Chapter Twenty-nine
In Margaritaville
Saturday Afternoon
“You’re looking good,” he said.
He’d been standing there for a long minute, watching her reading her book, waiting for her to realize he was there. She had her hair loose and in the bright sunlight it was pure platinum. She was wearing reading glasses, and he found that charming.
She’d arrived early and taken the same table they’d had on Thursday, prepared to read quietly for a few minutes. Now she looked up to see him silhouetted, tall and dark, against the bright light. And she had to laugh. “We match,” she said. They were both in jeans and black tops.
She realized he didn’t understand. Guys tend not to notice such things. But when he sat down, she looked more closely at him, and knew he hadn’t paid any attention to what he’d put on that day. She saw how tired he was.
“Lindy is all right?” she asked.
“Yeah. Lindy’s doing just great.” She sensed some reticence.
“You look tired,” she said. “This has been hard on you, I know.”
“Yeah. Hard.”
Their waiter—the same one from Thursday—arrived at the table.
“Well, welcome back, you two. I’ve been reading in the papers about you. And the TV, too, you and your horse. It’s famous, you both are.” He put a couple of menus in front of them. “What can I get you?” He looked at Bart. “Ready for that margarita now?”
“Good idea,” Bart said. “You, too, Annie?”
“Sure. I’m not driving today. I’m not driving for another few days. Bring it on.”
“Anything else?” The waiter put a glass full of tall, skinny breadsticks between them.
“Not me. I had lunch,” she said.
“Me, neither.” He handed the menus back to the waiter. “Not hungry,” he said.
She looked at him closely.
“You look as though you ought to eat something.”
“I know when I need to eat something. Don’t need you to tell me.”
The waiter raised his eyebrows. He knew the signs of trouble. “Then if that’s all, folks—” and removed himself from the scene.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. I haven’t had much sleep. Lots to think about.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
“About us?” she said.
“Yeah. About us.”
“Well, I have some things to figure out, too.”
She knew, by his expression, that that hadn’t occurred to him.
“So why are we here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. You suggested it.”
“I don’t remember. I thought you did.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Now they were both silent. For many long minutes.
The waiter arrived with their drinks. He surveyed the two of them. “You guys sure you don’t want some food?”
They both looked up at him silently.
“Suit yourselves,” he said, and he made a quick getaway.
Some more long, silent minutes.
Finally Bart spoke. “We can’t just sit here.”
“You go first. You’re the one who’s mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Then what are you?”
He stared into his glass. Drank it all off. Stared a little more.
“I’m not sure. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Well, you be sure and let me know when you do.” That sounded mean, she thought. What made me say that? She looked into her glass. Also empty now.
“Yeah. I’ll just do that.” He looked up, caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for two more margaritas. The waiter rolled his eyes and went off to get them. He hoped this wouldn’t turn nasty.
Silence again until the drinks came.
“Those breadsticks are a specialty of the chef,” the waiter said, hoping they’d eat something. “Really good. Baked with cheese in them.”
Bart glared at him and he disappeared.
Annie took one of the breadsticks and nibbled at one end.
“Why are we fighting?” she asked. She took a hefty gulp of her drink.
“Are we fighting?”
“Feels like it to me.”
He drained half the drink in his glass. He looked up into the trees, avoiding her eyes.
“I’ve been taking a lot of razzing.”
She was astonished.
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated. “Because it’s not every day some girl comes along—some ‘little slip of a thing,’ as the captain says—comes along and shows me up.”
“Well, I never heard anything so stupid.”
“So now I’m stupid?”
“And that’s even stupider. I didn’t say you’re stupid. I said it’s stupid to say I showed you up just because I was able to find your dumb old horse. Anyone with an ounce of horse sense could have done it.”
“Yeah, well, we had the whole force out looking for him—and you did it right in our own neighborhood without any training or anything. Made us all look dumb. Made me look dumb!” He finished his drink and signaled for another. “And my horse is definitely not dumb.”
“I’m sorry I called him dumb. I didn’t mean it that way. He’s a very smart horse.” She finished her drink, too. “Very smart horse. Smarter than some people I know.”
The waiter set Bart’s third drink in front of him and Annie pointed to it.
