Read Dr. Yes for Free Online Page B

Not only would I be carrying books, but as a customer of No Alibis she
undoubtedly already knew me to see, whereas I forget my customers as soon as
they leave, and occasionally while they're still there. It was, however,
reasonable to assume she would not look like a dog's dinner, given that she was
the first person people would see when they came along to Dr Yeschenkov's
clinic for an estimate, and if she looked like she'd been beaten with the ugly
stick, potential customers would probably change their minds as soon as they
saw her. On the other hand, if she was a real stunner, I would have remembered
her being in the shop. What I did know was that she sounded funny and bubbly,
had said she wasn't into horror or gore or any of the more explicit authors,
but that Christie bored her and she never quite 'got' any of the Scandinavians.
Her tastes seemed to quite mirror mine, so selecting what I felt was right for
her wasn't a problem. I picked up an Elmore Leonard, a Robert B. Parker, a
Pelecanos, for obvious reasons, and, a little out of left field, Graham
Greene's Our Man in Havana. I fixed my remaining hair and scooted across
to Starbucks a little before one, so that I could have exactly the coffee I
needed ordered and delivered before she arrived in case she thought I was in
any way weird. I work my way through the menu once a month and any deviation
leads to chaos and confusion, particularly in the paperwork that scrupulously
records my intake. I couldn't afford to have her arrive first and buy me
something out of sequence.
        I was
studying a leaflet about their East African coffee, and how for every one-pound
bag of it they were contributing to a global fund for the treatment of those
living with Aids on that continent, and thinking how little I cared about that fact,
when her now familiar voice said. 'This must be you?'
        It
was indeed me, and it was indeed her.
        And
she was the MOST BEAUTIFUL CREATURE ON GOD'S EARTH.
        Beaming
down at me.
        She
had luxuriously long black hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her pure white
cheeks beneath deep-pool green eyes and above a smile dazzling enough to make
Mormons jump off cliffs. She was gloriously free of make-up and wore a top that
revealed nothing but suggested everything.
        I
just nodded, stunned, and she put her hand out and said, 'Hi, it's me, Pearl.
Pearl, hi.'
        Although
I am normally loath to shake anyone's hand, I made an exception. She was not
the sort of woman that bugs would exist on. They would give her a pass; they
would say not much point in hanging around here, she's out of our league.
        I
said, eventually, 'Let me get you a coffee. What do you fancy ... ?'
        She
glanced up at the menu before saying: 'I'll have what you're having.' I
ordered. As I waited at the delivery desk, Pearl picked up the books I'd left
on the table, and studied their covers, and then flipped them over to read the
back. She smiled up at me again. 'Fantastic, fantastic, I can't wait to get
into them.'
        I
smiled back.
        I
felt glad to have landed on this planet. I returned to the table.
        I
said, 'Pearl's a lovely name; you don't hear it much these days.'
        'Mum
always loved it.'
        'Mother
of Pearl.'
        'Usually
I get Pearl's a singer.'
        'The
only other Pearl I know is . . .' And I tapped the Robert B. Parker book.
'Spenser's dog in this .. .'
        'Are
you comparing me to a dog?'
        I
laughed. I reddened. I was thinking, if you're a dog, you're the most beautiful
dog I've ever seen. She burst into laughter.
        'I'll
take that as a compliment,' she said.
        'Did
I say that out loud?'
        Under
the table, her foot touched mine.
        It
was just an accident.
        
        
        We
were on our second coffee. I was still on menu. She had listened, fascinated,
to my views on the
        current
state of crime fiction, and to assessments of the