Whispers (28 page)

“I’m just a lowly serving girl.”

“You’re a great deal prettier than the queen.”

“Better not let her hear you say that. She’ll have your head for sure.”

“Too late.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve already lost my head over you.”

Hilary groaned.

“Too saccharine?” he asked.

“I need a bite of lemon after that one.”

“But you liked it.”

“Yes, I admit I did. I guess I’m a sucker for flattery,” she said, getting into the Jeep in a swirl of green silk.

As they drove down toward Westwood Boulevard, Tony said, “You’re not offended?”

“By what?”

“By this buggy?”

“How could I be offended by a Jeep? Does it talk? Is it liable to insult me?”

“It’s not a Mercedes.”

“A Mercedes isn’t a Rolls. And a Rolls isn’t a Toyota.”

“There’s something very Zen about that.”

“If you think I’m a snob, why’d you ask me out?”

“I don’t think you’re a snob,” he said. “But Frank says we’ll be awkward with each other because you’ve got more money than I have.”

“Well, based on my experience with him, I’d say Frank’s judgments of other people are not to be trusted.”

“He has his problems,” Tony agreed as he turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. “But he’s working them out.”

“I will admit this isn’t a car you see many of in L.A.”

“Usually, women ask me if it’s my second car.”

“I don’t really care if it is or isn’t.”

“They say that in L.A. you are what you drive.”

“Is that what they say? Then you’re a Jeep. And I’m a Mercedes. We’re cars, not people. We should be going to the garage for an oil change, not to a restaurant for dinner. Does that make sense?”

“No sense at all,” Tony said. “Actually, I got a Jeep because I like to go skiing three or four weekends every winter. With this jalopy, I know I’ll always be able to get through the mountain passes, no matter how bad the weather gets.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn to ski.”

“I’ll teach you. You’ll have to wait a few weeks. But it won’t be long until there’s snow at Mammoth.”

“You seem pretty sure we’ll still be friends a few weeks from now.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” he asked.

“Maybe we’ll get into a fight tonight, first thing, at the restaurant.”

“Over what?”

“Politics.”

“I think all politicians are power-hungry bastards too incompetent to tie their own shoelaces.”

“So do I.”

“I’m a Libertarian.”

“So am I—sort of.”

“Short argument.”

“Maybe we’ll fight over religion.”

“I was raised a Catholic. But I’m not much of anything any more.”

“Me either.”

“We don’t seem to be good at arguing.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe we’re the kind of people who fight over little things, inconsequential matters.”

“Such as?”

“Well, since we’re going to an Italian restaurant, maybe you’ll love the garlic bread, and I’ll hate it.”

“And we’ll fight over that?”

“That or the fettucini or the manicotti.”

“No. Where we’re going, you’ll love everything,” he said. “Wait and see.”

He took her to Savatino’s Ristorante on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was an intimate place, seating no more than sixty and somehow appearing to seat only half that number; it was cozy, comfortable, the kind of restaurant in which you could lose track of time and spend six hours over dinner if the waiters didn’t nudge you along. The lighting was soft and warm. The recorded opera—leaning heavily to the voices of Gigli and Caruso and Pavarotti—was played loud enough to be heard and appreciated, but not so loud that it intruded on conversation. There was a bit too much decor, but one part of it, a spectacular mural, was, Hilary thought, absolutely wonderful. The painting covered an entire wall and was a depiction of the most commonly perceived joys of the Italian lifestyle: grapes, wine, pasta, dark-eyed women, darkly handsome men, a loving and rotund
nonna
, a group of people dancing to the music of an accordionist, a picnic under olive trees, and much more. Hilary had never seen anything remotely like it, for it was neither entirely realistic nor stylized nor abstract nor impressionistic, but an odd stepchild of surrealism, as if it were a wildly inventive collaboration between Andrew Wyeth and Salvador Dali.

