“Okay. All right. Tone it down.”
Someone in the clustering crowd inquired loudly, “Hey, isn’t she Tildy Millett?” I wanted to get away from there, on the double.
“I couldn’t bear to see Dow — like that.” She let me lead her along the sidewalk, away from the onlookers. “I want to remember him as he was.” Her teeth chattered as if it were eight below instead of eighty above. “I’m not going, that’s all.”
“Well, hell. I can’t let you go back to Brooklyn.” I quickened our pace. “That sharpshooter may still be hanging around the Narians’. He might not miss next time. I can’t leave you here on the street—”
“No!” She moaned in terror. “Don’t leave me — please don’t leave me. I couldn’t stand being alone.” Half a block away, a marquee necklaced with yellow bulbs shone dimly over the entrance to the Hotel Brulard. I hurried her toward it before any more pedestrians collected around us.
She glanced dully up at the marquee. “What’s this?”
“Hotel. You have to spend the night somewhere.”
She hung back. “I won’t go ’less you promise not to leave me.” Hers was a loud plaintive voice for that street, that late!
If the back of my neck wasn’t red at some of the comments made by busybodies within earshot, it’s only because I long ago forgot how to blush.
But I said, “Kayo. Okay. I promise. Let’s go.”