I Speak for the Dead

Part 13

I've learned a lot about men, because I've been around a lot of them, in good times and bad. Terry and I went back a few years, three or four, probably, before we took our failed turn on the merry-go-round; and there had been a few others that meant something to me, and to whom I thought I meant something, too. Every time, it turned out that one or the other of us had been wrong, but that didn't mean I had to stop trying, or hoping.

But I knew better with Drew. He was looking for one thing and one thing only, and I knew, although he didn't, that it was simply not going to happen. Still, he was a way to kill a little time until Whitechapel showed up.

"So...." I let it hang in the air, like dirty laundry.

"Drew," he offered, happy as a puppy. "Drew."

"Right. I thought you said David, or Daniel or something. I got the "D" right, though, right?"

Drew, since that was his nom de guerre for the evening, nodded again. He seemed a loss for what to say next. Maybe I had misjudged him; maybe this was his first rodeo after all, and he had no idea which stall led to the ring.

"Listen. You seem like a nice guy, so I'm going to be upfront with you. I'm not actually alone; I'm waiting for someone."

He dropped his gaze to his drink, and spun the glass half a turn one way, then the other. The silence grew, but he did not rise from his chair. I decided I needed to be a bit more direct. "And so, since I'm waiting for someone, maybe it would be better if I went to another table. Or to the bar."

He looked up. I was shocked. There were tears in his eyes. Actual, literal tears. What in the world was going on? Since he was getting emotional, I stood up. Emotions are like the dam at Johnstown; when they break, the only thing to do is hid for the hills as far away as you can get.

"Please. Please, can you please just wait a moment?"

I didn't answer, but I paused, half-way up and studied his face. I leaned forward, placing my hands on the table, and my purse between them. My small gun was in there, right on top, a little nugget of safety if things took a turn for the worse. "Look, I'm trying to be pleasant here, but you need to take a hint. I am not interested. So hit on someone else, okay?"

Drew sneaked a quick sip of his drink, hiccuped, and nodded. "Sorry. Sorry." He stood up. "You don't have to go. I will." He moved back and pushed his chair in, a little wobbly on his feet. He fumbled away, back toward the bar without looking back. I allowed myself to breath a small sigh of relief. What was I doing, anyway, playing with the guy like a cat does a mouse? I dropped down on my keister, grabbed my drink and pushed the liquid down my throat.

Edmund Whitechapel materialized at my elbow. "The cat has her claws out tonight."

I refused him the satisfaction of looking around.