Michael Savatino, the owner, who turned out to be an ex-policeman, was irrepressibly jolly, hugging Tony, taking Hilary’s hand and kissing it, punching Tony lightly in the belly and recommending pasta to fatten him up, insisting they come into the kitchen to see the new cappuccino machine. As they came out of the kitchen, Michael’s wife, a striking blonde named Paula, arrived, and there was more hugging and kissing and complimenting. At last, Michael linked arms with Hilary and escorted her and Tony to a corner booth. He told the captain to bring two bottles of Biondi-Santi’s Brunello di Montelcino, waited for the wine, and uncorked it himself. After glasses had been filled and toasts made, he left them, winking at Tony to show his approval, seeing Hilary notice the wink, laughing at himself, winking at her.

“He seems like such a nice man,” she said when Michael had gone.

“He’s some guy,” Tony said.

“You like him a great deal.”

“I love him. He was a perfect partner when we worked homicide together.”

They fell smoothly into a discussion of policework and then screen-writing. He was so easy to talk to that Hilary felt she had known him for years. There was absolutely none of the awkwardness that usually marred a first date.

At one point, he noticed her looking at the wall mural. “Do you like the painting?” he asked.

“It’s superb.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t you agree?”

“It’s pretty good,” he said.

“Better than pretty good. Who did it? Do you know?”

“Some artist down on his luck,” Tony said. “He painted it in exchange for fifty free dinners.”

“Only fifty? Michael got a bargain.”

They talked about films and books and music and theater.

The food was nearly as good as the conversation. The appetizer was light; it consisted of two stubby crèpes, one filled with unadulterated ricotta cheese, the other with a spicy concoction of shaved beef, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and garlic. Their salads were huge and crisp, smothered in sliced raw mushrooms. Tony selected the entrée, Veal Savatino, a
specialita
of the house, incredibly tender white-white veal with a thin brown sauce, pearl onions, and grilled strips of zucchini. The cappuccino was excellent.

When she finished dinner and looked at her watch, Hilary was amazed to see that it was ten minutes past eleven.

Michael Savatino stopped by the table to bask in their praise, and then he said to Tony, “That’s number twenty-one.”

“Oh, no. Twenty-three.”

“Not by my records.”

“Your records are wrong.”

“Twenty-one,” Michael insisted.

“Twenty-three,” Tony said. “And it ought to be numbers twenty-three and twenty-four. It was two meals, after all.”

“No, no,” Michael said. “We count by the visit, not by the number of meals.”

Perplexed, Hilary said, “Am I losing my mind, or does this conversation make no sense at all?”

Michael shook his head, exasperated with Tony. To Hilary he said, “When he painted the mural, I wanted to pay him in cash, but he wouldn’t accept it. He said he’d trade the painting for a few free dinners. I insisted on a hundred free visits. He said twenty-five. We finally settled on fifty. He undervalues his work, and that makes me angry as hell.”

“Tony painted that mural?” she asked.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

She looked at Tony, and he grinned sheepishly.

“That’s why he drives that Jeep,” Michael said. “When he wants to go up in the hills to work on a nature study, the Jeep will take him anywhere.”

“He said he had it because he likes to go skiing.”

“That too. But mostly, it’s to get him into the hills to paint. He should be proud of his work. But it’s easier to pull teeth from an alligator than it is to get him to talk about his painting.”

“I’m an amateur,” Tony said. “Nothing’s more boring than an amateur dabbler running off at the mouth about his ‘art.’ ”

“That mural is not the work of an amateur,” Michael said.

“Definitely not,” Hilary agreed.

“You’re my friends,” Tony said, “so naturally you’re too generous with your praise. And neither of you has the qualifications to be an art critic.”

“He’s won two prizes,” Michael told Hilary.

“Prizes?” she asked Tony.

“Nothing important.”

“Both times he won best of the show,” Michael said.

“What shows were these?” Hilary asked.

“No big ones,” Tony said.

“He dreams about making a living as a painter,” Michael said, “but he never does anything about it.”

