The Bookman's Wake by John Dunning Page A

I thought I saw her
     doubts begin to vanish in the rain. “Hey, you can
     mail it back to me when you’re flush again.”
     She gave a dry little laugh and said, “That’ll
     probably be never.” I shrugged and said,
     “You’re on a bad roll, that’s all Look, I
     don’t want you to get any wrong ideas, but I’ve
     got a car right across the street. I could drive you
     home…as long as you don’t live in Portland or
     someplace.”
    She seemed to be considering it. I knew I didn’t
     look like anything out of the Seattle social register, so
     sincerity was probably the best I could hope for. I leaned
     in close, crossed my arms against her window, and talked to
     her through the crack. “Look, miss, you can’t
     stay out here all night. If you’re broke, I’ll
     loan you the money for a place…a cheap place,
     okay?…no strings attached. Call it my good deed for
     the year, chalk it up to my Eagle Scout days. If
     you’re worried about me, I can understand that,
     I’ll slip you the money through the window and give
     you an address where you can send it back to me when your
     ship comes in. What do you say?”
    “I thought Good Samaritans were
     extinct.”
    “Actually, I’m your guardian angel,” I
     said, trying for a kidding tone to put her at ease.
    “Well, you’ve sure been a long time
     coming.”
    “We never show up until the darkest possible
     moment.”
    “Then you’re right on time.”
    “I could spare thirty dollars. You won’t get
     much of a room for that, but it’s better than sitting
     in your car all night.”
    She leaned close to the crack and studied my face.
    “Why would you do something like that?”
    “Because you look like you’ve just lost your
     last friend. Because I know you’ll pay me back.
     Because once or twice in my life, I’ve been so far
     down it looked like up to me.”
    “Richard Farina.”
    I didn’t say anything, but I was surprised she had
     made that connection.
    “That’s the title of a book by Richard
     Farina.
Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me
.”
    I said, “Oh,” and pretended not to know it.
     I’d have to watch that, keep the literary metaphors
     out of my talk until I saw where we were heading.
    “So what do you say?” I asked.
    “I won’t take your money…but, yeah,
     maybe a ride…I could use a ride if you’re going
     my way.”
    “I’m sure I am.”
    I told her to stay put and I’d drive up close so
     she wouldn’t get wet. Then I had her, snuggled in the
     seat beside me. No wonder monsters like Ted Bundy had it so
     easy. That thought crossed her mind too and she said,
     “I guess I’m a sitting duck if you’re
     some wacko from a funny farm.” She shrugged as if
     even that wouldn’t matter much. I gave her the big
     effort, a smile I hoped was reassuring. “Ma’am,
     I don’t blame you at all for thinking that, I’d
     be thinking it myself if I were in your shoes. All I can
     tell you is, you’re as safe with me as you’d be
     in a police station.”
    I hoped this wasn’t laying it on too thick, but it
     didn’t seem to bother her. “My name’s
     Janeway.”
    Her hand was warm and dry as it disappeared into mine.
     “Eleanor Rigby.”
    I was surprised that she’d use her real name: she
     probably hadn’t had time yet to get used to being a
     fugitive.
    “Eleanor Rigby,” I repeated. “You mean
     like…” and I hummed the staccato
     counterpoint.
    She tensed visibly at the melody. For a moment I was
     sure she was going to get out and walk away in the rain.
     “You’ve probably heard that a million
     times,” I said, trying to make light of it. “I
     imagine you’re sick of it by now.” Still she
     said nothing: she seemed to be trying to decide about me
     all over again. “Look, I didn’t mean anything
     by that. I grew up on Beatles music, it was just a natural
     connection I made. I sure wasn’t relating you to the
     woman in the song.”
    Her eyes never left my face. Again