Hilary put down the receiver and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment.
Wrong number?
Must have been.
But why didn't he say so?
Some people just don't know any better, she told herself. They're rude.
But what if it wasn't a wrong number. What if it was ... something else.
Stop looking for goblins in every shadow! she told herself angrily. Frye's dead. It was a bad thing, but it's over and done with. You deserve a rest, a couple of days to collect your nerves and wits. But then you've got to stop looking over your shoulder and get on with your life. Otherwise, you'll end up in a padded room.
She curled up in the armchair again, but she caught a chill that brought goosebumps to her arms. She went to the closet and got a blue and green knitted afghan, returned to the chair, and draped the blanket over her legs.
She sipped the Dry Sack.
She started reading Clavell again.
In a while, she forgot about the telephone call.
***
After signing out for the day, Tony went home and washed his face, changed from his suit into jeans and a checkered blue shirt. He put on a thin tan jacket and walked two blocks to The Bolt Hole.
Frank was already there, sitting in a back booth, still in his suit and tie, sipping Scotch.
The Bolt Hole--or simply The Hole, as regular customers referred to it--was that rare and vanishing thing: an ordinary neighborhood bar. During the past two decades, in response to a continuously fracturing and subdividing culture, the American tavern industry, at least that part of it in cities and suburbs, had indulged in a frenzy of specialization. But The Hole had successfully bucked the trend. It wasn't a gay bar. It wasn't a singles' bar or a swingers' bar. It wasn't a bar patronized primarily by bikers or truckers or show business types or off-duty policemen or account executives; its clientele was a mixture, representative of the community. It wasn't a topless go-go bar. It wasn't a rock and roll bar or a country and western bar. And, thank God, it wasn't a sports bar with one of those six-foot television screens and Howard Cosell's voice in quadraphonic sound. The Hole had nothing more to offer than pleasantly low lighting, cleanliness, courtesy, comfortable stools and booths, a jukebox that wasn't turned too loud, hot dogs and hamburgers served from the minuscule kitchen, and good drinks at reasonable prices.
Tony slid into the booth, facing Frank.
Penny, a sandy-haired waitress with pinchable cheeks and a dimpled chin, stopped by the table. She ruffled Tony's hair and said, 'What do you want, Renoir?'
'A million in cash, a Rolls-Royce, eternal life, and the acclaim of the masses,' Tony said.
'What'll you settle for?'
'A bottle of Coors.'
'That we can provide,' she said.
'Bring me another Scotch,' Frank said. When she went to the bar to get their drinks, Frank said, 'Why'd she call you Renoir?'
'He was a famous French painter.'
'So?'
'Well, I'm a painter, too. Neither French nor famous. It's just Penny's way of teasing me.'
'You paint pictures?' Frank asked.
'Certainly not houses.'
'How come you never mentioned it?'
'I made a few observations about fine art a time or two,' Tony said. 'But you greeted the subject with a marked lack of interest. In fact, you couldn't have shown less enthusiasm if I'd wanted to debate the fine points of Swahili grammar or discuss the process of decomposition in dead babies.'
'Oil paintings?' Frank asked.
'Oils. Pen and ink. Watercolors. A little bit of everything, but mostly oils.'
'How long you been at it?'
'Since I was a kid.'
'Have you sold any?'
'I don't paint to sell.'
'What do you do it for?'
'My own satisfaction.'
'I'd like to see some of your work.'
'My museum has odd hours, but I'm sure a visit can be arranged.'
'Museum?'
'My apartment. There's not much furniture in it, but it's chockfull of paintings.'
