but nothing could get me to go to bed with you, so forget the whole idea right now, How the hell do you make an Albanian omelet?"
Any second now, she'll notice them , Arlo gloated.
He moved in and kissed her. It was an act of humor on his part, an act of politeness on hers. "Now that we have that out of the way," he smiled, "one Albanian omelet coming up."
He vanished into the utility kitchen, tiny for the white stucco unit (furniture courtesy of
There was no answer.
Helluva sense of whimsy , Arlo mused, edging closer.
"Tell me about yourself," Arlo gambited.
"This theatrical pose I wear is merely a snare and a delusion. I am, in reality, Anastasia, true Czarina of all the Russias, and I'm wearing a plastic nose. My father was Lamont Cranston, and he met an untimely end via the worst case of Dutch Elm Blight ever diagnosed at Johns Hopkins. He contracted it from Lupe Velez during a mad, passionate night deep in the heart of Mt. Etna, where my father was conducting guided tours. I am engaged to a Doberman Pinscher."
Helluva sense of whimsy , Arlo mused, edging closer.
"Stop edging closer," she suggested violently.
"Look!" Arlo said, "Here comes one."
The Boeing 707 came out of the night like Sinbad's roc, screaming shrilly, and Anastasia screamed shriller.
The great silvery bulk of it, totally obscuring the sky, sailed out of the blackness mere feet above them, all vastness and terror, like a flat stone two blocks long, skimmed over water, and shred their silences past them. The 707 touched down almost as soon as it passed over them, and an instant later was a half mile down the runway.
Anastasia had pulled closer to Arlo. She was now wrapped in his arms.
"Scary, isn't it?" Arlo smiled.
"I wet myself," she said. She did not seem delighted with Arlo.
He leaned across slightly and kissed her. "Easy," she said, inserting an elbow into the conversation. "And that's an order, not a description."
Progress! thought Arlo. "We'd better be getting back."
He started the car and made a U-turn.
"That was a helluva whimsical thing you said, when the plane passed over," Arlo chuckled.
"Which?"
"About what you did when the plane—
"It was a statement of fact."
•
At Arlo's apartment, after she had hung things up to dry, he offered her an omelet. "I can make seven different varieties, all delicious."
She aimed a finger at him. "You're lucky I share an apartment with a light sleeper, because underwear or no underwear, I wouldn't have let you con me into coming up here."
"Spanish, Viennese, Ranch-style, Albanian—"
"You have an indomitable will. Nothing seems to get to you. Brick walls and your head have much in common."
"Corsican, Paraguayan—"
"Look: I'm very hungry, mostly because you had the bad taste to remind me, and I'd like nothing better than a good omelet; but when I say nothing better, I mean exactly that. You are still a casual pickup, even though for some nutty reason we have managed to travel along this far together and my bikini briefs are drying over your shower curtain. Does my message penetrate?"
Arlo grinned infectiously. "Like a call from the spirit world. My father taught me. He was a master chef in New York hotels most of his life, except for a couple of years when he was captaining the kitchen of a luxury liner. Spanish, Corsican, Tibetan, German-Bavarian—"
She sat down on the arm of an overstuffed Morris chair, courtesy of the landlord. She pulled his blue bathrobe closer around her. A flash of leg reminded him there was nothing between them but the robe. "You know, Arlo, I have to tell you, concisely, I think you are the bummest trip I have ever been on. Not only are you funny looking, but there is a perceptible animal cunning in your face, and very frankly, but nothing could get me to go to bed with you, so forget the whole idea right now, How the hell do you make an Albanian omelet?"
Any second now, she'll notice them , Arlo gloated.
He moved in and kissed her. It was an act of humor on his part, an act of politeness on hers. "Now that we have that out of the way," he smiled, "one Albanian omelet coming up."
He vanished into the utility kitchen, tiny for the white stucco unit (furniture courtesy of
Similar Books
