The waiter was heading over to see if we had a dessert order.
"End of interrogation, Mike?"
"Almost. Tell me about your manager."
We decided to share crème brûlée, and then returned to the topic.
"Mr. Elmain?" she asked.
I nodded.
Shirley propped her chin on her hands and looked at me across the table. "You saw him as we exited the shop. A nice gentleman in his late fifties, widowed at an early age, remarried and has two chubby teenage daughters. His father had a porcelain business in Holland, and Mr. Elmain took up ceramics over here. He used to have a place in Brooklyn that made only inexpensive restaurant pieces. He sold that and set up the Village Ceramics Shoppe."
"How is business?"
She beamed. "Absolutely terrific. You'd be surprised how many bored people there are looking to express themselves in an art form. It's within their capabilities, doesn't cost much, and they always have something concrete to show off or give away."
"What you sell," I said, "is generated by students in classes?"
"Some of it. And we produce the more professional items ourselves. Four of us on staff are trained in the craft, the art."
"I see."
"Most of our income is the street trade of people, tourists mostly, looking for interesting gift objects. There aren't too many ceramics shops in the city, so we get the trade from all over, including mail orders."
"And Elmain?"
Her smile was warm. "As for Mr. Elmain, I'd say he was very well off, a conservative fussbudget, and as innocuous as they come. I like him. We all do."
The dessert came, with coffee, and we set the dish between us and went after it with our spoons—an intimate arrangement for a first date.
I asked, "How did the boss get along with Frazer?"
"Russell did his job," she said, and licked creamy stuff off her lips. "That was all Mr. Elmain ever asked of him."
"Susie Moore told me Frazer had some odd friends that drove black limos."
She smirked at the thought. "I think Russell was more talk than action."
"I told you—you should see his Playboy pad."
"I'd rather see yours," she said impishly.
My eyes swept the place deliberately and there was a caustic note in my voice when I said, "I'm not convinced I'm your type, Shirley."
"Still waters may run deep," she said, "but a rough current is a lot more fun to surf in." She had that funny smile going again. "Please don't typecast me, Mike."
Like she wasn't me?
"Okay," I said, and put my spoon down. "Let's get back to Frazer. He ever give you a hard time at all? Too sexually frisky, maybe, or argumentative or ... anything?"
She thought a moment and shook her head. "I can't come up with anything, Mike."
"Let's put it this way—has there ever been any trouble at the shop?"
This time the response was instant: "Well, we had the front window smashed by some drunk one time ... then about six months later, somebody broke in the back door, smashed up some greenware, and pried open the files. But we never keep any money on hand, and nothing was missing."
"What about the cash register?"
"The drawer is always left open and empty at night. Mr. Elmain makes a night deposit right after we close up, and takes home enough to open the register with the next day. Apparently the burglars thought the cash was in the files and forced them open. We had to buy all new drawers the next day."
"That's the extent of it? No other trouble?"
"Oh, we get occasional shoplifting, but that's usually around the holidays."
"What was in the files?"
"Invoices, receipts, correspondence from customers and suppliers. The usual sort of thing."
I nodded. "What kind of a locking device did the file cabinets have?"
She fished in her handbag, took out a ring of keys, and handed me two simple flat steel jobs about two inches long. "One for each file of four drawers each," she said.
"Hell, any amateur could handle that kind of deal without even busting the drawers."
"A screwdriver is just as easy," she admitted. "I had to do it once myself, when I lost my keys."
I handed the ring back and snubbed out my cigarette. "How about letting me take a look at those files?"
Her tongue wet her lips down and they slipped into a pretty smile. "Okay, but there are more interesting things you could examine."
"Women's Lib is ruining this country," I said. "Don't you know it's the male of the species who's supposed to be the aggressor?"
She rolled her pretty brown eyes. "Not with all the competition around these days, brother. Hey, a woman needs every advantage she can grab."
"What makes you think I'm up for grabs?"
Her smile got even more provocative. "Up for ... or up to?"
"Don't make my working hours so hard, baby."
"Maybe I like the idea."
"Of what?"
"Of making it hard for you."
I let out a little laugh and waved the waiter over to bring me the check. I put it all on my credit card, like shelling out this way for food was an everyday occurrence, and reminding myself never to come back here again. I folded the receipt into my wallet and took Shirley Vought outside to a cab.
The way she held on to me, I might get my money's worth yet.
The files in the back room were simple gray steel affairs, powdered lightly with ceramic dust. Two oversize figurines and a collection of painted chess pieces were stacked on their tops beside a box of color charts.
Each drawer held alphabetically filed folders with the exception being the lower left-hand one, where a bag of hair curlers, a can of spray, and a comb and brush were tucked away. Most of the filing related to domestic business, but two drawers were given over to the foreign accounts, suppliers of certain paints and European-oriented molds.
I asked her, "Would any of this stuff be of value to competitors?"
"I can't see how," she said, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. "Everybody has access to those firms. It's an open market—it isn't as if the business had any great financial or social significance."
Just to be sure, I riffled through the files one more time, picked out the one labeled SAXONY HOSPITAL, and looked over the purchase orders signed by Dr. Harrin. Practically all of them were for novelty items from ashtrays to toy banks along with paint, stains, and equipment to decorate them.
Before I could ask her, Shirley said, "The hospital has a kiln in the basement that a wealthy patient donated. They bake their own pieces."
I put the folder back and slid the door shut with disgust. I said, "Damnit," and Shirley shrugged.
"I told you there was nothing to look at."
"Maybe I should have taken you up on your first offer," I said.
She came into my arms, her face tilted up toward mine. She might have been just a little tipsy from several glasses of wine. Lifting herself on her toes, hands behind my head pulling me closer, she ran her tongue like a little firebrand across my lips.
"It still isn't too late," she said.
"I should just take you home," I told her.
But I didn't count on the little alcove dressing room with the soft pink light and the big overstuffed chair. She was out of the designer dress as quick as a jump cut in a movie, and although I was trying to swear off those wild oats Velda had said to get sown, I was human—that curvy body with the dramatic tan lines and the puffy, hard-tipped areolas against stark white flesh and the dark pubic triangle against that same startling white was mine for the asking, without asking, and she began by falling to her knees to worship the part of me that seemed to be in charge. Soon I was lost in sweet-smelling flesh and hair and caught up with the incredible agility of a woman who loved the unusual, whose curious sounds of total enjoyment were like thunderous applause.