“Because it’s only a dream,” Tony said. “I’d be a fool if I seriously thought I could make it as a painter.”

“He never really tried,” Michael told Hilary.

“A painter doesn’t get a weekly paycheck,” Tony said. “Or health benefits. Or retirement checks.”

“But if you only sold two pieces a month for only half what they’re worth, you’d make more than you get as a cop,” Michael said.

“And if I sold nothing for a month or two months or six,” Tony said, “then who would pay the rent?”

To Hilary, Michael said, “His apartment’s crammed full of paintings, one stacked on the other. He’s sitting on a fortune, but he won’t do anything about it.”

“He exaggerates,” Tony told her.

“Ah, I give up!” Michael said. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Hilary.” As he walked away from their table, he said, “Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-three,” Tony said.

Later, in the Jeep, as he was driving her home, Hilary said, “Why don’t you at least take your work around to some galleries and see if they’ll handle it?”

“They won’t.”

“You could at least ask.”

“Hilary, I’m not really good enough.”

“That mural was excellent.”

“There’s a big difference between restaurant murals and fine art.”

“That mural was fine art.”

“Again, I’ve got to point out that you aren’t an expert.”

“I buy paintings for both pleasure and investment.”

“With the aid of a gallery director for the investment part?” he asked.

“That’s right. Wyant Stevens in Beverly Hills.”

“Then he’s the expert, not you.”

“Why don’t you show some of your work to him?”

“I can’t take rejection.”

“I’ll bet he won’t reject you.”

“Can we not talk about my painting?”

“Why?”

“I’m bored.”

“You’re difficult.”

“And bored,” he said.

“What shall we talk about?”

“Well, why don’t we talk about whether or not you’re going to invite me in for brandy.”

“Would you like to come in for brandy?”

“Cognac?”

“That’s what I have.”

“What label?”

“Remy Martin.”

“The best.” He grinned. “But, gee, I don’t know. It’s getting awfully late.”

“If you don’t come in,” she said, “I’ll just have to drink alone.” She was enjoying the silly game.

“Can’t let you drink alone,” he said.

“That’s one sign of alcoholism.”

“It certainly is.”

“If you don’t come in for a brandy with me, you’ll be starting me on the road to problem drinking and complete destruction.”

“I’d never forgive myself.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting side by side on the couch, in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and sipping Remy Martin.

Hilary felt slightly light-headed, not from the cognac but from being next to him—and from wondering if they were going to go to bed together. She had never slept with a man on the first date. She was usually wary, reluctant to commit herself to an affair until she had spent a couple of weeks—sometimes a couple of months—evaluating the man. More than once she had taken so long to make up her mind that she had lost men who might have made wonderful lovers and lasting friends. But in just one evening with Tony Clemenza, she felt at ease and perfectly safe with him. He was a damned attractive man. Tall. Dark. Rugged good looks. The inner authority and self-confidence of a cop. Yet gentle. Really surprisingly gentle. And sensitive. So much time had passed since she’d allowed herself to be touched and possessed, since she’d used and been used and shared. How could she have let so much time pass? She could easily imagine herself in his arms, naked beneath him, then atop him, and as those lovely images filled her mind, she realized that he was probably having the same sweet thoughts.

Then the telephone rang.

“Damn!” she said.

“Someone you don’t want to hear from?”

She turned and looked at the phone, which was a walnut box model that stood on a corner desk. It rang, rang.

“Hilary?”

“I’ll bet it’s him,” she said.

“Him who?”

“I’ve been getting these calls. . . .”

The strident ringing continued.

“What calls?” Tony asked.

“The last couple of days, someone’s been calling and then refusing to speak when I answer. It’s happened six or eight times.”

“He doesn’t say anything at all?”

“He just listens,” she said. “I think it’s some nut who was turned on by the newspaper stories about Frye.”

The insistent bell made her grit her teeth.

She stood up and hesitantly approached the phone.

Tony went with her. “You have a listed number?”

“I’m getting a new one next week. It’ll be unlisted.”