“Me, too,” she said.
“The kitchen stops serving lunch at three,” he said. “Sure you don’t—” But he didn’t bother to finish. They weren’t listening to him at all. Funny about that. They’d seemed to be getting along so well the other day.
“And the press was ragging us, saying we were incompetent.”
“They were not. It was just a cute human interest story—and they said nice things about the mayor’s office and the NYPD generally. I thought it was all pretty friendly. And they really wanted you to find Lindy—and get those jerks who took him.” Her third drink arrived and she started on it right away. “By the way, whatever happened to those guys?”
“Oh, they’ll be charged. The whole bunch of them were operating out of that house you found. They’ll probably all get deported.”
“They didn’t really hurt anyone, did they?”
“But we didn’t know they wouldn’t. And they threatened to kidnap you, too. But come to think of it, if they had, I suppose you’d have been okay. You’d have just gone ahead and rescued yourself, too, if they had kidnapped you. Probably would have chewed through the ropes or something. We’d have found them all tied up to a telephone pole or something. The whole bunch of them.”
Now it was her turn to roll her eyes.
“No,” he said, “don’t make a face. You’re just full of little surprises to make a guy look dumb. Full of li’l trisks. Tricks.” His tongue seemed to be getting thicker. Li’l feminine wiles.”
“I don’t know why I bothered to see you today.” She wasn’t feeling too clear herself. “I could have gone to a movie. A western. Full of ropin’ and tyin’ and shootin.’ By guys who pretend to know how to do it. Or just stayed in the hotel and watched TV. Watched myself on TV.”
“Right. You could have spent the whole day watching sweet, innocent, gorgeous, wonderful Annie Cornell on the TV while the whole world goes gaga over you. And makes fun of the men who try to take care of you.”
“That’s it!” She stood up abruptly. “I’ve had enough, Mr. Caped Crusader. Like I need anyone to take care of me!” She grabbed her bag and fled.
“Annie!” Bart also got out of his chair, but too fast, and over it went, while he made an effort to grab at it and instead got his feet tangled up in its legs. She was well away by the time he got clear. He grabbed a handful of twenties out of his wallet and tossed them onto the table—too much, but he didn’t care—and ran after her, but too late, for she had already hailed a cab and was gone. He stood there on the sidewalk, knocked over by what had just happened.
And the waiter, picking up a hundred and twenty bucks, said to himself for the thousandth time, “Some people just can’t hold their liquor. At least she didn’t throw her margarita in his face.”
In the taxi, Annie rested her head back, closed her eyes, and said to herself, I can’t believe the nerve of that man. You’d think he’d be so pleased, he got his precious horse back, all safe and sound. And they got all the bad guys, too. You’d think he’d be happy. You’d think he might have said thank you. If he were a gentleman. A gentleman would have given me a little credit. Praised me a little. I think I deserve at least that much. He’s no gentleman. That’s your problem, Bart Hardin, Sergeant Bartlett Hardin, you’re no gentleman. No gentleman at all. She opened her eyes. She was sure she could see the four gargoyles at the top of the Chrysler Building, ahead of her on 42nd Street, and she imagined one of them stuck his tongue out at her as her taxi approached. So she stuck her tongue out, too, right back at it. “So there!” she said. She closed her eyes again.
“What did they put in those drinks?” she muttered hazily.
And sitting on the stone steps at the edge of the park, Bart closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. The nerve of her! he said to himself. Riding into town like the cavalry and no respect for anyone. With her fancy research and her showing off like that, with cameras and reporters all chasing after her like she’s a miracle worker or something. And her TV shows and her interviews, and lah-di-dah, I’ve got to meet with the press, and everyone loves me, and winning contests and all. And so what if she rides bareback, anyone can ride bareback. Just leave off the saddle. That seemed funny to him, so he laughed.
He opened his eyes and looked up, way up—and there, high in the blue, blue sky, he could have sworn he saw a peregrine falcon at dizzying speed, chasing a pigeon. “Go get her,” he whispered. “You’re the fastest thing in the sky, buddy. Show her what you can do.” His head started to spin and he closed his eyes again.
“They must have put something in those drinks.”