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“Thank you, but no thank you.”
I am getting lucky.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Daffy said, and left them.
“Oddly enough, I think Daffy likes you,” Susan said.
“In her own perverted way, perhaps,” Matt said.
“Are you a lawyer, like your father?” Susan asked.
“No.”
“You look like a lawyer.”
“How does a lawyer look?”
“Like you.”
“Sorry.”
“What do you do?”
“Would you believe policeman?”
“No.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. Boy Scout’s honor.”
“How interesting. Really?”
“Detective Matthew Payne at your service, ma’am.”
He saw that she now believed him—and in her eyes that he was no longer going to be lucky.
Let’s cut to the chase.
“Do you like jazz, Susan?”
“What kind of jazz?”
“Dixieland.”
She nodded.
“There’s a club, in Center City, where there’s a real live, imported-directly-from-Bourbon-Street-in-New-Orleans-Louisiana Dixieland band,” Matt made his pitch. “Could I interest you in leaving these sordid surroundings and all these charming people to go there? They serve gen-u-ine southern barbecue ribs and oysters and beer.”
Susan Reynolds met his eyes.
“Sorry,” she said. “Try somebody else.”
“Daffy scared you off?”
“Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice fellow, but I’m just not interested. Okay?”
“Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free,” Matt said. “May I get you another drink before I leave?”
She held up her glass.
