Rough Weather

57

It was Sunday. We were at the counter of the Agawam Diner, the world’s leading restaurant, having a late breakfast. Hawk had taken Sunday off, on the hopeful assumption that no one in Rowley would try to kill me. From where we sat I could see that Pearl had settled down in the driver’s seat of my car and gone to sleep just as if she didn’t know we were in there eating without her.

“I got a call,” I said, “from Heidi Bradshaw.”

“Really.”

“She wants to see me.”

“Of course she does,” Susan said. “Who wouldn’t.”

“She sounded sort of scared,” I said.

“Of what?”

“She’d heard about Bradshaw,” I said. “I think she’s scared it will happen to her.”

“She say why she thinks that?”

“No.”

“Be good to know,” Susan said.

“It would,” I said. “Any other questions you think I should ask?”

“None, I’m sure, that you haven’t thought of,” Susan said. “Myself, I would be very interested in why she didn’t get better psychiatric treatment for her daughter after she attempted suicide.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to know that, too. I would also like to know if she knew Rugar in Bucharest.”

“Do you think she’ll tell you?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But something might come out.”

“Nothing ventured…” Susan said. “Are you going there?”

“No,” I said. “She’s coming to me.”

“Noblesse oblige,” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m thrilled.”

“Have you ever thought about how much it must cost,” Susan said, “to be Heidi Bradshaw?”

“More than the GNP of Albania?” I said.

“Probably,” Susan said. “She doesn’t spin, neither does she sow.”

“She’s dependent on the kindness of husbands,” I said.

Susan nodded.

“The most recent of whom seem to be broke, or nearly so,” I said. “According to Epstein.”

“Might want to factor that in,” Susan said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know what I don’t get? Epstein says Van Meer is broke. Van Meer says he’s rich.”

“Drunks are the royalty of denial,” Susan said.

“Especially while drinking,” I said.

“Which for someone like Van Meer is probably nearly always,” Susan said.

“Maybe that’s why he drinks. Denial is a much more pleasant reality than the one he’d have to face,” I said.

“Maybe,” Susan said. “Some people drink because they like it, you know, and then get addicted and drink because they must.”

“I’m still at the like it part,” I said.

“You won’t get addicted,” Susan said.

We were both drinking coffee. Susan had ordered a soft-boiled egg and some toast. I went a bit heartier: orange juice, three eggs over easy, sausages, home fries, toast, and of course, the basis of all gourmet breakfasts, pie.

“Why not?”

“You won’t,” she said.

“I’m kind of addicted to you,” I said.

“That’s because you love me,” Susan said.

“And I don’t love booze?”

“No,” Susan said. “You don’t, nor would you.” She smiled. “You’re much too loyal.”

The waitress brought my orange juice. I drank some. She refilled both our coffee cups.

“Doesn’t addiction mean that you are beyond controlling it?” I said.

“Which is why you would never have one,” Susan said.

“Because I’m addicted to self-control?”

“Or not being controlled,” Susan said. “You are much too autonomous to ever let something get hold of you… or someone.”

“Except?” I said.

Susan smiled.

“Nope, not even me,” she said. “There are, after all, things you will not do, even for me.”

The waitress returned and put the soft-boiled egg in front of Susan and my breakfast in front of me.

“How’d you know which of us got the big plate?” I said.

The waitress stared at me for a moment. Then she looked at Susan and looked at me.

“Just a wild guess,” she said. “You need anything else right now?”

We didn’t.

“There’s not much that I can think of that I wouldn’t do,” I said, “if you asked.”

“It’s because I know better than to ask,” Susan said.

“That’s crazy,” I said.

“You’d do anything I asked?” Susan said.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Can I have your pie?” Susan said.

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”