Whom she would have liked to name John Alden Beals, but my father was already named John and felt one John in the family was plenty.”
“I’ll omit any wordplay relating to Johns and lavatories.”
“That’s because you’re a gentleman, and I in turn will avoid any allu-sions to peeping Toms and doubting Thomases.”
“Fair enough.”
“She dropped the John and named me Alden.”
“Alden Beals.”
He bows his head, just the slightest bit theatrically. “Myself,” he says.
“I’ve noticed you before, you know.”
“Really?”
“You’ve been here at Griselda’s before. Two or three times I’ve seen you march in, order a single-malt Scotch, perhaps the same brand you’ve been drinking tonight—”
“Perhaps not. I’m not terribly loyal. Always looking for something better, you know.”
“Oh, indeed I do.”
“But willing to keep sampling as I search, one might say.”
“I suspect one might. You’ve come in, ordered one drink, took your time drinking it, and then left without a word to anyone.”
“I never thought anyone noticed me.”
“Oh, please. An attractive man like yourself? Surely you felt the eyes, mine among them. But you never seemed to be looking for company.” He is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I have someone at home.”
“I see.”
“But that’s not always where I want to be.”
“And just where would you like to be now, Alden?”
“At the moment,” he says, “I’d like to be precisely where I am. Right 264
Lawrence Block
here in this congenial atmosphere, engaged in conversation with a very personable and attractive gentleman.”
“You’re very kind.”
“It’s no more than the truth. The only problem—”
“Oh, I hope there’s not a problem.”
“Only that it’s getting close to closing time.” Selwyn looks at his watch, a Tourneau with a thin case and an oversize dial. “It is,” he agrees. “And where would you like to go when they close this pop stand?” And, when he hesitates, “What was it your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother said? ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, Alden?’ ”
He has lowered his eyes. Now he raises them to gaze directly and openly into Tom Selwyn’s. “I’d like to go back to your place,” he says.
The lobby attendant is seated at a desk on the left. He has anticipated this, and contrives to be on Selwyn’s right as they enter the building, letting the big man screen him from the attendant’s view. The two exchange greetings. (“Evening, Mr. Selwyn.” “A lovely evening, Jorge. I see Sammy hit one tonight.”)
In the elevator Selwyn pushes Nine and sighs as the door closes.
“Sammy Sosa,” he explains. “He and Jorge hail from the same village in the Dominican Republic. Although it may not be large enough to be called a village. What’s smaller than a village?”
“A hamlet?”
“Perhaps. Or it may be more of a coriolanus. Do you follow baseball?”
“No.”
“Neither do I, but I contrive to find out what Sammy Sosa has done, so Jorge and I will have something to talk about. He’s with the Cubs. Sosa, that is. Not Jorge. The Cubs play in Chicago, in the stadium that didn’t have lights, but now it does. And here we are.” The apartment consists of one large high-ceilinged room, perhaps thirty feet square, with a small kitchen alcove. Except for the king-size platform bed, piled high with pillows, the furnishings are antique.
There’s a large abstract oil on one wall, with a simple black gallery frame, and groups of prints and drawings on the other walls. It is, he decides, a All the Flowers Are Dying
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very pleasing room, and a great improvement on Joe Bohan’s apartment; it’s a shame he won’t be able to stay here very long.
“I have Scotch,” Selwyn says.
“Maybe later.”
“Ah. Someone doesn’t wish to wait.”
