“Scotch on the rocks,” she said, which nearly threw me off my chair.
I stuck my finger up for the bartender to send over one of the same, then turned back and decided it was time to reappraise Miss Morrow. I sniffed the air once or twice and the odor of lilies filled my nostrils. We were dealing with an oxymoron here. A man can always tell a lot about a woman from her choice of perfumes, and lilies are something I always associate with the wholesome, midwestern variety of her gender. The ones who stay virgins till they’re twenty-one. The ones who call their mothers every week and still send money to their old 4-H clubs. The ones who don’t go near scotch.
“That your normal drink?” I asked.
She sort of smiled. “No. Usually I’d just order an Evian with a twist of lemon, but I wanted to surprise you.”
I guess I blinked once or twice, and she giggled, apparently delighted that she’d beat me at my own game.
“Yeah, I usually drink Evian, too,” I finally said, thinking I was being witty.
“No, you usually drink scotch. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that you’ve never taken a sip from a bottle of Evian in your life.”
“And why would you bet that?”
“Because. Want to play a little truth or consequences?”
If I weren’t such an overconfident guy, I would’ve said no, right then and there. Instead, I stupidly said, “Sure. What’s the stake?”
“Point-by-point loser chugs a shot of scotch. Overall loser pays the tab.”
“All right,” I said, withdrawing a quarter from my pocket and flipping it. “Heads or tails?”
“Heads,” she said, and it came down heads, and I should’ve quit right then and there.
“Okay.” She smiled. “What’s your father do?”
“He’s a hairdresser,” I said. “Lives in San Francisco and works at one of those men’s hair parlors frequented by gays. He’s kinda fruity, too, but he had this one-time fling with a woman, and I was the result.”
“Drink!” she ordered me. “Your father is ridiculously heterosexual. In fact, if I was to guess, I’d say he was career Army.”
I wiped a few drops of scotch off my lips, stuck my hand up for the bartender to send over another, and did my best to hide my shock. “Why’d you guess that?” I finally asked, hating to think I was that easy to read.
“I wasn’t guessing. I was making a reasoned deduction. Sons of strong-willed men often become very rebellious and act like wiseasses. I know. A lot of them end up as my clients.”
“Okay,” I said, wanting an early victory to even the score, “where are you from?”
“Ames, Iowa,” she said. “I grew up on a farm, spent my childhood milking cows, plucking eggs from underneath hens, and praying desperately that I’d get into law school.”
“That’s true,” I declared. “Drink! And don’t forget the part about how you were crowned homecoming queen and almost married the captain of the football team.”
“You drink,” she ordered. “I’ve never been to Ames, Iowa, in my life. I’m from the Northeast, was born and raised in a city, and the closest I’ve ever come to a cow is digging into its broiled carcass on my plate.”
My mouth kind of fell open as I reached down for my shot glass. “Really?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Really,” she said with a vague smile. “And for your information, I went to an all-girls’ private school. We didn’t have homecoming queens. Or a football team, either. We had a field hockey team, and I didn’t date the captain, because I was the captain.”
I gulped the scotch and considered the proposition that she had schemed on playing this game before she ever came down here. She must have deliberately doused herself in that lily-smelling perfume just to throw me off her scent. No play on words intended.
She still hadn’t touched a drop of her scotch. She grinned, then said, “Okay, why’d you leave the infantry and become a lawyer?”
I stared at the new shot glass that had just appeared and thought about that a moment. Finally, I kind of shrugged and admitted, “I guess I got tired of killing people. I went to war a couple of times and decided I really didn’t like it all that much.”
She studied me a moment, staring deeply into my eyes, and her face suddenly became very soft. Her eyes, which I already mentioned were abundantly sympathetic, acquired a few more notches of compassion. “Drink,” she said, almost remorsefully.
“Nah, you drink!” I shot back. “I had a great time at war. In fact, I nearly cried when they were over.”
Which actually was true. And which actually was why I became a lawyer. I developed this huge phobia that I would end up like my father, in love with combat. And maybe I’d end up just like him in another regard, too, with an arrow stuck in my rear end. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
“All right,” I asked, relishing my victory, “were you ever married?”
“That’s too personal.”
“No limits to this game, lady. This is a blood sport. Answer the question.”
“Okay, I was. My husband was also an Army lawyer,” she said and seemed suddenly very sad. “One day I came home early from a trip, and there he was, in bed with a twenty-year-old paralegal.”
“How long were you married?” I asked. Although the game has a one-question rule, I was taking advantage of the most supreme rule: to wit, that higher rank doth make its own rules.
Her eyes seemed fixated on something inside her tiny shot glass. “Three years. We met in my second year of law school and got married right after it was over. I guess I blame myself. I’ve always worked too hard and I… well… I, uh, I guess he felt neglected.”
“Drink!” I barked.
She looked at me in shock. “What?”
“You heard me! Drink!”
She gulped it down, then gave me this really cute, really spiteful look. “How did you know?”
“You said too much. You’re the type who likes to keep everything private.”
“All right. Were you ever married?” she asked.
“No.”
“Were you ever in love?”
“One question to a turn.”
“You asked two the last time.”
“Okay. I was in love once.”
“And why didn’t you marry her?”
“You’re over your limit.”
She gave me a pleading look. “I’ll drink the scotch and cede the round. Please. Just answer.”
“Drink first,” I insisted, and she did. “Because you can’t marry your dog, no matter how much you love her,” I said, giving her a perfectly evil smile.
She frowned. “That sucked.”
“So did the lily perfume,” I said, which nearly made her fall off her chair, she laughed so hard. “By the way,” I added, “it’s three to two, my favor. You pay for the drinks.”
She stuck two fingers up, the bartender grinned, and two more drinks instantly appeared. The bartender was Italian, and he obviously thought I was trying to get her drunk as hell before I took her upstairs and screwed her lights out. In America, that’s considered caddish behavior, bordering on rape. But this was Italy, where the rules are different. Here it’s considered delightfully good form, since nearly anything that results in a roll in the hay is probably good form. He gave me this fawning, jealous smile as he brought the drinks, and I gave him a manly nod of acknowledgment.
“What did you think of Sanchez?” she asked.
“Seemed a nice enough fella,” I admitted.
“I thought so, too.”
“Was he what you expected?” I asked.
“No. Not at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. I’ve defended a number of killers. He didn’t strike me as the type. Too soft maybe. Not
