after he picked up the tab.
As she approached the table, Cindy saw Oliver stand up. Like Dad, Scott was from the old school, a guy who probably opened doors and pulled out chairs for the ladies. So unlike her own generation, where every person was on his or her own—good for self-reliance, bad for manners.
Scott looked good. His attire was not only dressier than last night, but also far less slick. He wore a camel-hair jacket over a cream-colored shirt, a red tie, and charcoal slacks. When he held out his hand, Cindy took it. Instead of shaking it, he pulled her forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, leaning over the corner of the table to reach her face. He let go, his eyes giving her a quick once-over.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“I look lovely?”
“Uh, I mean good. You look good.”
“Good is fine. I’ll even take lovely. Have a seat.”
Cindy slid her body between the tabletop and a red leather banquette, parking herself catercorner to Oliver. The table itself was from another century, surfaced with linoleum designed to look like marble. It was so tiny that their knees touched. She readjusted her position to break the contact. If Scott noticed, he didn’t say anything.
The place was a blast from a long-ago past, when Hollywood glamour meant Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame instead of piercing salons and tattoo parlors. The interior decor could best be described as a hunting lodge, with beamed ceilings, wood-grained moldings, and prints of the chase complete with hart, hare, and hound. Below the coursing images were dark-stained wood panels. Old wood … good wood. A mirrored-back bar ran the length of the room, the specialty of the house being a dry martini with an olive or—if you’re supersophisticated—a pearl onion. Busboys, identified by green jackets and smiles, poured the water and gave them bread. A waiter, identified by his red jacket and surly expression, handed them menus and asked them if they wanted a drink.
“Wine at dinner?” Oliver asked Cindy.
“Sounds good.” She looked up at her server. “Any specials not on the menu?”
The waiter regarded her with suspicion. “The menus are printed daily.”
“Oh.” Cindy perused the carte du jour. “So you have everything on the menu then?”
“Not the linguine and langostino, not the western omelet, not the lobster bisque—”
“So why was the menu printed with linguine and langostino if you don’t have it?”
The waiter glared at her. “Do you want to take it up with the owner?”
“Not particularly.”
“Are you ready to order, ma’am?”
The menu was extensive and was done in small print. “Can I have a few more minutes?”
The waiter turned and walked away.
Cindy said, “Think we’ll ever see him again?”
“If you keep raggin’ like that, maybe not.”
She shrugged. “Just asked a simple question.”
Oliver regarded her face. “You must have been fun to raise.”
She smiled. “I don’t remember my father complaining.”
“Maybe not to you—”
“Why? Has he said anything to you?”
Oliver was taken aback by the force in her voice. “No. Just making conversation. Someone give you a hard time today, Decker?”
“No one … unless you’re referring to the Russian drunk driver I arrested this afternoon.”
He looked up. “How’d it go?”
“He’s in the drunk tank sleeping it off, and I’m here. I suppose that’s a victory for society as well as for me.” She was silent. “Nah, everything at work is fine.” She rotated her shoulders. “Just fine.”
Oliver put the menu down and studied her face. “You look kind of tense … the way you’re sitting.”
“I’m not tense.” She slouched just to prove the point. “My muscles may be a little stiff. I’ve been doing some extra typing. You know, hunched over the keyboard with no lumbar support. The department doesn’t think ergonomically.”
“What are you writing?”
“Case reports. Which are big pains because you have to type them using a certain format. You know, making sure you don’t go over the tabs or else the words’ll run between the lines instead of on top of them when the form prints out. I thought a hot shower would take care of the aches. Actually, it did, but only for a while.”
“Any reason why you’re typing so many reports?”
Cindy put down her menu. Immediately, the waiter reappeared. “Have you decided?”
To Cindy, the words sounded like Have you decided to go away? Please? She said, “Yes, thank you. I’ll have the sand dabs. Does that … never mind.”
“If you have a question, go ahead and ask it. I may sneer, but I don’t bite.”
Cindy smiled. “How are they prepared?”
“Lightly coated and pan-fried,” the waiter answered stoically. “They come with boiled potatoes. If you want French fries, I can get you French fries.”
“French fries would be great.” She handed him the menu. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He looked at Oliver. “For you, sir?”
Oliver handed him the menu. “Prawns and your best bottle of Chardonnay.”
“Caesar for two to start?”
“Sure.”
Without ceremony, the waiter left.
Cindy whispered, “Is he going to spit in our food?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I was sufficiently polite this time?”
“Better.” He smiled. “Why are you typing so many reports?”
“Doing favors.” Cindy looked at the ceiling. “Trying to extricate myself from Sergeant Tropper’s shit list by completing his reports—his least favorite chore.”
“Tropper?” Oliver thought
