know where you get these ideas,” Trace said.
“Have it your own way,” Chico said with a lighthearted shrug of the shoulders. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
They fell silent when the waiter came with their food. There were two appetizers, a shrimp cocktail and fried mushrooms.
“The shrimp cocktail goes to Madame?” the waiter asked.
Chico nodded. The waiter put down the plate, then stepped over to put the mushrooms in front of Trace.
“I’ll have those too,” Chico said. “He’s on a diet,” she explained.
“Very good, ma’am,” the waiter said, setting down the dish.
After he left, Trace said, “So just what do you have to base that ridiculous theory on?”
“If I start to answer you, you’re going to complain that I’m talking with my mouth full again.”
“I will not.”
“You always do.”
“This time I won’t,” Trace promised. “Talk. Eat but talk.”
“Okay. Yesterday at the Plaza, when Sarge mentioned that woman’s name—what’s her name, Martha?—I saw his face. I saw right away from the look on his face.”
“What kind of a look?” Trace asked.
“It wasn’t a macho look,” Chico said. “That’s what you’d usually see with some guy when an old flame’s name was mentioned. It’s the way men are. They always talk about being able to keep secrets, but what they mean is that they don’t say anything. They don’t have to. Their faces give everything away. Everybody knows everybody that any man has ever slept with. That’s a fact and that’s the way men are. You too. I always know. But Sarge is…well, he’s a better man than most. There was kind of an embarrassed look on his face when her name came up, maybe a little guilty. It was different, but it was just as foolproof. He and whatever her name is were a thing, sometime, somewhere. I’ve seen that look two hundred times.”
“Got guilt on his face? He ought to have guilt on his face. If you’re right, he was cheating on my mother.”
“Hey, pardner, save that,” Chico said. “I’ve met your mother. I’d be on Sarge’s side for anything up to and including homicide. Want a shrimp?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said as she plunked the last in her mouth and pulled the plate of mushrooms toward her. “I’m going to ask you now if you want a mushroom.”
“I don’t,” Trace said. “You’ve just told me that my father is a philanderer and now you’re trying to talk me into a mushroom?”
“One. I didn’t say that Sarge is a philanderer. I said he had an affair with Mrs. Armitage. Two. I want to know now if you want a mushroom because I know you and you’ll ask for one just when I have only one left and I hate to give the last one away.”
“I won’t ask for any,” Trace said. “You’re sure, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure. It’s my special field of study,” she said. “And today, that whole act in the office—plants, clean cups, sweep—what do you think that was all about?”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Trace said.
“It’s not for you to like or not like. What the hell’s wrong with you? Did you think you were the product of immaculate conception? Don’t you think your father ever crawled into the sack with anybody?”
“I don’t have your cavalier attitude toward extramarital sex, I guess,” he said.
She sputtered mushroom bits over the table. “You sanctimonious hypocrite,” she said. “I can give you the names of at least a dozen married women you have bopped in the last twelve months.”
“That was different,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not my father.”
“I give up,” she said.
“You’re spoiling my meal. What did you order for me anyway?”
“A grilled cheese sandwich.”
“I hope you didn’t get tomato on it. I hate tomato on grilled cheese. Only Philistines mix tomatoes and cheese.”
“No tomato.”
“What are you having?” he asked.
“I’m having a steak and things.”
“Okay. Let’s stick to food and drop
“Have it your own way,” Chico said with a lighthearted shrug of the shoulders. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
They fell silent when the waiter came with their food. There were two appetizers, a shrimp cocktail and fried mushrooms.
“The shrimp cocktail goes to Madame?” the waiter asked.
Chico nodded. The waiter put down the plate, then stepped over to put the mushrooms in front of Trace.
“I’ll have those too,” Chico said. “He’s on a diet,” she explained.
“Very good, ma’am,” the waiter said, setting down the dish.
After he left, Trace said, “So just what do you have to base that ridiculous theory on?”
“If I start to answer you, you’re going to complain that I’m talking with my mouth full again.”
“I will not.”
“You always do.”
“This time I won’t,” Trace promised. “Talk. Eat but talk.”
“Okay. Yesterday at the Plaza, when Sarge mentioned that woman’s name—what’s her name, Martha?—I saw his face. I saw right away from the look on his face.”
“What kind of a look?” Trace asked.
“It wasn’t a macho look,” Chico said. “That’s what you’d usually see with some guy when an old flame’s name was mentioned. It’s the way men are. They always talk about being able to keep secrets, but what they mean is that they don’t say anything. They don’t have to. Their faces give everything away. Everybody knows everybody that any man has ever slept with. That’s a fact and that’s the way men are. You too. I always know. But Sarge is…well, he’s a better man than most. There was kind of an embarrassed look on his face when her name came up, maybe a little guilty. It was different, but it was just as foolproof. He and whatever her name is were a thing, sometime, somewhere. I’ve seen that look two hundred times.”
“Got guilt on his face? He ought to have guilt on his face. If you’re right, he was cheating on my mother.”
“Hey, pardner, save that,” Chico said. “I’ve met your mother. I’d be on Sarge’s side for anything up to and including homicide. Want a shrimp?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said as she plunked the last in her mouth and pulled the plate of mushrooms toward her. “I’m going to ask you now if you want a mushroom.”
“I don’t,” Trace said. “You’ve just told me that my father is a philanderer and now you’re trying to talk me into a mushroom?”
“One. I didn’t say that Sarge is a philanderer. I said he had an affair with Mrs. Armitage. Two. I want to know now if you want a mushroom because I know you and you’ll ask for one just when I have only one left and I hate to give the last one away.”
“I won’t ask for any,” Trace said. “You’re sure, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure. It’s my special field of study,” she said. “And today, that whole act in the office—plants, clean cups, sweep—what do you think that was all about?”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Trace said.
“It’s not for you to like or not like. What the hell’s wrong with you? Did you think you were the product of immaculate conception? Don’t you think your father ever crawled into the sack with anybody?”
“I don’t have your cavalier attitude toward extramarital sex, I guess,” he said.
She sputtered mushroom bits over the table. “You sanctimonious hypocrite,” she said. “I can give you the names of at least a dozen married women you have bopped in the last twelve months.”
“That was different,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not my father.”
“I give up,” she said.
“You’re spoiling my meal. What did you order for me anyway?”
“A grilled cheese sandwich.”
“I hope you didn’t get tomato on it. I hate tomato on grilled cheese. Only Philistines mix tomatoes and cheese.”
“No tomato.”
“What are you having?” he asked.
“I’m having a steak and things.”
“Okay. Let’s stick to food and drop
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