Part 16 (1/2)
”Why's that?” I asked.
”There's security in cynicism,” she said. ”Usually it covers up a lot of loneliness.”
”You the town philosopher?” I asked, although I had to agree with her thesis.
”Nope,” she said rather sadly. ”I'm the town cynic, so I know one when I see one.”
”So what's the pipeline saying about all this?” I asked, changing the subject.
She lowered the gla.s.ses again, peering over them at me. ”That he's a gangster from Toronto,” she said with a smirk.
”Couldn't be, I never heard of him,” I said.
”Just what is your angle?”
”I do travel pieces.”
”Really.”
”Yeah.”
”And lie a lot?”
”That too.”
”To gossip columnists?” she said.
”I don't discriminate.”
”Thanks.”
”Maybe I ought to try and get a job on the Ledger,” I said, changing the subject.
”Why, for G.o.d's sake?”
”I don't know much about women's clothes but I can tell a silk designer dress when I see one. They must pay well over there.”
She threw back her head and laughed hard. ”Now that is a joke,” she said. ”Did you ever know any newspaper that paid well?”
The waiter brought my screwdriver. I took a swallow or two and it definitely got the blood flowing again.
”Actually my husband died young, the poor dear, and left me wonderfully provided for,” Babs said.
”You don't sound real upset over losing him.”
”He was a delight, but he drank himself to death.”
”What did he do?” I asked, sipping at the screwdriver.
”Owned the hotel,” she said casually, but with a glint in her eyes.
”What hotel?”
”This hotel.”
”You own the Ponce?” I said.
”Every creaky inch of it. Actually I hired a very good man from California to run it before Logan died. I love owning it but I dread the thought of having to run it.”
”You live here?”
She nodded and pointed toward the ceiling. ”Six flights up. The penthouse, darling. Owning the joint does have its perks. I have a beach place out on the Isle of Sighs but I don't go out there much anymore. It's a bit too solitary.”
”I'm on the third floor,” I said. ”I don't have any perks.”
”Is there something wrong with your accommodations?” she asked. ”If there's a problem, I have a lot of pull with the management.”
”The room's fine, thank you.” I ordered coffee to chase the taste of vodka out of my mouth.
”What's your room number? I'll have them send up a basket of fruit.”
”Three sixteen. I love fresh pineapple.”
”I'll remember that. You were telling me what you're doing here. ”
”I was?”
”Mm-hmm.”
”Actually I'm interested in doing a piece on the social order in Dunetown. Movers and shakers, that kind of thing.”
”For the Los Aghast Gazette or whatever it was?”
I would have bet my underwear that she remembered the name of the paper and everything else I had said since joining her.
”Yeah, kind of a background piece.”
She said ”Mm-hmm” again and didn't mean a syllable of it. She lit a pink Sherman cigarette, leaned back in her chair, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. ”Well, it was founded in 1733 by- ”
”Not that far back.”
”Just what do you want, Wilbur whatever-your-name-is, and I don't believe that for a minute, either.”
”Who would make up a name like Wilbur Rasmussen?” I said.
She dipped her dark gla.s.ses at me again but made no comment.
”I hear it's an old town run by old money,” I said.
”You're looking at some of it, darling.”