F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (42 page)

 
          
She
assumed from the call that
Duncan
didn't want her to keep him waiting. The
Duke
Ellington
Bridge
was less than minute away and no doubt he
expected her to be standing downstairs in the vestibule when he arrived. Oliver
would probably be glad to run up and escort her down, but why make him go to
the trouble?

 
          
She
checked herself one last time in the mirror. The little black dress Mama always
told her to keep in her wardrobe certainly had come in handy today. When she'd
returned from
Louisiana
she'd invested in a slinky little Donna Karan number, nicely fitted,
with a jewel neckline.

 
          
She'd
added a short string of pearls and pearl earrings. Simple but elegant. The
perfect look for all those receptions on Capitol Hill she'd dreamed of
attending. So far the dress hadn't left the closet.

 
          
Tonight
would be its coming out. At Galileo. Not too shabby a spot for its debut.

 
          
The
forecast was wet so she threw her raincoat over her shoulders and headed
downstairs.
Duncan
's black Mercedes pulled up a moment later.

 
          
He
got out and opened the front passenger door for her. As she slid in she glanced
in the back. Empty.

 
          
"Where's
Oliver?"

           
"A little under the weather.
That stomach thing that's going around. He sends his regrets and says, Galileo
or not, he can't even think of food tonight."

           
"Oh, that's terrible. Let's
call him right after dinner and see how he feels."

 
          
"I
think he was going to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head until
morning."

 
          
"No
one to take care of him?" She couldn't resist seizing the moment to
satisfy her curiosity about Oliver. Have I no shame? "No friends to look
in on him?"

           
"Oliver is one of the most
self-sufficient people I know. He has a maid come in once a week, otherwise
he's alone and . . . quite happy to be so. No wife, no kids, no mistress, and no,
he's not a homosexual."

           
"I never thought,"

           
"If you did, you wouldn't be
the first."

 
          
"Poor
Oliver. I feel bad for him. Didn't you say this dinner was his idea?"

           
"I was going to call it off
but he insisted that we not stand you up. So tonight I'll have to be myself and
Oliver as well."

 
          
"Does
that mean you're going to be eating for two?"

           
"Yes. With lots of
garlic." Gin noticed that
Duncan
's smile seemed a little forced. He looked
tense, his posture stiff. He seemed generally uneasy. Because of her?

 
          
Could
it be he was uncomfortable taking a young female employee out to dinner?

 
          
But
Duncan
rarely gave a damn what anyone else thought
of him.

 
          
The
Mercedes cruised down
Connecticut
like a battleship on a lake. She'd never been in
Duncan
's car before. She felt invulnerable as she
watched the shops and hotels along
Connecticut
roll past on the other side of the tinted
glass. They cruised around
Dupont Circle
, then turned right onto M Street A left on
Twenty-first Street
and they were there.

 
          
"Galileo,"
he said as they pulled into the garage next door. A simple maroon canopy jutted
out from what looked like an officer building.

 
          
"Where
the effete elite meet to eat." Gin decided to go him one better. "Where
the voracious and edacious mendacious can wax loquacious while looking
gracious, sedacious, and perspicacious." There. That was two or three
better.

 
          
Duncan
stared at her a moment, then said,
"That, my dear, was a thing of beauty." But he wasn't smiling. His
expression was strange.

 
          
Almost
. . . pained.

 
          
What's
eating him tonight? she wondered.

 
          
Her
before-dinner manhattan was perfect, the mezze lune di granachio was superb,
the service impeccable, and the wine
Duncan
ordered, a 1984 amarone, as smooth as silk.
Galileo's spare decor was not what she'd expected. No heavy Mediterranean
drapes and furniture.

 
          
Everything
was light and understated. But the mood at their table was anything but light.
At times the conversation actually dragged, something she would have thought
impossible in
Duncan
's presence. He didn't rant, didn't launch into a single tirade. Even
when Larry King and Senator Rockefeller arrived and were seated three tables
away,
Duncan
managed only a few disparaging remarks. At
times she'd find him staring at her, his eyes intent on her face, other times
he'd be a million miles away. He picked at his veal and barely sipped his wine,
but kept refilling her glass. She wondered if he might be coming down with what
Oliver had.

 
          
She
wished she could get a grip on this jigsaw puzzle of a man. Every time she
thought she had him figured, a new piece would pop up requiring her to
rearrange everything and start over again.

