The Night, The Day by Andrew Kane Read Free Book Online

tonight.”
    Martin turned around and scanned some of the tables. Of the few diners remaining at this hour, not one appeared to be eating veal Marsala. He smiled at Steve. “I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”
    “Now, there’s a trusting soul.”
    Steve handed Martin’s order to a waiter and went back to work. Martin concentrated on his Scotch and exchanged smiles with some of the regulars, though they knew he wasn’t one for chitchat. This was his time to himself.
    Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a woman he didn’t recognize.
    “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I just saw you from the other side of the bar and thought I might come over and introduce myself.”
    Her accent was British, her looks somewhat Sharon Stonesque: shoulder-length straight blond hair, hazel eyes, seductive smile, thin but shapely figure.
    “I hope I’m not being too forward,” she said.
    “Well, uh, no.” Martin wore his uneasiness.
    “I’m sorry, I just thought that maybe… it doesn’t matter.” She turned away and started back to the other end of the bar.
    “No, really, it’s okay,” he said as he reached out and took her arm.
    She stopped and smiled. “Sure?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    A moment of silence.
    “Can I get you a drink?” Martin asked.
    “Only if you insist.”
    “I do,” he said, trying to make up for his initial reaction. “What’ll it be?”
    “A glass of Merlot.”
    He gestured for the bartender. Steve came over, an astonished look on his face. He had never seen Martin talk with a stranger. On rare occasions, maybe one of the regulars who knew the deal, but never a stranger. “A glass of Merlot,” Martin said.
    Steve glanced at the woman, then looked at Martin approvingly as he poured the wine.
    “My name is Cheryl, Cheryl Manning,” she said, holding out her hand.
    “Marty Rosen.” He took her hand, feeling it as both delicate and strong, confirming his sense that there was something dichotomous about her, the way she had come up to him so boldly, yet cowered at the first sign of resistance. He didn’t want to play “shrink,” but it was in his blood. It also made him feel safe if he understood things, or at least thought he did.
    “Looks like you’re a regular here,” she said.
    “How can you tell?”
    “ I noticed when you walked in, how the bartender brought your drink without your asking. Then I watched the two of you chatting and all.”
    Martin had to admit he loved the way Brits spoke, especially the women. He was also flattered. “You saw all that?”
    “I watched you quite carefully,” she said.
    Martin took a rather large sip of his drink.
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “There I go again, making you uncomfortable.”
    He looked her over. She was a real stunner, and her accent was just something else. That , and the bit of alcohol he’d consumed on an empty stomach, made him say, “I suppose I can get used to it.”
    Steve came back, and placed some utensils and a napkin on the bar. “Food’ll be right out, Marty,” he said as he took Martin’s glass to replenish it.
    “You’re eating?” Cheryl asked.
    “Yes, dinner. Care for some?”
    “No thank you, I’ve had mine.”
    Steve brought Martin’s drink over with his meal. “Looks like that guy wants to get me drunk,” Martin said to her.
    “He seems to like you.”
    Martin considered the comment. “We’ve known each other for a long time.” He took a bite of his veal.
    “So,” she said, “what kind of work do you do?”
    Martin didn’t welcome the question; he knew his answer would change things and, he had to admit, he was starting to enjoy himself. He couldn’t help remembering Nancy Hartledge, the psychologist he’d met in Chicago, wondering if this was going to be a repeat performance. Of course, if he were advising one of his patients, he would say it was entirely up to him. But Martin was always lousy about taking his own advice.
    “I’m a clinical