G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

Dietz appeared in the doorway and I moved in his direction. As usual, he grabbed me by the elbow without ceremony and marched me down the hall. He was brusque, distracted, probably mentally several moves ahead. "Let's have lunch."

"Here?" I said, startled. I'm more the Burger King type myself.

"Sure, why not? It'll cheer you up."

We'd reached the entrance to the hotel restaurant, a vast room enclosed in glass, with polished red tile floors and white wicker furniture. The room was dense with greenery: palms and rubber plants, potted ficuses lending an air of tropical elegance. The patrons were actually very casually dressed: tennis outfits, golf shirts, and designer sweats. Dietz was wearing the same jeans and tweed sport coat he'd worn for two days, while I was in my jeans and tenny-bops. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to us, except for the occasional look of curiosity that flickered to my face.

He spotted a sheltered table near a fire exit with a sign prominently displayed above it: this door must BE KEPT UNLOCKED DURING BUSINESS HOURS. Perfect if needed to make a fast getaway. The service area nearby was being used as a station for linen and flatware. A waitress had been sentenced to folding napkins into cloth boats.

"How about that one," he said. The hostess nodded and led the way, showing us to our seats without questioning his taste.

She handed us two oversized menus bound in leather. "Your waiter will be right with you," she said and moved away. I'll admit I checked the menu with a certain curiosity. I'm used to fast-food chains where the menus feature glossy photos of the food, as if the reality itself is bound to disappoint.

The edibles here were itemized on a quarto of parchment, handwrit by some kitchen scribe who had mastered Foodspeak. "… lightly sauced pan-smoked filets of free range veal in a crib of fresh phyllo, topped with squaw bush berries, and accompanied by hand-formed gaufrettes of goat cheese, wild mushrooms, yampa root, and fresh herbs…" $21.95. I glanced at Dietz, who didn't seem at all dismayed. As usual, I could tell I was completely out of my element. I hardly ever eat squaw bush berries and yampa root.

I checked the other patrons. My view was actually half-obscured by a Boston fern. Next to the plant stand was a cylindrical cage in which finches were twittering. There were small bamboo baskets affixed to the wire sides and the little birds hopped in and out with strips of newspaper, making nests. There was something charming about their bright-eyed busyness. Dietz and I watched them idly while we waited for our waiter.

"You know anything about crows?" he asked.

"I'm not much on birds."

"I wasn't either until I met one personally. I used to have a crow named Albert. Bertie, when I got to know him better. I got him when he was just a little guy and had him for years. A young crow doesn't navigate well and they'll sometimes crash-land. They're called branchers at that age-that's about all they can do, lumber awkwardly from branch to branch. Sometimes they get stuck and they wail like babies until you get ' em down. Bertie must have bitten off a bit more than he could chew and he'd tumbled to the ground. I had a cat named Little John who brought him in, squawking hellishly. LJ and I had a tussle to see who was going to take possession. Fortunately for Bertie, I won the contest. He and the cat became friends later, but it was touch-and-go for a while there. LJ was pissed off because he thought this was Thanksgiving dinner and I was getting in his way…"

Dietz looked up. The waiter was approaching, dressed like an usher at a wedding, complete with white gloves.

"Good afternoon. Something to drink before lunch?" The waiter's manner was circumspect and he avoided making eye contact.

Dietz turned to me. "You want a drink?"

"White wine," I said.

"Chardonnay, sauvignon blanc?" the waiter asked.

"Chardonnay."

"And you, sir?"

"I'll have a beer. What do you have imported?"

"Amstel, Heineken, Beck's dark, Beck's light, Dos Equis, Bohemia, Corona…"

"Beck's light," Dietz said.

"Are you ready to order?"

"No."

The waiter stared at Dietz, then nodded and withdrew.

Dietz said, "We probably won't see him for half an hour, but I hate being bullied into ordering."

He picked up his story again about Bertie the crow, who liked to take long walks on foot and lived on a diet of M M's, hard-boiled eggs, and dry cat food. While Dietz talked, his gaze shifted restlessly around the room. He seldom looked at faces, always at hands, checking for concealed weapons, sudden movements, signals perhaps. Some underling arrived, bearing our drinks, but the waiter didn't return. Dietz scanned the dining room, but there was no sign of Mm. Twenty minutes passed. I could see Dietz take note and in a surge of uneasiness, he finally tossed a bill on the table and got up. "Let's get out of here. I don't like this."