The Case of the Lady in Apartment 308 by Lass Small Read Free Book Online Page B

hungry.”
    “If you make me eat alone, I’ll go into a decline.”
    She tasted the word. “A…decline?”
    “I have an uncle who lives in TEXAS and he says that whenever anybody crosses him. But he can go into a decline.” He raised his eyebrows as he lowered his eyelids and he bragged, “So can I.”
    “How?”
    He gave her his aloof glance and replied, “I slump and my face falls and I give up.” He smiled and his eyes sparkled with his humor.
    She said, “Bosh.”
    So he sighed deeply as he slid out of his cream jacket and hung it on one of the chrome-and-fake-leather chairs, which had seen better days. Then he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and turned them back precisely.
    He sat down and looked at her. “I’m ready to eat.” And he put his hand to his forehead as if he was being very brave to endure.
    When she made no response, his glance slid over to her and caught her bitten grin.
    She said, “Where all have you taken your plays?”
    “I’m not an actor, I’m just a simple man.” Then he narrowed his eyes just a trifle and asked, “How do you make your living?”
    She did an eye-catching shrug. “Painting.”
    He was kind. “You’re really very good at it.” But then his honesty kicked in and he added, “You tend to be slow and careful. When will you be finished with your apartment?”
    “In about two days.”
    He frowned at her. “How can you live on what you make? You’re so…careful that you’re slow.”
    In her white silk blouse, her shrug was fascinatingly wonderful. His body tingled and he had to be careful his breaths didn’t sound like an upset bull’s.
    Why her?
    She was turned away, putting the fish into the hot skillet.
    She put the waiting covered skillet onto the table and he peeked. It was cut-up potatoes, which had been browned as they’d cooked in grease. He smiled. To hell with cholesterol rejection.
    He said, “Sit down. You don’t get credit unless you share your company. I did. You have to reciprocate.”
    She sat down. “I didn’t know rent collectors knew such a word.”
    His mouth just went right on and told her, “I’ve had a stickler for a mother.”
    She went to the small refrigerator and brought out a bowl of salad. It was well cut and had been tossed to distribute the dressing. There was lettuce, tomatoes and onions. Some croutons had been added. There were bits of green pepper. It was crisp and nice.
    He smiled some more.
    She watched the frying fish. She’d set the timer and it clicked along. When it dinged, she turned the fish carefully. And she reset the timer.
    He wondered how she’d come to decide on how much cooking the fish needed?
    She watched the timer, filled the glasses with water and put the warmed plates on the table. She took the covered skillet and removed the lid to allow him to take some fried potatoes.
    Then the timer sounded, and she put the fried fish on a plate. She brought it to the table and said, “There.”
    He repeated, “You get half.”
    She considered. Then she sat down and cut the fish in half. She did that across the middle. He got the part with the head, she took the part with the tail.
    How could a woman, who lived by such a big river, and had such a refined fishing pole, not know how to fillet a fish? There were probably other, more important things she didn’t know. She had a few things to learn.
    He reached for her plate as he told her, “Here. Let me fix that for you.”
    She said nothing but watched his face as he skillfully filleted the back half of the catfish. She didn’t much care for fish.
    He put the bones on his own plate and smiled at her kindly as he returned her plate. Then he began on his own fish, filleting it with dispatch.
    She got up and found a soup bowl for him to use for the bones. And the fish’s head. How gross.
    They ate mostly in silence. He ventured several questions. “Did you go to school here?”
    She replied, “No.”
    “Where?”
    Vaguely, she said, “Over in Ohio.”
    He