At the Casablanca a stretcher was being loaded into an ambulance, and Qwilleran inquired about it at the manager's desk.
"An old gentleman on Four had a heart attack," said Mrs. Tuttle as if it were a routine occurrence.
"May I leave my groceries here while I go for a walk?" "Certainly," she said. "Be careful where you go. Stay on the main streets." Qwilleran had acquired the walking habit up north, and he headed for downtown on foot, proceeding at a studious pace in order to evaluate the streetscape. Ahead of him stretched the new Zwinger Boulevard with its trendy buildings: glass office towers like giant mirrors; an apartment building like an armed camp; the new Penniman Plaza hotel like an amusement park. The thought crossed his mind that the Klingenschoen Fund could buy all of this, tear it down, and build something more pleasing to the eye.
He was, of course, the only pedestrian in sight. Traffic shot past him in surges, barreling for the next red light like race horses bursting out of the gate. At one point a police car pulled up. "Looking for something, sir?" asked an officer.
If Qwilleran had said, "I'm thinking of buying all of this and tearing it down," they would have sent him to the psychiatric ward, so he flashed his press card and told them he was reporting on the architecture of inner cities in the northeast central United States.
Next, discovering an office building with shops on the main floor, he bought a handbag for Polly and had it gift- wrapped and shipped with an affectionate enclosure. It was called a "Paris bag," something not to be found in Moose County, where a "Chicago bag" was considered the last word.
He also entered a bookstore called "Books 'n' Stuff," that stocked more videos and greeting cards than books.
Furthermore, its supermarket lighting and background music discouraged browsing. Qwilleran had his own ideas about the correct ambiance for a bookstore: dim, quiet, and slightly dusty.
Downtown he passed the Daily Fluxion and would have dropped in to banter with the staffers, but the formidable new security system in the lobby was inhibiting. He kept going in the direction of the Press Club.
This venerable landmark on Canard Street had been remodeled and redecorated. It was no longer the hangout where he and Arch Riker used to lunch almost every day at the same table in the same comer of the bar, served by the same waitress who knew exactly how they liked their burgers. None of the old crowd was there. Everyone seemed younger, and there was a preponderance of ad salesmen and publicity hacks on expense accounts - a suit-and-tie crowd.
He was the only one in the place who looked as if he had arrived on horseback. He ate at the bar, but the corned beef sandwich was not as good as it used to be. Bruno, the bartender, had quit, and no one remembered Bruno or knew where he had gone.
As Qwilleran was leaving the bar, he recognized one familiar face. The portly and easygoing Lieutenant Hames of the Homicide Squad was lunching with someone who was obviously a newsman and probably the new reporter on the police beat; Qwilleran could identify the breed instantly. He stopped at their table.
"What brings you down from the North Pole?" the detective asked in his usual jocular style.
"The developers are evicting me from my igloo," Qwilleran replied. "They're building air-conditioned condos." "Do you guys know each other?" Hames introduced Matt something or other from the Fluxion's police bureau. The name sounded like Thiggamon.
"Spell it," Qwilleran requested as he shook hands with the young reporter.
"T-h-i-double g-a-m-o-n." "What happened to Lodge Kendall?" "He went out west to work on some new magazine," said Matt. "Aren't you the one who gave the big retirement bash for Arch Riker? I missed it by two days." "You're entitled to a raincheck." "What are you doing here anyway?" asked Hames.
"Spending the winter with crime and pollution instead of snowdrifts and icebergs. I'm staying at the Casablanca." "Are you nuts? They're getting ready to bulldoze that pile of rubble. Do you still have your smart cat?" "I sure do and he's getting smarter every day." "I suppose you still indulge his taste for lobster and frog legs." Qwilleran said, "I admit that he lives high, for a cat, but he saved my neck a couple of times, and I owe him." Hames turned to the new reporter. "Qwill has this cat that can dig up clues better than the whole Homicide Squad.
When I told my wife about him, she bugged me until I got her a Siamese, but ours is more interested in breaking the law than enforcing it. Pull up a chair, Qwill. Have some coffee. Have dessert. The Fluxion's picking up the tab." Qwilleran declined, saying that he had an appointment, and went on his way, thinking about the proliferation of Hedrogs and Thiggamons, like" names out of science fiction. Moreover, the bylines at the Fluxion were getting longer and more complicated. Fran Unger had been replaced by Martta Newton-Ffiske. At the Morning Rampage Jack Murphy's gossip column was now written by Sasha Crispen-Schmitt. Try saying that fast, he thought: Try saying it three times.
In a critical and slightly grouchy mood he pushed through the lunch-hour crowds on the street, finding most of the pedestrians to be in a mad rush, tense, and rude. The women he evaluated as chic, glamorous, and self-consciously thin, though not as pretty or as healthy-looking as those in Moose County.
Returning to the Casablanca too early for his. appointment with Mary Duckworth, he went for a ride, extricating the Purple Plum from the parking lot's tire-bashing cracks and craters and driving to River Road, his last address before moving up north. His old domicile and the tennis club next-door had been replaced by a condo complex and marina, and he could hardly remember how either of the original buildings looked. Too bad! He chalked up another score for the developers and drove back to the Casablanca, hoping it would still be there. What he found was a revised situation in the parking lot. His official slot, #28, was still occupied - not by the green Japanese car but by a decrepit station wagon with a New Jersey license plate. Someone else had pulled into #29, so he wheeled the Purple Plum into #27. After a morning of disappointment, indignation, and other negative reactions, Qwilleran was none too happy when he left for Mary Duckworth's antique shop.
The Blue Dragon still occupied a narrow townhouse, handsomely preserved, and a large blue porcelain dragon (not for sale) still dominated the front window bay. That much had not changed. Nor had the entrance hall with its Chinese wallpaper, Chippendale furniture, and silver chandeliers. There was a life-size ebony carving of a Nubian slave with jeweled turban that had not yet sold, and Qwilleran glanced at the price tag to see if it had been marked down. It had gone up another two thousand dollars, Mary's credo being: If it doesn't sell, raise the price.
As for Mary herself, she still had the sleek blue-black hair and willowy figure that he remembered, but the long cigarette holder and the long fingernails were no longer in evidence. Instead of an Oriental kimono, she wore a well- tailored suit and pearls. She shook his hand briefly and glanced at his Nordic sweater and Aussie hat. "You look so sportif, Qwill!" "I see you haven't sold the blackamoor," he said.
"I'm holding it back. Originally it stood in the lobby of the Casablanca, and it will appreciate in value, no matter what happens to the building." "Do you still keep that unfriendly German shepherd?" "Actually," said Mary, "I don't feel the need for a watchdog, considering the new atmosphere in Junktown. I was able to find him a good home in the suburbs, where he's really needed. Come into the office." She motioned him to sit in a wing chair.