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Show 20, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 4] midnight and he nodded out to where he'd seen her noticing his odd little car. "I can stick around that last hour if you'll show me Marathon and maybe the golf course." Her face and hands whitened under that great Florida tan. "You? You're asking me out? Well I guess you're old enough to be my father. How old are you anyway?" "Uh, how old do you think?" A stalling answer, a little kid's answer. "I think over thirty." "Well let's put it this way. What you said first. I don't know any of my friends that have, what, nineteen-year old daughters." She frowned at him. The beers hit him so that he made for the men's room but it was locked and he sat on a barstool, shifting uneasily and wishing there was the male equivalent of a compact; there was something he wanted to examine: what was the line where the beautiful young actress Miss Vane was complaining to Oscar Wilde's Dorian- that the Romeo was hideous and old and painted. . .? With both hands he was drumming in nervousness on the table. She signaled him from the counter with the raised pot. "No no more coffee." |