Nightlife by Thomas Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

Instead he talked about other restaurants he knew in the Bay Area, an art exhibition he wanted to see while he was in the city, a book he had read on the airplane.
    She silently cursed the waiter when he delivered the check. She had not had enough time. When she reached for the check, Larson’s big hand was on the little tray, covering it. He said, “Please. I already know you’re the kind of person who likes to pay her own way, but you would be doing me a kindness to let me have it. You did a great favor to let me join you, and it’s all I can do in return.”
    “Well, all right.” When the waiter took his card and went away, she said, “Thank you.”
    She pretended not to pay any attention to the check after that, but she had found that the way people treated servers could be an early indication of unpleasant qualities. She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room at the right moment and looked down at it over his shoulder. He was a generous tipper. When she returned, she said, “I would like to take you out for an after-dinner drink. There’s a place near here that’s quiet.”
    He seemed taken aback. “I would be absolutely delighted.” He stood up, then said, “How near?”
    “Two hundred feet.” They walked down the street to the bar of the Pan Pacific hotel, just off the huge white marble lobby. They sat at a table and ordered drinks. He said, “I gave you my business card. Have you had any cards printed yet?”
    “No,” she said. “I haven’t hired my designer yet, and I want to be sure everything has the right look.”
    He produced another card of his and a pen and set them on the table in front of her. “Then please write a number where I can reach you.”
    She hesitated, then wrote the phone number at her house. They had their drink, but before either of them had finished it, she said, “I’ve got to get up early and meet with a photographer to look at his portfolio.” He put her in a taxi in front of the hotel, and she went back to her house feeling pleased with herself for timing her exit to pique his interest.
    The next day she got up early and walked to a newsstand on Market Street to buy the Portland
Oregonian,
then had a cup of coffee and a bagel while she searched it for new information about Dennis Poole. She found no mention of him, and she walked home feeling relieved. She turned the television to the local morning news for company while she read the
San Francisco Chronicle,
but didn’t bother to turn it off when the news was replaced by reruns of a situation comedy. At eleven, her telephone rang for the first time. Nobody had her number except David Larson, so she hurriedly muted the television set before she answered it, smiled to herself, and said, “Singular Aspects.”
    The second dinner with David was at the Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton on Nob Hill, and it went better than the first for Rachel Sturbridge. Just after their entrées were served, he said, “You know, I’ve been thinking. I would like to buy a half interest in your magazine.”
    She smiled and shook her head. “There is no magazine yet. How can I sell it?”
    “That’s why I’m offering now. I’m betting you’re going to be so successful that it will be too expensive to buy in later. I bring you capital and business knowledge, and you bring me the idea, the talent, and the effort. That’s how start-ups work.”
    “That’s very flattering,” she said. “But let’s not be in a rush.”
    “Why the delay?”
    “I’m going to ask for fifty billion dollars, and I need to give you time to raise it.”
    He laughed and touched her hand. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s why I’m willing to bet on you. I wanted to make you the offer before I left for Austin, but that doesn’t mean I need the answer by then.”
    “When are you going back?”
    He looked unhappy, as though he had been dreading the subject. “On Friday. I hate to do it, but I have a meeting that afternoon, and I’ve already