want to marry Chauncey.”
“Shirl, it’s impossible for me to believe that a young lady of your outstanding attributes hasn’t had and doesn’t have the opportunity to marry any of a dozen eager young men.”
“Oh sure, I’ve had the chance,” she said, almost dreamily. “But no one like Chauncey.”
That I could believe. But then our Ponderosa Delight and drinks were served, and I postponed further attempts to convince her to reach an equitable compromise.
She was starting on her second wedge of pizza when I noted she was casting furtive glances over my shoulder.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
She leaned forward across the table to speak in a low voice. “There’s a man over there who keeps staring at me.”
“Quite understandable,” I said cheerily. “You’re worth staring at, Shirl, and I’m sure you’re aware of it.”
“But I don’t like the way he keeps smiling with a smirky grin. Like he knows something secret about me.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“No, I’m sure I haven’t.”
“Shall I go over and ask him to stop smirking at you?”
“Oh no,” she said quickly, “don’t do that. I don’t want to cause no trouble.”
We finished the pizza, and I tried again to persuade her to accept cash in return for CW’s mash notes. But she was adamant; she wanted only to marry the man as he had promised, not once but many times, and if he reneged she would have no choice but to make his letters public.
She was explaining all this, determinedly and with some passion, when she suddenly broke off and said, “Here he comes.”
A man halted alongside our table. I looked up to see a tall, saturnine bloke in raw black silk with a white Izod. He stared down at my companion, and I could agree with what she had said: It was a smirky grin. He didn’t even glance at me.
“Hiya, Shirl,” he said in a raspy baritone. “Having a good time?”
Then he sauntered away, paid his bill at the front counter, and went outside. I noted that he had a profile like a cleaver. I watched him get into a gunmetal Cadillac de Ville and pull away. I turned back to Shirley.
“You don’t know him?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“He knew your name.”
“I don’t know how,” she said, obviously troubled.
“Perhaps he was a customer,” I suggested.
“No,” she insisted. “I’d have remembered. I don’t like his looks. He scares me.”
“Nothing to be scared about,” I assured her. “I doubt if you’ll ever see him again.”
But I couldn’t comfort her. Her bouncy mood had vanished; she seemed subdued. “Listen,” she said finally, “I’ve got to get to work.”
I paid our tab and walked her back. I gave her fifty dollars, wondering how much would go to Jake and how much she’d be allowed to keep.
“Shirl,” I said, “it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ll relay what you’ve told me to our client. But I still hope a mutually satisfactory solution to this impasse can be arranged.”
“Sure it can,” she said, “if he marries me.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?”
“Of course,” she said. Then: “You’re nice,” she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for the pizza.”
She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.
I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.
1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of what would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up
“Shirl, it’s impossible for me to believe that a young lady of your outstanding attributes hasn’t had and doesn’t have the opportunity to marry any of a dozen eager young men.”
“Oh sure, I’ve had the chance,” she said, almost dreamily. “But no one like Chauncey.”
That I could believe. But then our Ponderosa Delight and drinks were served, and I postponed further attempts to convince her to reach an equitable compromise.
She was starting on her second wedge of pizza when I noted she was casting furtive glances over my shoulder.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
She leaned forward across the table to speak in a low voice. “There’s a man over there who keeps staring at me.”
“Quite understandable,” I said cheerily. “You’re worth staring at, Shirl, and I’m sure you’re aware of it.”
“But I don’t like the way he keeps smiling with a smirky grin. Like he knows something secret about me.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“No, I’m sure I haven’t.”
“Shall I go over and ask him to stop smirking at you?”
“Oh no,” she said quickly, “don’t do that. I don’t want to cause no trouble.”
We finished the pizza, and I tried again to persuade her to accept cash in return for CW’s mash notes. But she was adamant; she wanted only to marry the man as he had promised, not once but many times, and if he reneged she would have no choice but to make his letters public.
She was explaining all this, determinedly and with some passion, when she suddenly broke off and said, “Here he comes.”
A man halted alongside our table. I looked up to see a tall, saturnine bloke in raw black silk with a white Izod. He stared down at my companion, and I could agree with what she had said: It was a smirky grin. He didn’t even glance at me.
“Hiya, Shirl,” he said in a raspy baritone. “Having a good time?”
Then he sauntered away, paid his bill at the front counter, and went outside. I noted that he had a profile like a cleaver. I watched him get into a gunmetal Cadillac de Ville and pull away. I turned back to Shirley.
“You don’t know him?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“He knew your name.”
“I don’t know how,” she said, obviously troubled.
“Perhaps he was a customer,” I suggested.
“No,” she insisted. “I’d have remembered. I don’t like his looks. He scares me.”
“Nothing to be scared about,” I assured her. “I doubt if you’ll ever see him again.”
But I couldn’t comfort her. Her bouncy mood had vanished; she seemed subdued. “Listen,” she said finally, “I’ve got to get to work.”
I paid our tab and walked her back. I gave her fifty dollars, wondering how much would go to Jake and how much she’d be allowed to keep.
“Shirl,” I said, “it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ll relay what you’ve told me to our client. But I still hope a mutually satisfactory solution to this impasse can be arranged.”
“Sure it can,” she said, “if he marries me.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?”
“Of course,” she said. Then: “You’re nice,” she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for the pizza.”
She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.
I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.
1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of what would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up
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