The Con Man by Ed McBain Page B

in Chinese restaurants.” He paused and grinned. “All this eating talk is making me hungry. How about that place up the street?”
    They walked to it rapidly, and Carella looked through the plateglass window.
    “Not too crowded,” he said, “and it looks clean. You game?”
    Teddy took his arm, and he led her into the place.
    It was, perhaps, not the cleanest place in the world. As sharp as Carella’s eyes were, a cursory glance through a plateglass window is not always a good evaluation of cleanliness. And, perhaps, the reason it wasn’t too crowded was that the food wasn’t too good. Not that it mattered very much, since both Carella and Teddy were really very hungry and probably would have eaten sautéed grasshoppers if they were served.
    The place did have nice checkered tablecloths and candles stuck into the necks of old wine bottles, the wax frozen to the glass. The place did have a long bar, which ran the length of the wall opposite the dining room, bottles stacked behind it, amber lights illuminating the bottles. The place did have a phone booth, and Carella still had to make his call back to the squad.
    The waiter who came over to their table seemed happy to see them.
    “Something to drink before you order?” he asked.
    “Two martinis,” Carella said. “Olives.”
    “Would you care to see a menu now or later, sir?”
    “Might as well look at it now,” Carella said. The waiter brought them two menus. Carella glanced at his briefly and then put it down. “I’m bucking for a divorce,” he said. “I’ll have spaghetti.”
    While Teddy scanned the menu, Carella looked around the room. An elderly couple was quietly eating at a table near the phone booth. There was no one else in the dining room. At the bar, a man in a leather jacket sat with a shot glass and a glass of water before him. The man was looking into the bar mirror. His eyes were on Teddy. Behind the bar, the bartender was mixing the martinis Carella had ordered.
    “I’m so damn hungry I could eat the bartender,” Carella said.
    When the waiter came with their drinks, he ordered spaghetti for himself and then asked Teddy what she wanted. Teddy pointed to the lasagna dish on the menu, and Carella gave it to the waiter. When the waiter was gone, they picked up their glasses.
    “Here’s to ships that come in,” Carella said.
    Teddy stared at him, puzzled.
    “All loaded with treasures from the east,” he went on, “smelling of rich spices, with golden sails.”
    She was still staring at him, still puzzled.
    “I’m drinking to you, darling,” he explained. He watched the smile form on her mouth. “Poetic cops this city can do without,” he said, and he sipped at the martini and then put the glass down. “I want to call the squad, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.” He touched her hand briefly and then went toward the phone booth, digging in his pocket for change as he walked away from the table.
    She watched him walk from her, pleased with the long athletic strides he took, pleased with the impatience of his hand as it dug for change, pleased with the way he held his head. She realized abruptly that one of the first things that had attracted her to Carella was the way he moved. There was an economy and simplicity of motion about him, a sense of directness. You got the feeling that before he moved he knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, and so there was a tremendous sense of security attached to being with him.
    Teddy sipped at the martini and then took a long swallow. She had not eaten since noon, and so she was not surprised by the rapidity with which the martini worked its alcoholic wonders. She watched her husband enter the phone booth, watched as he dialed quickly. She wondered how he would speak to the desk sergeant and then to the detective who was catching in the squadroom. Would they know he’d been talking of treasure ships just a few moments before? What kind of a cop was he? What did the other