The waiter bowed and withdrew.
She looked across the table at me and said, “You’re nice.”
I said, “I may prey on women. Your body may be found all cut up in a vacant lot tomorrow morning. You shouldn’t pick up strangers.”
“I know,” she said. “My mother told me.”
She was silent for a few seconds, then said, “I tried to get into an auto camp, and they told me they didn’t cater for unescorted women.”
I didn’t say anything.
“It is,” she observed, “practically impossible for a woman to be guilty of immorality without an escort.”
“You shouldn’t have much trouble finding an escort,” I told her.
“I didn’t,” she said, and then added hastily, “but I didn’t want to do it that way. You’re nice. What’s your name?”
“Lam,” I said. “Donald Lam.”