“Want to go to Los Angeles with me tonight?”
“No. Bertha’s rather tired, and I like this desert climate. I think it would be better to—”
“There’s a train at nine-twenty,” I said. “I’ll get reservations on it.”
Chapter Six
The cocktails didn’t help things any. Philip Whitewell became moody and showed his heartbreak. His father kept looking at me as a poker player looks at a man who shoves a stack of blues into the middle of the table after announcing a pat hand on the draw. Bertha, trying to hover over us like a dove of peace and keep things running smoothly, showed signs of cracking under the strain.
It was a new role for Bertha, as foreign to her as the relatively slim silhouette she presented. Whitewell had somehow managed to hypnotize her. She was suddenly conscious of the fact that she was a woman. How that was going to affect her business judgment remained to be seen. When Bertha Cool’s newly discovered romantic streak ran up against her business cupidity, it was going to be a major collision.
Personally, I was sitting tight, playing them close to my chest, quite willing to talk about politics and armament — but I’d quit talking about Corla Burke.
We had dinner. The night was warm. Insects buzzed around the street lights in spinning circles. Doors and windows were all open. The natives and a goodly sprinkling of the tourists went around in shirt sleeves. You weren’t aware of perspiration — except when you leaned back against a cushion so the air couldn’t get to you. Then you’d feel your shirt was damp when you pulled away. Other times, the dry air evaporated perspiration just as fast as it formed.
Whitewell did the honors with the check. While he was waiting for change, Philip said to me, “Lam, I have a lot of confidence in you.”
“Thanks.”