'Maybe. How was your day?' It had been three years since he'd asked a woman he cared about that question.
'Lousy, how was yours?'
'The same. Why was yours lousy?'
'It started off with-' Annie looked up at the man standing next to their table. 'Hello, Otto.'
'Annie,' he said, nodding in her direction.
Otto Lien was a huge, overweight man. His thinning brown hair was cut short. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses sat low on the bridge of a bulbous nose festooned with broken veins.
Annie introduced the two men.
Otto said, 'I know who he is. That's why I come over. Not that I wouldn't say hello to you, Annie, but hellos aren't what I got on my mind right now. What I got on my mind right now is my place.' He swept his arm in a large arc, taking in a good portion of the room. What d’ya think?' he asked, looking at Colin.
'Think?'
'Yeah, think. About my place.'
'I think it's very nice.' he answered.
''Very nice',' Lien repeated sarcastically. 'He thinks it's very nice.'
'What is it, Otto? What's the trouble?' Annie asked warily.
'You ever seen this place like this? Empty like this? Don't bother to answer. I know you haven't, because I never seen it like this. Twenty-three years I been in business. Best food on the Fork, bar none. June's not my best month but it's good, better than May or April. I should be doing a hundred dinners on a Saturday night in June. You know how many I'm doing? I'm doing thirteen. You know how many I did last night, a Friday in June? Nine. It don't matter how many dinners I do or don't do, I got to pay the help anyways. And the food goes begging. Can't keep a lot of it. I lose there, too. So it's costing me, and you want to know why? Because this fuck face, pardon my French, Annie, is writing stories and scaring the pants off everybody from here to New York City.'
'It's his job, Otto. He-'
'Bad enough he's keeping the tourists out of here,' he went on, ignoring her, 'he's keeping the regulars, the natives hiding under their beds. Everybody's afraid to go out, leave their houses, go to dinner, a movie, buy a goddamn washer in the hardware store. Everybody's hurting, not just me. All the stores, all the restaurants, everybody. Because this shithead, along with some other shitheads on that crummy paper, likes to write gory stories. So you know what? I don't need to do two more dinners, making a big total of fifteen, if you get my meaning?'
They looked at him, not completely sure they did.
Colin said, 'I'm sorry your business is off but-'
'I got to spell it out? Okay. I don't want you in here, Mister Reporter. Far as I'm concerned, you're the reason for a Saturday night in June being a bust.'
'Otto,' Annie said, 'don't you think that's a little ridiculous? You're acting like Colin killed those people, rather than just writing about it.'
Colin flashed on Otto reading Babe's story and he felt sick. 'It's okay, Annie, let's go.' He reached for his wallet.
'Don't bother,' Lien said, 'I don't want your money. Just get the hell out of my restaurant.'
Annie picked up her handbag. 'I'm shocked at you, Otto.'
'Yeah, well let me tell you something else. You're not going to do yourself no good being seen around with this guy. I like you, Annie, I'd hate to see anything happen.'
'Anything happen?' Colin asked sharply. 'Is that a threat?'
'Listen, pencil pusher, just scram, okay?' He made fists out of his hands and brought them slowly up in front of his waist.
Annie moved between the two men, put her arm through Colin's and started walking.
Outside Annie said, 'Williams' Market's still open. Let's get some steaks and cook them at home. I have some baking potatoes, a new Boston lettuce, and I make a mean cup of coffee. Oh, Colin, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?'
'I'm fine,' he lied. He felt like hell, thought maybe he should just bag the whole evening, but didn't really want to. 'You sure you want to do this?'
'Why not? I'll meet you at the market, okay?'
'Okay.'
'Good.' She squeezed his arm then walked away.
The sun was gone. He could barely see the shoreline from his car, but he could hear the water breaking against the sand. Only twenty-five minutes had elapsed since he'd pulled into this parking lot. In that short space of time, everything had changed.
He was sure Otto Lien wasn't the only one who blamed him for their business failures. They didn't have Hallock any more, and they didn't know who the killer was. So now he was the target and by Monday morning, when Babe's story hit the stands, he'd be a walking bull's-eye.
LOOKING BACK-25 YEARS AGO
Tom Blackwell, son of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Blackwell of Seaville, was awarded one of the prizes for scholastic excellence at the special Honors Convocation at Mount St. Mary's College, Emmetsburg, Md., on June 1st. Blackwell, who was graduated cum laude, and received his diploma from President Dwight D. Eisenhower, received the Edward T. Hogan Memorial Prize for the highest average through the pre-legal course.
TWENTY-FIVE
'Let's have coffee in the living room,' Annie said.
Colin blew out the candle nearest him and picked up his cup and saucer.
At first, dinner had been a little strained, each of them trying to shake the unpleasant encounter with Otto Lien. Eventually that passed, a new mood preempting the old, the candlelit dinner encouraging flirtation. There were long silences where they looked into each other's eyes-moments when, passing the salt or butter, their hands touched, lingered longer than necessary.
Colin hadn't desired a woman in this way since Nancy. But he was unsure of himself and thought he might be reading signals where there were none. He recalled his brother saying: 'Listen, Col', if you're fantasizing about some girl, dreaming about her, wondering what she's thinking or doing, chances are damn good she's doing the same thing about you.' And it had proved to be true nine times out of ten. But that was a long time ago. He couldn't expect to count on that rule of thumb now. And what if Annie was the one out of ten?
Testing, he sat on the couch to see what Annie would do. She hesitated, put her coffee on the table, then sat a pillow away from him. Old Brian might have had something after all. And then he thought of Babe, the story. He should tell Annie about Nancy and the kids before she read it in the paper. Instead he said, 'Good coffee.'
'Thanks.'
He pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket. 'I wanted to show you something. Do you know what this is?' he asked, handing her the pad.
'It's a swastika. No. Wait a minute. It's not. A swastika goes the other way.'
'Show me.' Colin gave her a pen.
Annie said, 'Like this:'
Below that was Colin's:
'So what's this one?' he asked, pointing to his own.
'Is this like the one the killer carved on poor Joe Carroll?'
'Yes.'
