I looked across at Sarita while Mathison was sounding off. She was dewy eyed and very proud. We smiled at each other. It was one of the highlights of my life.
Sunday was the television date.
Sarita didn’t come to the studio. She said she preferred to watch me on our set at home.
It went off all right. Creedy’s idea of having a scale model of the bridge was a good one. It al owed both Jack and myself to explain just how we were going to handle the job, and it proved to the taxpayers that a job of this size couldn’t be built without spending a great deal of money.
During the interview, Creedy said, ‘It’s no secret that you two are getting a hundred and twenty thousand dollar fee for this job. What are you going to do with the money?’
Jack said, ‘After I’ve given most of it to the tax col ector, I’m buying a car.’
Creedy looked at me.
‘You, I understand, Mr. Hal iday, are planning a new home.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Are you building it yourself?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘He has enough to do handling the bridge without thinking of building a house,’ Jack broke in, and the interview broke up in general laughter.
As soon as the camera swung away from us, Creedy opened a bottle of champagne and we had drinks. I was itching to get home to Sarita, but I couldn’t break away too soon.
‘Wel , boys, I guess the bridge is launched,’ Creedy said. ‘Now, go ahead and build it.’
We shook hands with him.
One of the technicians came over.
‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr. Hal iday.’
‘I bet that’s his wife, cal ing to tel him how handsome he looked,’ Jack said. ‘I’l meet you downstairs.’
He and Creedy walked out of the studio.
For a moment I hesitated, then aware that the technician was looking curiously at me, I went to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
I had an instinctive feeling who was calling. I was right.
‘Hel o,’ Rima said. ‘I’ve been watching your lit le performance. Congratulations.’
I felt cold sweat start out on my forehead.
People were buzzing around me. I had to be careful what I said.
‘Thanks.’
‘So you’re a rich man now.’
‘I can’t talk now.’
‘I didn’t expect you to. I’l meet you in the lobby of the Cal oway Hotel at ten o’clock. You had better be there.’
I heard her break the connection, and slowly I replaced the receiver.
I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face. I knew I was as pale as death and I was shaking.
‘Anything wrong, Mr. Halliday?’
‘No. It’s al right.’
‘Maybe the heat from the lamps. You look pret y bad.’
‘I’ll get out into the open air. I’l be okay.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No… no thanks. I’l be al right. It was just the heat.’
I went out of the studio and down the stairs to where Jack and Creedy were waiting.
CHAPTER TWO
I
I had trouble finding the Calloway Hotel. When finally I ran it to earth it turned out to be one of those dingy room-by-the-hour joints that are scattered along the waterfront of the Eastside of the river, and which are being continually closed down by the police, and as regularly opened up again under new management.
After I had dropped Creedy at a restaurant where he was to meet his wife and Jack at his apartment, it was too late for me to go home and then recross the city to meet Rima by ten.
So I called Sarita and told her I had to go to the office as Creedy wanted some figures for an article he was writing. I said I would be having a snack with him and I wasn’t sure what time I would get home. I felt bad lying to her, but this was something I couldn’t tell her.
I walked into the lobby of the Calloway Hotel a few minutes after ten.
There was an old white haired negro behind the reception desk. There was a dusty palm in a tarnished brass bowl by the door. Five bamboo cane chairs stood around, looking as if they had never been sat in.
An atmosphere of squalor brooded over the dismal scene.
I paused and looked around.
There was a shabbily dressed woman sitting in a corner in the only leather lounging chair, looking across at me, cigarette dropping from her over-made-up lips.
I didn’t recognise Rima for a moment or so. Her hair was no longer silver: it was dyed a brick red and cut short in a ragamuffin style. She had on a black suit that was pretty well on its last legs. Her green shirt was grubby and had a washed-out, faded look.
I walked slowly across the lobby watched by the old negro and stood before her. We looked at each other.
The past years had been hard on her. Her face had an unhealthy pallor and was puffy. She looked older than her thirty years. The touches of rouge she had dabbed on her cheeks kidded no one except maybe herself. Her eyes were hard: the impersonal bleak eyes of a street walker: like stones dipped in blue-black ink.
It was a shock to see how she had altered. When I had heard her voice over the telephone the image of her when last I had seen her had risen up in my mind, but this woman was a stranger to me, and yet I knew it was Rima. In spite of the red hair and the hardness there was no mistaking that it was she.
I watched the stony eyes move swiftly over my suit and the raincoat I carried on my arm and at my shoes, then they shifted to my face.
‘Hel o, Jeff,’ she said. ‘Long time no see.’
‘We’d bet er go somewhere where we can talk,’ I said, aware that my voice sounded husky.
She lifted her eyebrows.
‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. You’re the big wheel now. If your rich pals saw me with you they might jump to the wrong conclusions.’
‘We can’t talk here. Come out to the car.’
She shook her head.
‘We’l talk here. Don’t worry about Joe. He’s as deaf as a post. Are you going to buy me a drink?’
‘You can have what you want.’
She got up, crossed over to the reception desk and rang a bell by the negro, who shifted away from her, scowling at her.
A man came out of a back room: a big, fat Italian with greasy black hair and a heavy stubble on his chin. He was wearing a dirty cowboy shirt and a pair of dirtier flannel trousers.
