Dean Koontz - Whispers

"I'm just a lowly serving girl."

"You're a great deal prettier than the queen."

"Better not let her hear you say that. She'll have your head for sure."

"Too late."

"Oh?"

"I've already lost my head over you."

Hilary groaned.

"Too saccharine?" he asked.

"I need a bite of lemon after that one."

"But you liked it."

"Yes, I admit I did. I guess I'm a sucker for flattery," she said, getting into the Jeep in a swirl of green silk.

As they drove down toward Westwood Boulevard, Tony said, "You're not offended?"

"By what?"

"By this buggy?"

"How could I be offended by a Jeep? Does it talk? Is it liable to insult me?"

"It's not a Mercedes."

"A Mercedes isn't a Rolls. And a Rolls isn't a Toyota."

"There's something very Zen about that."

"If you think I'm a snob, why'd you ask me out?"

"I don't think you're a snob," he said. "But Frank says we'll be awkward with each other because you've got more money than I have."

"Well, based on my experience with him, I'd say Frank's judgments of other people are not to be trusted."

"He has his problems," Tony agreed as he turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. "But he's working them out."

"I will admit this isn't a car you see many of in L.A."

"Usually, women ask me if it's my second car."

"I don't really care if it is or isn't."

"They say that in L.A. you are what you drive."

"Is that what they say? Then you're a Jeep. And I'm a Mercedes. We're cars, not people. We should be going to the garage for an oil change, not to a restaurant for dinner. Does that make sense?"

"No sense at all," Tony said. "Actually, I got a Jeep because I like to go skiing three or four weekends every winter. With this jalopy, I know I'll always be able to get through the mountain passes, no matter how bad the weather gets."

"I've always wanted to learn to ski."

"I'll teach you. You'll have to wait a few weeks. But it won't be long until there's snow at Mammoth."

"You seem pretty sure we'll still be friends a few weeks from now."

"Why wouldn't we be?" he asked.

"Maybe we'll get into a fight tonight, first thing, at the restaurant."

"Over what?"

"Politics."

"I think all politicians are power-hungry bastards too incompetent to tie their own shoelaces."

"So do I"

"I'm a Libertarian."

"So am I--sort of."

"Short argument."

"Maybe we'll fight over religion."

"I was raised a Catholic. But I'm not much of anything any more."

"Me either."

"We don't seem to be good at arguing."

"Well," she said, "maybe we're the kind of people who fight over little things, inconsequential matters."

"Such as?"

"Well, since we're going to an Italian restaurant, maybe you'll love the garlic bread, and I'll hate it."

"And we'll fight over that?"

"That or the fettucini or the manicotti."

"No. Where we're going, you'll love everything," he said. "Wait and see."

He took her to Savatino's Ristorante on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was an intimate place, seating no more than sixty and somehow appearing to seat only half that number; it was cozy, comfortable, the kind of restaurant in which you could lose track of time and spend six hours over dinner if the waiters didn't nudge you along. The lighting was soft and warm. The recorded opera--leaning heavily to the voices of Gigli and Caruso and Pavarotti--was played loud enough to be heard and appreciated, but not so loud that it intruded on conversation. There was a bit too much decor, but one part of it, a spectacular mural, was, Hilary thought, absolutely wonderful. The painting covered an entire wall and was a depiction of the most commonly perceived joys of the Italian lifestyle: grapes, wine, pasta, dark-eyed women, darkly handsome men, a loving and rotund nonna, a group of people dancing to the music of an accordionist, a picnic under olive trees, and much more. Hilary had never seen anything remotely like it, for it was neither entirely realistic nor stylized nor abstract nor impressionistic, but an odd stepchild of surrealism, as if it were a wildly inventive collaboration between Andrew Wyeth and Salvador Dali.

Michael Savatino, the owner, who turned out to be an ex-policeman, was irrepressibly jolly, hugging Tony, taking Hilary's hand and kissing it, punching Tony lightly in the belly and recommending pasta to fatten him up, insisting they come into the kitchen to see the new cappuccino machine. As they came out of the kitchen, Michael's wife, a striking blonde named Paula, arrived, and there was more hugging and kissing and complimenting. At last, Michael linked arms with Hilary and escorted her and Tony to a corner booth. He told the captain to bring two bottles of Biondi-Santi's Brunello di Montelcino, waited for the wine, and uncorked it himself. After glasses had been filled and toasts made, he left them, winking at Tony to show his approval, seeing Hilary notice the wink, laughing at himself, winking at her.

"He seems like such a nice man," she said when Michael had gone.

"He's some guy," Tony said.

"You like him a great deal."

"I love him. He was a perfect partner when we worked homicide together."

They fell smoothly into a discussion of policework and then screenwriting. He was so easy to talk to that Hilary felt she had known him for years. There was absolutely none of the awkwardness that usually marred a first date.

At one point, he noticed her looking at the wall mural. "Do you like the painting?" he asked.

"It's superb."

"Is it?"

"Don't you agree?"

"It's pretty good," he said.

"Better than pretty good. Who did it? Do you know?"

"Some artist down on his luck," Tony said. "He painted it in exchange for fifty free dinners."

"Only fifty? Michael got a bargain."

They talked about films and books and music and theater. The food was nearly as good as the conversation. The appetizer was light; it consisted of two stubby crèpes, one filled with unadulterated ricotta cheese, the other with a spicy concoction of shaved beef, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and garlic. Their salads were huge and crisp, smothered in sliced raw mushrooms. Tony selected the entrée, Veal Savatino, a specialita of the house, incredibly tender white-white veal with a thin brown sauce, pearl onions, and grilled strips of zucchini. The cappuccino was excellent.

When she finished dinner and looked at her watch, Hilary was amazed to see that it was ten minutes past eleven.

Michael Savatino stopped by the table to bask in their praise, and then he said to Tony, "That's number twenty-one."

"Oh, no. Twenty-three."

"Not by my records."

"Your records are wrong."

"Twenty-one," Michael insisted.

"Twenty-three," Tony said. "And it ought to be numbers twenty-three and twenty-four. It was two meals, after all."

"No, no," Michael said. "We count by the visit, not by the number of meals."

Perplexed, Hilary said, "Am I losing my mind, or does this conversation make no sense at all?"

Michael shook his head, exasperated with Tony. To Hilary he said, "When he painted the mural, I wanted to pay him in cash, but he wouldn't accept it. He said he'd trade the painting for a few free dinners. I insisted on a hundred free visits. He said twenty-five. We finally settled on fifty. He undervalues his work, and that makes me angry as hell."

"Tony painted that mural?" she asked.

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

She looked at Tony, and he grinned sheepishly.

"That's why he drives that Jeep," Michael said. "When he wants to go up in the hills to work on a nature study, the Jeep will take him anywhere."

"He said he had it because he likes to go skiing."

"That too. But mostly, it's to get him into the hills to paint. He should be proud of his work. But it's easier to pull teeth from an alligator than it is to get him to talk about his painting."