"You got any, ah, like maybe a roast beef sandwich?" Shirley said to the waitress.
"We have a wonderful sandwich of grilled portabellas with Asiago on country bread dressed with extra virgin oil and served with julienne of jicama and blood orange," the waitress said encouragingly.
"What's a portabella?" Shirley said to me.
"A big mushroom," I said.
She looked at the waitress and frowned.
"A mushroom sandwich?"
The waitress smiled enthusiastically.
"Why don't we each have the pail lard of chicken, and a green salad and some bread."
"Of course, sir. Anything to drink with that?"
"Wine," Shirley said.
"Anything special?" the waitress said.
"Some white wine," Shirley said. She'd lost interest in ordering and was looking around the room at the other diners.
The waitress looked at me. She didn't have to be a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.
"Bottle of Sterling Sauvignon Blanc," I said.
The waitress smiled as they always do to tell me how much she admired my choice of wines, and hurried away to tell the wine steward.
"What's that pal lard thing you ordered?" Shirley asked.
"Breast of chicken flattened with a mallet and quickly sauteed."
"Sounds terrible," she said.
"Drink enough wine," I said, "you'll think you like it."
Shirley picked up a roll from the bread basket and bit into it the way you eat an apple. She looked around the room some more until the waitress returned with the wine.
"You care to try it?" I said to Shirley.
"Sure," she said.
The waitress opened the bottle and poured a splash in Shirley's glass. Shirley looked at it.
"Come on, lady, pour me some wine," Shirley said.
I nodded to the waitress.
"Pour it out," I said.
"I'm sure it's fine."
The waitress smiled happily and poured us both a glass of wine, and put the bottle in the ice bucket. Shirley picked up her glass and drank half of it. She smiled at me.
"Hits the spot," she said.
"You bet," I said.
She glanced out toward Huntington Ave. where her father's big Lincoln sat near the curb. The driver was behind the wheel, reading the Globe.
"See if Jackie's watching," she said with a big confidential smile.
"They don't like it, I drink wine at lunch."
"Your secret's safe with me," I said and made a slight toasting gesture with my glass. Shirley drank the rest of her wine and reached behind her to get the bottle from the wine bucket. She poured another glassful. The waitress brought our salads. The salad chef was long on presentation. There were various colored greens arranged into a somewhat precarious-looking vegetable spray. Shirley studied it for some time, sipping her wine without a word. I ordered a second bottle of wine from the waitress.
"So what can you tell me about Anthony?" Shirley said.
She stuffed a forkful of greens into her mouth.
"Haven't found him yet," I said.
"So why we having lunch. So you can tell me you haven't found him?"
"Tell me a little more about what he did for your dad," I said.
"Money stuff," Shirley said.
She washed the greens down with more wine.
"What kind?" I said.
"What kind of what?"
"What kind of money stuff," I said.
I took my first sip of wine. If I drank a lot at lunch, I needed a nap. Shirley didn't seem worried about that.
"He used to pick up money from people," she said.
"Bring it places, and give it to other people."
"Bookies?"
"I don't know. I'm a girl. They don't talk about business with girls."
"Of course not," I said.
"He carry a lot of money around?"
"Sure. Daddy trusted him like he was his own son."
"Sure," I said.
The waitress arrived with our chicken pail lard Shirley poked at it with her fork for a moment, and put the fork down and drank some wine.
"Daddy never had sons of his own, just me."
"Only child, huh?"
"Yeah, my mom said it was too hard."
"I'm an only child too," I said.
Shirley nodded. It didn't seem to make us closer. I drank another small swallow of wine.
"You and Anthony ever have any, ah, little spats?"
"Never, I told you before, he'd stand on his head for me."
I nodded. She drank the rest of the wine in her glass and reached around to the ice bucket and poured out the remainder of the first bottle.
"Well sure, I know a woman who'd stand on her head for me, unless she was wearing a skirt. But now and then we might disagree about something."
Shirley laughed loudly. Her face was flushed.
"I bet she wouldn't," Shirley said between guffaws, "if she was wearing a dress. I bet she wouldn't."
She laughed very loudly again.
"Well, luckily, Anthony doesn't wear a skirt," she said.
"So he can stand on his head whenever he wants."
"When he stands on his head, do you forgive him?"
She was still giggling.
"Depends how long he stands." She had trouble saying it because she was giggling so hard.
I laughed along with her. She tried to get it under control by having some more wine, but it only made her more giggly.
"What's the longest you ever made him stand on his head?" I said. Jovial.
"Well, of course he never really stood on his head. But there was the time when I found out about him and the cocktail waitress at The Starlight," she said.
Her face was bright red now, and she spilled a little of her wine as she drank.
"He paid big for that one," she said.
"He paid for that big time."
"I'll bet he did," I said, bursting with mirth.
"I'll bet he never tried that again."
"You kidding?" she said, leaning forward toward me over the table.
"Little fink would fuck a snake, you hold it for him."
"Really?" I said.
"I'm telling you," she said.
"How you feel about that?"
"I won't hold one for him," she said. And leaned back in her chair and laughed hard. I had a bite of chicken and glanced around the room. The chic lunch crowd was grimly ignoring her.
"You ever catch him with anyone else?" I said.
"Naw. That time I caught him I laid down the goddamned law.
He's too scared to try and step out on me," she said.
"Your father know about this?"
"Gawd no," she said.
"That's what I told Anthony.
"I tell Daddy about this," I told him, 'and he'll have them cut off your balls." I nodded.
"That would be discouraging," I said.
She giggled again.
"
"Course I wouldn't really want them to snip off his balls, you know. Wouldn't be in my best interest, you know what I mean.
Little bastard is something in bed, I'll tell you."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said.
Shirley stood up quite suddenly.
"Scuse me," she said.
"I gotta go to the little girls' room."
I stood, ever gallant, and watched her as she wove among the tables, showing too much of her chunky legs, looking sadly vulnerable with the little dress draped badly over her big butt. People stared at her as she wobbled among the tables. Not our kind.
I sat down and looked at nothing much. Shirley had eaten half her salad and none of her chicken. But the second bottle of wine was nearly empty. I caught a couple of people peeking over at me, wondering who would be lunching with her! I'd have to come here with Susan and try to recoup. The long dining room was impressive. Along the front, picture windows looked out onto Huntington Ave." and across at the Prudential Center. The bar was across the far end of the room, and the ceiling was two stories high. The kitchen was, apparently, at the top of a flight of stairs to the right of the hostess station, which must have been an added benefit for the wait staff. Earn a living while developing the quadriceps of a long jumper.
The maitre d' came to my table. His brass name tag said Jose.
"Excuse me," Jose said. He spoke with the silken hint of an accent.
"I'm afraid your companion has had a small accident in the ladies' room."