The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,42

down at her. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “How come I’m so lucky?”

She never knew what to say in answer to his compliments. At first, she suspected he was simply flattering her. But there was sincerity and honesty about this man, and she could read truth in his eyes. Whatever her shortcomings, she felt this man honestly believed she was beautiful, and witty, and vivacious.

“I’ll get an umbrella,” she said.

“We don’t need one,” he answered. “It’s a nice rain, Pris, warm. Do you mind? I like to walk in the rain. I’d like to walk in the rain with you.”

“Whatever you say,” she answered. She looked up at him. I must look like a complete idiot, she thought. He must surely see adoration in my eyes. He must think I’m a stupid child instead of a grown woman. “Where…where are we going tonight?” she asked.

“A wonderful place for dinner,” he said. “We have a lot of talking to do.”

“Talking?”

“Yes,” he said. He saw the frown on her face, and his eyes twinkled. His fingers touched her forehead, smoothing out the frown. “Stop looking so serious,” he chided. “Don’t you know I love you?”

“Do you?” she asked, and there was fear in her eyes for a moment.

Then he pulled her to him and said, “Of course, I love you, Pris. Pris, I love you,” and the fear vanished.

She buried her head in his shoulder, and there was a small smile of contentment on her mouth.

They walked in the rain.

It was, as he had promised, a warm rain. It touched the city gently. It roved the concrete canyons like a wistful maiden looking for her lost lover. It spoke in whispers, spoke to the buildings and the gutters and the park benches deserted and alone, and it spoke to the new green of the trees and to the growing things pushing to the sky, pushing through the warm, moist earth. It spoke in syllables as old as time, and it spoke to Priscilla and her man, spoke to two lovers who threaded their way across the city arm in arm, cradled in the warmth of the song of the rain.

He shook out his trench coat when they entered the restaurant. There was a pretty redheaded hatcheck girl, and he handed her his coat, and she smiled up at him, somewhat dazed by his good looks. But he turned from her without returning her smile, and he helped Priscilla out of her coat and then slung it over his arm and looked for the headwaiter.

The waiter led the couple to a table in the corner of the restaurant. The floors were decorated with a huge checkerboard tile in black and white. The walls were done in rich Italian mosaic, and clerestory windows threw the mottled light of dusk into the room. A candle burned brightly in the center of the round marble table. From somewhere near the bar, Pris heard the screech of a parrot. She craned her neck, looking past the tiers of huge apothecary jars filled with colored liquids—purples and reds and oranges and yellows and bright, vivid, living greens.

“Would you like to order now, sir?” the headwaiter asked.

“Some drinks first,” he replied. “Rémy Martin for me,” he said. “Pris?”

She was lost in the way he pronounced the drink, giving it the proper French twist. “What?” she asked.

“Something to drink?” he said, smiling.

“A whiskey sour,” she said.

“Yes, miss,” the headwaiter said. “A whiskey sour for the lady, and what was it for the gentleman, please?”

He looked up at the headwaiter, and for a moment, there was unmasked impatience in his eyes. And then, with something akin to cruelty, he viciously said, “Reeeeeemy Martin,” pronouncing the words like a guttersnipe.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” the headwaiter said, and he bowed away from the table.

Priscilla watched her man, fascinated by his boldness and his quickness and his sureness.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” she asked.

“First, the drinks,” he said smiling. “Do you like this place?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful. It’s so different. There aren’t any places like this in Phoenix.”

“This is the most marvelous city in the world,” he told her. “It’s the only city that’s really alive. And if you’re in love, there’s no place that can come near it. Even Paris. Paris is touted as the spot for lovers, but nothing can beat this city.”

“Have you been to Paris?”

“I was there during the war,” he said. “I was a commando.”

“Wasn’t that terribly dangerous?” she asked, feeling a foolish dread and knowing that the