She deliberately averted her head, pretending to stare out at the scenery along St. Charles Avenue. After a moment she said, “Got a match?”
I handed her a match and she lit a cigarette. We rode in silence until we came to the Gulfpride Apartments.
“Better have the cab wait,” I told Bertha. “It’s hard to get a cab here. We may not be long.”
“We’re going to be quite a while,” Bertha said, “a lot longer than you think. We aren’t going to have any taxi meter playing tunes while we’re talking.”
Bertha opened her purse, paid off the cab driver, and said, “Wait here until after we’ve rung the bell. If we get a buzz to go on up, don’t wait. Otherwise, we’ll go back with you.”
The cab driver looked at the ten-cent tip Bertha had given him, said, “Yes, ma’am,” and sat there, waiting.
Bertha found the button opposite the name of Roberta Fenn and jabbed her thumb against it with sufficient force to make it seem she was trying to flatten the bell button.
“Probably isn’t up yet,” Bertha snorted. “Particularly if she was out last night. I wouldn’t doubt if she was one of them that was making that whoopee under my window. Apparently things don’t really get going in this town until around three o’clock in the morning.”
She speared the button with another vicious thumb jab.
Abruptly the buzzer on the door made noise. I pushed against the door, and the door moved inward. Bertha turned and waved dismissal at the taxicab driver.