multicolored sails in
the distance. Then he continued his scan of the customers. There
was a couple, both white-haired, sitting next to the black-haired
woman. They were drinking martinis—straight up, one with onions,
the other with olives—and smoking filtered cigarettes. It reminded
him of his parents and their peers. He remembered when he used to
come home from college, and they would throw a party for him.
Everyone would sit around and drink martinis and smoke. Today’s
generation had replaced straight-up martinis with gin or vodka on
the rocks. This reverie made him want a cigarette very badly. He
wondered if quitting was worse than going ahead and smoking. His
eyes moved on, and then he froze on two men sitting at the far end
of the deck. They seemed to be sneaking furtive glances at the
dark-haired beauty he had been watching. They also seemed out of
place here at lunch time. They were dressed in dark suits and had
dark complexions. All the other diners were dressed casually in
light, bright summer clothes. Although most of the customers had
tanned skins, none had the facial features of those two. He thought
they easily could be Arabic. The one on the left looked at her
again, then leaned across the table and spoke to his companion.
They both seemed nervous, squirming a lot in their seats.
Trying to get up enough nerve to make a move
on the pretty one? Or something else? I’ve never seen any Arabs
around this part of Florida before. And why the suits? They have to
be sweating their balls off in this heat. Hardly anyone wears suits
and ties here at lunch time. And if they do, they are light-colored
linen suits. Hell, I’ve been in the antiterrorist business too
long. I’m getting paranoid.
The waiter delivered a glass of wine to the
“gorgeous one,” as he was now calling her in his mind. She smiled a
beaming smile, showing beautiful white teeth, and thanked the
waiter. Hatch caught the waiter’s eye and pointed at his wine
glass. The waiter waved and nodded his head, and went back toward
the bar. Hatch had decided to find out what he could about the
beautiful lady. His horniness was getting in the way of his good
sense.
The waiter came to his table with a fresh
glass of wine balanced on a tray. Hatch drained the last of his
previous glass and put it aside. The waiter put the new glass in
front of Hatch and picked up the empty and put it on his tray.
“Can I do anything else for you, Mr.
Lincoln?” asked the waiter with a trace of a Latino accent. “More
sauce for your crab cakes?”
“No, Carlos, thank you. Oh, one thing. Is
that dark-haired beauty you just served a regular?”
“Sort of, sir. She’s been coming here off and
on for at least three months. I think she moved to this area about
then.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Sir, there is such a thing as
waiter-customer confidentiality!” he said with mock indignity.
“Could that confidentiality be broached by a
fifty-dollar tip?” Lincoln laughed.
“Really, sir! Do you think my integrity can
be bought?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. Her name is Sydney Steppe,” he
smiled. Then he added, “Ms., if you’re wondering. According to her
credit card, she spells Steppe differently.”
He spelled it for Hatch.
“Thanks, Carlos. Your lack of integrity has
earned you a big tip!” Hatch chuckled, happy that she was
apparently not married.
Carlos the waiter began to walk away, then
heard Hatch say, “Carlos, one more thing. What do you know about
those two men in the dark suits over there near the palm tree?”
Carlos did not look at the men, but looked
only at Hatch as he said, “Nothing, sir. I’ve never seen them
before. And they are very strange. Wearing hot suits in this
weather and drinking only coffee. They haven’t ordered anything to
eat yet, either.”
“Have they said anything to you? For example,
have they asked anything about Ms. Steppe? As I did?”
“No, sir. Only ordered coffee. They have
heavy accents—not a
the distance. Then he continued his scan of the customers. There
was a couple, both white-haired, sitting next to the black-haired
woman. They were drinking martinis—straight up, one with onions,
the other with olives—and smoking filtered cigarettes. It reminded
him of his parents and their peers. He remembered when he used to
come home from college, and they would throw a party for him.
Everyone would sit around and drink martinis and smoke. Today’s
generation had replaced straight-up martinis with gin or vodka on
the rocks. This reverie made him want a cigarette very badly. He
wondered if quitting was worse than going ahead and smoking. His
eyes moved on, and then he froze on two men sitting at the far end
of the deck. They seemed to be sneaking furtive glances at the
dark-haired beauty he had been watching. They also seemed out of
place here at lunch time. They were dressed in dark suits and had
dark complexions. All the other diners were dressed casually in
light, bright summer clothes. Although most of the customers had
tanned skins, none had the facial features of those two. He thought
they easily could be Arabic. The one on the left looked at her
again, then leaned across the table and spoke to his companion.
They both seemed nervous, squirming a lot in their seats.
Trying to get up enough nerve to make a move
on the pretty one? Or something else? I’ve never seen any Arabs
around this part of Florida before. And why the suits? They have to
be sweating their balls off in this heat. Hardly anyone wears suits
and ties here at lunch time. And if they do, they are light-colored
linen suits. Hell, I’ve been in the antiterrorist business too
long. I’m getting paranoid.
The waiter delivered a glass of wine to the
“gorgeous one,” as he was now calling her in his mind. She smiled a
beaming smile, showing beautiful white teeth, and thanked the
waiter. Hatch caught the waiter’s eye and pointed at his wine
glass. The waiter waved and nodded his head, and went back toward
the bar. Hatch had decided to find out what he could about the
beautiful lady. His horniness was getting in the way of his good
sense.
The waiter came to his table with a fresh
glass of wine balanced on a tray. Hatch drained the last of his
previous glass and put it aside. The waiter put the new glass in
front of Hatch and picked up the empty and put it on his tray.
“Can I do anything else for you, Mr.
Lincoln?” asked the waiter with a trace of a Latino accent. “More
sauce for your crab cakes?”
“No, Carlos, thank you. Oh, one thing. Is
that dark-haired beauty you just served a regular?”
“Sort of, sir. She’s been coming here off and
on for at least three months. I think she moved to this area about
then.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Sir, there is such a thing as
waiter-customer confidentiality!” he said with mock indignity.
“Could that confidentiality be broached by a
fifty-dollar tip?” Lincoln laughed.
“Really, sir! Do you think my integrity can
be bought?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. Her name is Sydney Steppe,” he
smiled. Then he added, “Ms., if you’re wondering. According to her
credit card, she spells Steppe differently.”
He spelled it for Hatch.
“Thanks, Carlos. Your lack of integrity has
earned you a big tip!” Hatch chuckled, happy that she was
apparently not married.
Carlos the waiter began to walk away, then
heard Hatch say, “Carlos, one more thing. What do you know about
those two men in the dark suits over there near the palm tree?”
Carlos did not look at the men, but looked
only at Hatch as he said, “Nothing, sir. I’ve never seen them
before. And they are very strange. Wearing hot suits in this
weather and drinking only coffee. They haven’t ordered anything to
eat yet, either.”
“Have they said anything to you? For example,
have they asked anything about Ms. Steppe? As I did?”
“No, sir. Only ordered coffee. They have
heavy accents—not a
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