Shortly, the bartender came up to me. He recalled me from last night, also, because he asked whether Bill was around.
I had a beer from him and retired with it to the most secluded table, where I sat and nursed it, my back to the wall, glancing occasionally at the clock, watching the room’s two entrances between times. If I tried I could feel Fiona’s presence.
Ten o’clock came and went. So did a few patrons, new and old. None of them seemed particularly interested in me, though my own attention was drawn to an unescorted young lady with pale hair and a cameolike profile, which ends the resemblance because cameos don’t smile much and she did the second time she glanced at me, right before she looked away. Damn, I thought, why did I have to be wrapped up in a life-and-death situation? Under almost any other circumstances I would have finished the beer, walked over for another, passed a few pleasantries, then asked her whether she’d care to join me. In fact…
I glanced at the clock.
10:20.
How much longer should I give the mystery voice? Should I just assume it had been George Hensen, and that he’d given up on tonight when he’d seen me fade? How much longer might the lady hang around?
I growled softly. Stick to business. I studied the narrowness of her waist, the swell of her hips, the tension of her shoulders . . .
10:25.
I noticed that my mug was empty. I took it over for a refill.
Dutifully, I watched the progress of the mug.
“I saw you sitting there,” I heard her say. “Waiting for someone?”
She smelled strongly of a strange perfume.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m beginning to think it’s too late.”
“I’ve a similar problem,” she said, and I turned toward her. She was smiling again. “We could wait together,” she concluded.
“Please join me,” I said. “I’d much rather pass the time with you.”
She picked up her drink and followed me back to the table.
“My name’s Merle Corey,” I told her, as soon as we were seated:
“I’m Meg Devlin. I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m just visiting. You, I take it, are not?” She shook her head slightly.
“Afraid not. I live in the new apartment complex a couple of miles up the road.”
I nodded as if I knew where it was located.
“Where are you from?” she wanted to know.
“The center of the universe,” I said, then hastily added, “San Francisco.”
“Oh, I’ve spent a lot of time there. What do you do?” I resisted a sudden impulse to tell her that I was a sorcerer, and instead described my recent employment at Grand Design. She, I learned in turn, had been a model, a buyer for a large store, and later manager of a boutique. I glanced at the clock.
It was 10:45. She caught the look.
“I think we’ve both been stood up,” she said.
“Probably,” I agreed, “but we ought to give them till eleven to be decent about it.”
“I suppose.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Earlier.”
“Hungry?”
“Some. Yes. Are you?”
“Uh-huh, and I noticed some people had food in here earlier. I’ll check.”
I learned we could get sandwiches, so we got two, with some salad on the side.
“I hope your date didn’t include a late supper,” I said suddenly.
“It wasn’t mentioned, and I don’t care,” she replied, taking a bite.
Eleven o’clock came and went. I’d finished my drink and the food, and I didn’t really want another.
“At least the evening wasn’t a total loss,” she said, crumpling her napkin and setting it aside.
I watched her eyelashes because it was a pleasant thing to do. She wore very little or very pale makeup. It didn’t matter at all. I was about to reach out and cover her hand with my own, but she beat me.
“What were you going to do tonight?” I asked her.
“Oh, dance a bit, have a few drinks, maybe take a walk in the moonlight. Silly things like that.”
“I hear music in the next room. We could stroll on over.”
“Yes, we could,” she said. “Why don’t we?”