refrigerator, she could treat herself to eating lunch out despite having to watch the flow of pennies.
She locked the apartment behind her carefully. Woman alone now. Then she disdained the elevator and took the stairs down to the lobby too fast, as if to assert her physical capability and spirit.
Breathing hard, she trudged outside and walked until she found a newsstand, where she bought three likely papers in which to place her classified ad. An obese man beside her bought a magazine with a cover illustration of a nude woman seated on a yellow bulldozer. He followed Allie half a block before falling behind her rapid pace and giving up. She glanced back and saw him standing near a wire trash basket, leafing through his magazine. Possibly he meant no harm, but New York had more weirdos per square yard than any other city.
She tucked the newspapers more firmly beneath her arm and returned to West 74th. It was a little past one when she entered Goyaâs.
The restaurant did a good lunch business of neighborhood regulars and tourists. She had to wait for a table, and then was ushered to a tiny booth wedged in a corner. On the table were a napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers, a Bakelite ashtray, a half-full Heinz catsup bottle, and a two-dollar tip from the last diner. Allie found herself staring at the creased bills, thinking that theft, on a larger scale than this, was a way out of her financial difficulties.
She shook that thought from her mind when the waiter arrived and stood by the booth. Stealing was stealing, a risk and a moral compromise she was unwilling to explore.
The waiter said, âSomething to drink?â
She looked up. It was the same guy whoâd taken her order when she was here the day before, the one with the intense, familiar face, the black hair and satellite-dish ears. Homely in the way of Abe Lincoln, or dogs you wanted to take home and feed. There was something clumsy and rough-hewn about him; a long way from Samâs smoothness and grace. He laid a closed menu before her with ceremony. Like a good book he was recommending.
âIâll order now, drink and all,â she said, and looked at the grease-spotted menu. It was a computer printout, she noticed. The microchip was everywhere.
The waiter said, âYouâre Allison Jones.â
She looked away from the menu, up into the homely face. Dark, earnest eyes gazed back at her, amiable despite their intensity, not devious or threatening.
He smiled and said, âI live in the apartment above yours over at the Cody Arms. Iâve seen you around. Got your name from the mailbox.â He extended a hand and she shook it without thinking. âIâm Graham Knox.â
The guy seemed friendly enough, not putting moves on her. âGlad to meet you, Graham.â
He said, âThe double burger and the house salad are good.â
âIâll have them, then, with fries and a large Diet Pepsi. Iâm hungry today.â
He scribbled her order in his notepad and scooped up the tip from the table in the almost unnoticeable manner of waiters everywhere. He smiled his lopsided smile and said, âBack soon.â
And he was. Goyaâs kitchen must have cooks falling all over themselves.
He placed her food on the table and straightened up, dangling the empty tray in his right hand. âWeâre neighbors, Allie, so anything you need, you let me know.â
Oh-oh, where was this going? She gave him her passionless, appraising stare. The same one sheâd given the obese man with the sex magazine when their gazes met. Turn it off, buddy, whatever youâre thinking.
âNot that kind of anything,â he assured her, smiling. He had long, skinny fingers that played nervously with the edge of the round tray. His nails were gnawed to the quick. âDonât get me wrong.â
Okay, so he wasnât interested in her that way. Now she wondered, was he gay? She mentally jabbed herself for being so