 
          
She
watched him stare into his half-full glass of wine for the longest time

 
          
"Are
you okay?" He looked up.

           
"Hmmm? Yes. Fine."

           
"You seem down."

           
He shrugged. "Just thinking
about life, the twists and turns it takes you through. The cruel tricks it
plays on you."

           
"Some of the tricks are funny,
" she said.

 
          
"Sometimes
we back ourselves into corners," he said, as if she hadn't spoken,
"and we despise the means necessary to extricate ourselves." What was
wrong with him tonight?

 
          
"Do
you want dessert?" he said as the waiter was clearing the dinner plates.

 
          
"I
don't think I could eat another thing. But I could go for some coffee."

 
          
"Leave
the coffee to me," he said. "I don't care if this is one of the best
restaurants inside the beltway, their coffee can't hold a candle to mine. We'll
have real coffee back at the office." She considered begging off, but
realized she couldn't deny
Duncan
his coffee ritual. Maybe it would pull him out of his funk. Besides, it
was only a few miles out of the way.

 
          
After
Duncan
paid the bill, Gin rose and felt a little
wobbly. She realized that she'd consumed most of the amarone.

 
          
As
she stood staring at the languid koi in the rock garden pool beyond
Duncan
's office window, Gin wondered if there was
any place on earth she'd feel less comfortable than
Duncan
's officer. This was where she'd broken into
his drawer, where just yesterday she'd been sneaking through his bookshelf. And
here he was toiling a dozen feet away making her what he called the best coffee
in the world.

 
          
She
felt like such a rat.

 
          
But
at least the prospect of some good coffee seemed to have cheered him up. Maybe
that had been his problem all along tonight, caffeine withdrawal.

 
          
"At
last," he said, turning from his drip equipment with a steaming cup.
"The perfect after-dinner coffee."

           
Gin took it from him and sniffed.
"Licorice?"

           
"I know, I know. You must
promise never to mention to anyone that I adulterated my own coffee. But I
figured that after an evening of Italian food, I'd break down and add some sambuca."

           
Gin sipped and repressed a grimace.
Bitter. She could taste the coffee, and the licorice tang of the sambuca, but
there was something else there, something she couldn't identify.

 
          
"Mmmm,
" she said. "Unusual."

 
          
"A
special black sambuca, " he told her, sipping his own. "Gives it a
unique flavor. Drink up." Gin took another sip. Definitely not to her
taste, but she couldn't very well dump it after he'd gone to the trouble of
brewing it for her.

 
          
Rather
than prolong the agony, she drank it quickly.

 
          
"Another
cup?"
Duncan
asked.

 
          
"No,
thanks," she said. "Between the manhattan, the wine, and the sambuca,
I think I'm already over my limit." That was an understatement. She was
definitely woozy now.

 
          
"Maybe
I'd better take you home,"
Duncan
said.

 
          
"Maybe
you'd better," she said. "I'm sorry."

 
          
"Nothing
to be sorry about. You're not driving, so what difference does it make?" A
fine drizzle had begun to fall. In the Mercedes, the swirl of lights from the
streets and passing cars refracting through the myriad beads of water on the
windows made her stomach begin a slow turn. She squinted and breathe deeply.
She would die before she'd throw up in
Duncan
's car.

 
          
He
double-parked on Kalorama, took her keys, and walked her up to her apartment.
He let her in, then stepped back onto the landing.

 
          
"Are
you going to be all right?"

           
"I'll be fine. Thanks for
dinner. And I'm sorry about . . . "

           
"Don't give it another
thought. I shouldn't have given you that doctored-up coffee." Something
strange in his voice as he said that, but his face was unreadable. Or was that
because her vision was blurred?

 
          
"Good
night,
Duncan
."

 
          
"Good
night. Go right to bed."

           
"Don't worry about that."

 
          
As
soon as he closed the door, Gin headed for the bathroom. But she didn't vomit.
The nausea was still there, but now that the world around her was no longer in
motion, it seemed to have eased.

 
          
She
thought about taking a shower, then said to hell with it. What she needed was
sleep.

 
          
She
took off her raincoat and threw it on a chair. She sat on the bed and peeled
off her panty hose, then began working on the buttons of her dress. Before she
reached the last she flopped back and closed her eyes. Just for a second . . .
no more than a minute . . . then she'd finish undressing . . .