Bertha said, her words thickened somewhat by a mouthful of her second pecan waffle, “Go right ahead.”
Hale picked up his briefcase, propped it on his lap, and folded back the flap so he could have ready access to the interior of it.
“Roberta Fenn was twenty-three years old in 1939. That would make her approximately twenty-six at the present time. I have here some additional photographs — I believe Mrs. Cool sent you some photographs by air mail, Lam.”
“Yes, I have them.”
“Well, here are some additional ones showing her in different poses.”
He shot his hand down in the briefcase, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. “There’s also a more detailed description in there. Height, five feet four; weight, one hundred and ten; hair, dark; eyes, hazel; figure, perfect; teeth, regular; complexion, clear olive, skin very smooth.”
Bertha Cool caught the eye of the Negro waitress and beckoned her over. She said, “I want another one of those pecan waffles.”
I asked Bertha, “Are you trying to fit those clothes you threw away a year ago?”
She became instantly belligerent. “Shut up! I guess I—” She realized a cash customer was present and bottled up her temper. “I eat only one good meal a day,” she explained to Hale with something that wasn’t a smile, not yet a smirk. “Usually it’s dinner, but if I eat a heavy breakfast and go light on dinner, the result is the same.”
Hale studied her. “You’re just the right weight to be healthy,” he said. “You’re muscular and vigorous. It’s really surprising the amount of energy you have.”