Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

“I eat in the work room.” She was beginning not to like him. He had never wasted time on cold shoulders, too many were warm. But he ignored her attitude, the way a Benedict or Justin would have. “You wouldn’t object to varying the routine for once, would you? It’s only a step to the Plaza. Much better food than a work room. Better company too.”
    She repeated, “I do not go out to lunch. Good morning.” She had one foot on the stairs and she wasn’t hesitating.
    He stated slowly, insolently, “I want to see some hats.”
    Fury was in her eyes but she spoke with well-trained modulation. “Yes, sir. What sort of hats?”
    “I want to see all sorts of hats. Silly hats. Frump hats. Just hats. Lots of hats.”
    Her voice was cold as she echoed, “We do not have ‘lots of hats.’ Madame Detreaux creates them to suit the taste of the individual customer rather than for stock.”
    “Madame Detreaux,” he mimicked, “makes up plenty for customers with dough and without individuality, the kind that don’t want to hang around waiting to suit their taste. Trot them out, sister.”
    Her eyes flickered dark flame on him and he grinned. She drew a curtain, slid glass patchwork doors, selected a wad of black with sick-looking green feathers shooting from it.
    He studied it. “Mm,” he said. “Too tailored. Let’s have another.”
    She brought out some sort of red brim with blue and white mirrors pasted on it. He repeated, “Mmm. Let’s see it on.”
    “What is that?” She’d been startled out of her icy armor.
    He gestured ashes to the rug, raised his eyebrows. “Do you mind modeling that one, Miss?” He used Barby’s best inflection.
    She controlled herself but the effort was obvious. She actually made the hat seem like something. He looked at her legs. “Not bad. Let’s see some more, sister.”
    They lay on every chair, every table, flowers and feathers and fluff, gewgawed geometries. Her cheeks were scarlet, her hair disturbed.
    “Not bad,” he repeated for the somethinged time to her legs.
    She snatched off the coil of red and purple pansies. Her lips trembled and the hands holding the Detreaux-inspired garden shook. “Just what do you want?” Her voice was tight as wire.
    “I want to eat lunch.”
    She said with faint hope, “Good afternoon, Mr. McKittrick.”
    “With you.”
    Her long fingers spread on her dress. She repeated stubbornly, “I do not go out for lunch.”
    He sighed, lit another cigarette. “Let’s see some more hats, sister.”
    She stood there, hating him in every fibre. Her voice trembled, “Don’t call me sister again.”
    “You haven’t told me your name.”
    Her mouth opened, closed. They had both heard the steps behind the curtain. Det must have smelled a customer; she couldn’t have heard voices. She was as dumpy as ever and as smart in her gray knit and sleek silver head. She peered from behind her glasses and came down the steps her arms wide.
    “It’s my brave broth of a boy come back to see his old Annie.” She clasped him, rocked him, and he watched Toni’s eyes go wide before she turned and vanished up those steps. “And looking yourself again, so handsome and fine.” She released him with broad suspicion, “And what are you doing in a salon de chapeaux, my fine young spalpeen?” Her eyes didn’t, they couldn’t, miss the display of hats.
    “And what would I be doing but waiting to see my Annie O’Rooney, the Duchess of Detreaux?”
    They whooped together and she wiped her eyes. “Give me a cigarette, Kit. All blarney like your Dad. Chris would be proud to set his eyes on you this day.” She looked a bit anxious. “You’re well again?”
    “One hundred per cent.”
    “And now—” she puffed. “What are you doing here?”
    “Did I ever tell you that when I was a kid I used to think that ‘Little Annie Rooney’ was written about you?” She must have been pretty when she was a young thing, sitting on the brownstone stoop of a summer