What she could do was indicated by a crook of her finger and a jerk of her head in my direction. In no time at all, a brunette with lots of make-up slid into the chair opposite and said, “Hello. How are you tonight?”
“Fine,” I said. “Have a drink?”
She nodded.
The waiter might have been hiding under the table from the promptness with which he answered that nod.
“Whisky straight,” she said.
“Rye highball,” I ordered.
The waiter went away. The girl across the table put her elbows on the tablecloth, interlaced her finger tips under her chin, gave me the benefit of a stare from two very large dark eyes, and said, “My name’s Carmen.”
“I’m Donald.”
“Live here?”
“I’m on the road. I get in once every three or four months.”