She was being a very bad sport about it, he decided resentfully, and went to sleep.
* * *
The next afternoon, Frelaine walked by the cafe again. The girl was back, sitting at the same table. Frelaine caught a cab.
“Drive around the block very slowly;” he told the driver.
“Sure,” the driver said, grinning with sardonic wisdom. From the cab, Frelaine watched for spotters. As far as he could tell, the girl had none. Both her hands were in sight upon the table.
An easy, stationary target. Frelaine touched the button of his double-breasted jacket. A fold flew open and the gun was in his hand. He broke it open and checked the cartridges, then closed it with a snap.
“Slowly, now,” he told the driver.
The taxi crawled by the cafe. Frelaine took careful aim, centering the girl in his sights. His finger tightened, on the trigger.
“Damn it!” he said.
A waiter had passed by the girl. He didn’t want to chance winging someone else.