She said nothing, but he could read her expression. She disagreed with his view, but was not willing to quarrel with him about it.
‘Anyway, I have a Russian half-brother, illegitimate like me,’ Greg went on. ‘His name is Vladimir, but I don’t know anything else about him. He may be dead by now. He’s the right age to fight. He’s probably one of those three and a half million.’ He turned the page.
When he had finished the paper, he read the message the waiter had brought.
It was from Jacky Jakes. It gave a phone number and just said:
Suddenly Greg could not wait to get rid of Rita. ‘What time are you expected home?’ he asked unsubtly.
She looked at her watch. ‘Oh, my gosh, I should be there before my mother starts looking for me.’ She had told her parents she was staying over with a girlfriend.
They got dressed together and left in two cabs.
Greg figured the phone number must be Jacky’s place of work, and that she would be busy between one o’clock and three. He would phone her around mid-morning.
He wondered why he was so excited. After all, he was only curious. Rita Lawrence was great-looking and very sexy, but with her and several others he had never recaptured the excitement of that first affair with Jacky. No doubt that was because he could never again be fifteen years old.
He got to the Old Executive Office building and began his main task for the day, which was drafting a press release on advice to Americans living in North Africa, where British, Italians and Germans fought backwards and forwards, mostly on a coastal strip two thousand miles long and forty miles wide.
At ten-thirty he phoned the number on the message.
A woman’s voice answered: ‘University Women’s Club.’ Greg had never been there: men went only as guests of female members.
He said: ‘Is Jacky Jakes there?’
‘Yes, she’s expecting a call. Please hold on.’ She probably had to get special permission to receive a phone call at work, he reflected.
A few moments later he heard ‘This is Jacky, who’s that?’
‘Greg Peshkov.’
‘I thought so. How did you get my address?’
‘I hired a private detective. Can we meet?’
‘I guess we have to. But there’s one condition.’
‘What?’
‘You have to swear by all that’s holy not to tell your father. Never, ever.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Do you swear?’
‘Sure.’
She persisted. ‘Say it.’
‘I swear it, okay?’
‘All right. You can buy me lunch.’
Greg frowned. ‘Are there any restaurants in this neighbourhood that will serve a white man and a black woman together?’
‘Only one that I know of – the Electric Diner.’
‘I’ve seen it.’ He had noticed the name, but he had never been inside: it was a cheap lunch counter used by janitors and messengers. ‘What time?’
‘Half past eleven.’
‘So early?’
‘What time do you think waitresses have lunch – one o’clock?’
He grinned ‘You’re as sassy as ever.’
She hung up.
Greg finished his press release and took the typed sheets into his boss’s office. Dropping the draft into the in- tray, he said: ‘Would it be convenient for me to take an early lunch, Mike? Around eleven-thirty?’
Mike was reading the op-ed page of the
Greg walked past the White House in the sunshine and reached the diner at eleven-twenty. It was empty but for a handful of people taking a mid-morning break. He sat in a booth and ordered
