I'll Get You For This

  The barman waited, admiring Clair without attempting to conceal the fact. He glanced at me; there was respectful envy in his eyes.

  I ordered two large, very dry martinis.

  We went over to a sofa seat, sat down, lit cigarettes. People looked at us, but we didn't worry. We were happy enough in our own company. After a while, the barman brought the drinks. I

paid him, tipped him, and he went away silently, as if drawn along on wheels.

We sipped the martinis. They were very good.

  There was something about the hard standard of prettiness of the women at the bar that reminded me of Lydia Hamilton. I said as much to Clair.

  "Don't let's talk about her," Clair said. "She was ghastly. I was so sorry for Hones. She hurt him terribly."

  "Not half as much as the judge hurt her," I said with a grin. "Bones is a good lad. I think I'll give him a raise. Do you think it'd be an idea to give him a uniform as well; a red and white check overall or something? I think all the boys might wear a uniform. It'd give the joint tone."

  She laughed. "Darling, I'm so glad you like your old gas station. There was a time—–"

  "Forget it," I said, taking her hand. "It's fun, but it wouldn't be fun without you."

  "Honest?"

  I nodded. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be still kicking around as a bum."

  "I have an idea," she said, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes. "Now, don't say no until I've explained. How would it be if we opened a restaurant ? We could use the waste ground by the house. It needn't be an elaborate building. We could serve meals out of doors. Barbecue cooking: chicken, steaks, spareribs, the way we know how to cook them, salad and things. I'd love to organize it all if you'd let me."

  I stared at her. "It's a terrific idea," I exclaimed. "However did you think of it?"

  Her face brightened. "Oh, I wanted to help. I know I run the house, but I'd rather make some money. Shall we?"

  "We'll find out how much it'll cost to put up a suitable building first thing tomorrow," I said, and we forgot our surroundings in the discussion that followed.

  After a while, I noticed Clair wasn't concentrating. I looked at her, saw she was flushed, said: "What's on your mind, honey? Got an attack of grippe?"

  She didn't smile, shook her head, looked away. "Promise you won't make a scene?" she whispered.

"I never make scenes," I said. "What's wrong?"

  "There's a man over the way who hasn't taken his eyes off me since he came in," she said. "He's making me uncomfortable. Now, please ..."

  I looked across the room, located a man in a white dinner-jacket sitting on his own. He had grey hair. There was nothing unusual about his heavy handsome face except a small puckered scar on his left check that had almost the effect of a dimple.

  I gave him the hard eye, and he immediately looked away.

  "Well, anyway," I said, putting down my empty glass, "it's time we had something to eat. If he really bothers you I'll talk to him."

  "You're not to," she said, walking across the bar at my side. "Those days are over."

  The barman bowed to her as we left. She gave him a nice smile. I was very proud of her.

  The captain of waiters personally conducted us to our seats. The table he had reserved for us was on the edge of the dance floor. I noticed a number of the men diners looked at Clair. She was worth looking at.

  We sat down. The antipasto was fine. There were salty anchovies bedded on a firm slice of tomato; scarlet peppers soaked in white vinegar; thin bologna sausages; fat white shrimps; transparent slices of ham, and celery stuffed with cottage cheese. We had two large dry martinis to go with it.

  Half-way through the meal, the man in the white dinner-jacket wandered in. He seemed to be known. People nodded to him as he stalked between the tables. He passed close to us, and gave Clair a long penetrating stare. She avoided his eyes. I scowled at him, but he didn't notice. He sat a couple of tables away from us, waved to the waiter, ordered a Rye straight. He lit a cigarette, settled down to stare at Clair.

  "I think I'll drop over and talk to that masher," I said, suddenly very angry.

  Clair gripped my arm. "No, darling, don't. It'll spoil everything, and I'm having a lovely time. Please, let's forget him. I don't mind."

  She began talking about the restaurant idea, but neither of us had much heart for it now. She was worried, and I was getting madder every moment.

  Then suddenly I saw her stiffen. I followed the direction of her eyes. Lydia Hamilton had just entered. She swept down the aisle between the tables before the captain of waiters could escort her, arrived at the table occupied by the man in the white dinner-jacket, sat down. He glanced at her in a bored way, waved to the waiter.

  "Now, perhaps we'll have rest from that guy," I said. "I'm sorry to see that dame here, but she won't spoil my dinner."

  The waiter served the broiled steak. It looked very good. For a while we ate. Then I looked up suddenly. The masher was at it again. His half-closed eyes were probing Clair—X-ray eyes.