“What street?” I asked.
“Canal. It was — let me see, it was just about five-thirty in the evening, and she was walking down the street. I don’t think she recognized me. I have a pretty good memory for faces, and I see lots of my customers when I’m out on the street.” She smiled. “Lots of times they know they’ve seen me before, but can’t place me, because they’ve been accustomed to seeing me behind the counter here. I never speak to them unless they speak to me.”
I thanked her and went back to the apartment. Bertha Cool was lounging back in a chair, smoking a cigarette, with a glass of Scotch and soda on the little table by the side of the chair.
“How you doing?” she asked.
“Not too good.”
“Like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” Bertha said. “My God, Donald, I’ve found the most wonderful restaurant.”
“Where?”
“Right up the street here.”
“I thought you’d had your one meal for the day. I didn’t know you were hungry. I just came back now to see if you wanted something to eat.”
“No, lover, not now. I find I get along better if I don’t let myself get too hungry. Just eat a little something to take the keen edge off my appetite.”