"I am not going to do this in a car," she said righteously.
"Sorry, I got carried away," he said.
That sounded sincere.
Matt opened his door and got out of the car.
What's this? What's he doing?
He walked around the rear of the Porsche and opened her door.
If he thinks I'm just going to go in there and have dinner…
She swung her feet out of the Porsche and got out.
She looked at his lipstick-smeared face, then for a moment into his eyes, and then quickly averted hers.
I'm not going in there with him looking like that!
She took the crisp white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and rubbed at his lips. When the lipstick didn't want to come off, she spat on his handkerchief and resumed rubbing with it.
I can't believe I did that.
"All right," she said finally.
He nodded and took her elbow and led her through a rear entrance into the hotel building, and down a corridor into, finally, the lobby. She saw a green neon arrow and the word "Restaurant."
God, my hair must be a mess, and my face is probably as smeared with lipstick as his was and everybody in the restaurant will see.
"Wait," Matt ordered.
He left her.
Where's he going? God, he's going to the desk. He doesn't actually expect me to go to a hotel room with him. I can't believe that this is happening. I won't let it happen. I'll just go back to the car…
Two minutes later, he was back, swinging a hotel key.
"We have a small suite overlooking the tenth green," he announced.
Susan nodded her head.
He took her arm and led her to the elevator.
I can't believe I'm doing this!
The elevator operator, an old man, held his hand out to look at the key. When the elevator stopped and the door opened, the old man said, "To the right, sir. About halfway down."
"Thank you," Matt said, and waved Susan out of the elevator in front of him.
He unlocked the door to the suite, went inside, found and snapped on the lights, and turned to Susan, still standing in the corridor.
Their eyes met, and again she averted hers, and then went through the door.
She stopped six feet from the door and looked at him.
"What did you say about Penny?" Susan asked.
He looked confused, searched his memory, and shrugged.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"You said Penny needed you. That she was really fucked up. That you got sucked into it."
"Yeah, I said that. It's true."
"And that doing the right thing keeps getting you in trouble."
"Shut up, Susan," Matt ordered with a smile.
He crossed the few steps to her, put his hand on her cheek, and tilted her face up to look at him.
Their eyes met, and this time she didn't avert hers.
She felt his fingers working the buttons of her blouse. Her breasts, because he had unfastened her brassiere, were not restrained by it.
When he put his hand on her breast, then his mouth on her nipple, she heard herself saying, softly and plaintively, "Matt, I have to sit down. Lie down."
He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where, with one hand, he jerked the cover off the bed. Then he lowered her onto it, and as they looked into each other's eyes, took off the rest of her clothing.
Mr. Paulo Cassandro, the owner of record of Classic Livery, Inc., and its president, a 185-pound gentleman who stood six feet one inches tall, who had been summoned nevertheless, entered the living room of Mr. Vincenzo Savarese very carefully, and was immediately pleased that he had.
Mr. Pietro Cassandro, who was carried on the books of Classic Livery, Inc., as its vice president, immediately looked up at Paulo and made a gesture indicating that Paulo should wait and say nothing.
Pietro, who was twenty pounds heavier than Paulo, two inches taller, four years older, and equally well-tailored, was not, however, quite as bright. For that reason, Mr. Savarese had some years before decided that Paulo was better equipped to direct Classic Livery and Pietro was better suited to function as a companion, which translated to mean that Pietro served Mr. Savarese as a combination chauffeur, bodyguard, and guardian of Mr. Savarese's privacy.
Paulo saw why Pietro had held up his hand, fingers extended in a warning to say nothing and wait until Mr. S. was ready for him.
Mr. S. was sitting slumped in a very large, comfortable-appearing armchair, his highly polished shoes resting on its matching footstool. His eyes were closed, and his right hand was moving in time with tape-recorded music being reproduced through a pair of five-foot-tall, four-feet-wide stereophonic loudspeakers.
I know that, Paulo thought with just a little pride. That's Otello, by whatsisname, Verdi. Giuseppe Verdi. And that's the part where the dinge offs the broad.
Paulo had three times accompanied Mr. S. to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City to see a performance of the opera. He could see it now in his mind's eye.
He very carefully backed up to the wall and leaned on it, to wait for Mr. S. to have time for him.
Three minutes later, Mr. Savarese pushed himself away from the cushions of his chair, causing Paulo concern that he might have inadvertently made a noise, distracting Mr. S. from his enjoyment of the opera.
Mr. S. did not seem annoyed with him.
Maybe he turned around to see if I was here yet.
Confirmation of that seemed to come when Mr. S. turned the volume off all the way.
"Pietro, rewind the tape carefully, please, and put it away."
"You got it, Mr. S.," Pietro said.
"Thank you for coming, Paulo," Mr. S. said. "Will you have a glass of wine?"
"That would go nice, if it wouldn't be an inconvenience, Mr. S."
"Get a bottle of wine and some glasses, Pietro, please," Mr. Savarese said, then motioned Paulo into one of the chairs surrounding an octagonal game table.
"Thank you, Mr. S.," Paulo said.
"If there had been any activity with the man, you would have told me, Paulo?"
"I had one of the guys ride by there every forty-five minutes, no less than once an hour. Nothing, Mr. S."
Pietro took a bottle of an Italian Chablis from the sterling-silver cooler where it had been kept ready for Mr. S. in case he wanted a little grappa, opened it, and set it on the table. He added two glasses.
"You'll have a glass, too, Pietro," Mr. S. said, "when you have finished with the tape."
"Thank you, Mr. S."
Savarese nodded and smiled at him, then turned to Paulo.
"I have been thinking that I would like to be there when you talk with this man," he said.
"You don't mean you want to go there, Mr. S.," Paulo said in surprise.
"I think that would be best, under the circumstances," Savarese said. "I would like to personally hear what he has to say."
"What I meant, Mr. S., is that you don't want to go there, do you? I mean, I can have him at the garage, for example, or anyplace else, thirty minutes after you give me the word."
Mr. Savarese poured wine in two glasses and handed one to Paulo.
"Salute," he said.
"Salute," Paulo repeated.
Mr. Savarese took a small, appreciative sip of the wine.
"That would involve moving him," he said. "I would rather that he not be moved. I think that would be better."
"Whatever you say, Mr. S."
"Paulo, he is in a certain state of mind after having been where he has been, under those circumstances, for twenty-four hours. If we move him, that would, I think, break the spell, so to speak."
"You're right, Mr. Savarese. I didn't think about that."
Paulo was frequently reminded, when dealing with Mr. S., that if he was one and a half times as smart as Pietro, Mr. S. was like five times, ten times as smart as he was.
"There'll be no problem, nothing to worry about," Paulo said. "I'll get enough people to guard that place like fucking Fort Knox!" When he saw the pained look on Mr. S.'s face, his own colored quickly. "Sorry about that, Mr. S."
Mr. S. did not like either profanity or obscenity.