I wondered if it was Bowdoin Management but didn't bother asking. She asked if I wanted to try the bedroom again. I said I didn't.
'Not to rush you, but I'm expecting a friend in about forty minutes.'
'Sure.'
'Have another drink if you want.'
'No, it's time I was on my way.' She walked me to the door and held my coat for me. I kissed her goodbye.
'Don't be so long between visits next time.'
'Take care, Elaine.'
'Oh, I will.'
Chapter 10
Friday morning came clear and crisp. I picked up an Olin rental car on Broadway and took the East Side Drive out of town. The car was a Chevrolet Malibu, a skittish little thing that had to be pampered on curves. I suppose it was economical to run.
I caught the New England Expressway up through Pelham and Larchmont and into Mamaroneck. At an Exxon station the kid who topped up the tank didn't know where Schuyler Boulevard was. He went inside and asked the boss, who came out and gave me directions. The boss also knew the Carioca, and I had the Malibu parked in the restaurant's lot at twenty-five minutes of twelve. I went into the cocktail lounge and sat on a vinyl stool at the front end of a black Formica bar.
I ordered a cup of black coffee with a shot of bourbon in it. The coffee was bitter, left over from the night before.
The cup was still half full when I looked over and saw her standing hesitantly in the archway between the dining room and the cocktail lounge. If I hadn't known she was Wendy Hanniford's age, I would have guessed high by three or four years. Dark, shoulder-length hair framed an oval face. She wore dark plaid slacks and a pearl-gray sweater beneath which her large breasts were aggressively prominent. She had a large brown leather handbag over her shoulder and a cigarette in her right hand.
She did not look happy to see me.
I let her come to me, and after a moment's hesitation she did. I turned slowly to her.
'Mr. Scudder?'
'Mrs. Thal? Should we take a table?'
'I suppose so.'
The dining room was uncrowded, and the head waitress showed us to a table in back and out of the way. It was an overdecorated room, a room that tried too hard, done in someone's idea of a flamenco motif. The color scheme involved a lot of red and black and ice blue. I had left my bitter coffee at the bar and now ordered bourbon with water back. I asked Marcia Thal if she wanted a drink.
'No, thank you. Wait a minute. Yes, I think I will have something. Why shouldn't I?'
'No reason that I know of.'
She looked past me at the waitress and ordered a whiskey sour on the rocks.
Her eyes met mine, glanced away, came back again.
'I can't say I'm happy to be here,' she said.
'Neither am I.'
'It was your idea. And you had me over a barrel, didn't you? You must get a kick out of making people do what you want them to do.'
'I used to pull wings off flies.'
'I wouldn't be surprised.' She tried to glare, and then she lost the handle of it and grinned in spite of herself. 'Oh, shit,' she said.
'You're not going to be dragged into anything, Mrs. Thal.'
'I hope not.'
'You won't be. I'm interested in learning something about Wendy Hanniford's life. I'm not interested in turning your life upside down.'
Our drinks arrived. She picked hers up and studied it as if she had never seen anything quite like it before. It seemed an ordinary enough whiskey sour. She took a sip, set it down, fished out the maraschino cherry and ate it. I swallowed a little bourbon and waited for her.
'You can order something to eat if you want. I'm not hungry.'
'Neither am I.'
'I don't know where to start. I really don't.'
I wasn't sure myself. I said, 'Wendy doesn't seem to have had a job. Was she working when you first moved in with her?'
'No. But I didn't know that.'
