The lunch went wonderfully. Arnold had never had a better date. True, the waiter brought them both the wrong kind of soup, but it was an excellent chance to jump-start the conversation. And yes, Linda had spent a good portion of the meal crying into Arnold's handkerchief, smearing it with zebra stripes of black mascara and splotches of vivid sapphire and ruby with her tears, but at least she was talking to him.
They were waiting for the bill. The waiter was across the room in plain sight, idly hitting on a waitress. It was obvious that they'd be there for a while.
Linda sniffled again, then hiccuped loudly. "I…I always get them…when I cry too much," she explained between the spasms. "You've…been so nice today…and I don't even know anything…about you."
"Well, I…" Careful. "I'm just me. Just Arnold Wesker."
"Yes, but…I mean…what do you…do?"
"Oh. I'm, uh, um, a personal assistant," he said, shifting nervously in his seat.
"For…who?"
"Oh, you wouldn't know my boss," Arnold insisted.
"What's he…like?" she asked, covering her mouth with one hand in a vain attempt to fend off the hiccups.
"He's…" Arnold looked down at his plate pensively. "He's very…he's strong, a very strong personality. A great man," he added hurriedly.
He remembered all the robberies, all the shootings, all the crimes he'd been an accessory to because Mister Scarface demanded it. He winced from the memories, and told himself firmly that he had to follow the plan.
The waiter finally brought the check over. After everything was paid, Arnold insisted on giving the shoeless Linda a ride back to her apartment. He let her give him directions, though he really didn't need them.
He caught a glimpse of the inside of the apartment when she let herself in. It was done in bright colors, like the inside of an artist's paint set. The attempts at decorating were covered over by paper plates on every available surface, pizza boxes piled in stacks on the floor, and an overwhelming stench of dirty laundry that hit Arnold in the face like Batman's fist.
"I'm sorry for the mess," she apologized, stepping back outside and shutting the door quickly. "My boyfriend…my…ex-boyfriend…he didn't like to clean." Arnold nodded understandingly.
"It was nice meeting you, Linda," he said quietly. "Maybe…you'd like to do it again sometime?" Idiot. She'll never agree after you-
"Yes," she gasped. "I mean, of course I would. Friday?"
"Of course," he beamed. He waved goodbye to her and walked carefully back down the rickety stairs to his car. He drove back toward his apartment still smiling.
Linda watched him drive off. Her hand squeezed the doorknob tight as she smiled, remembering the way he'd listened, and not just halfway like everyone else, but really listen listened. Kinda funny-looking, but such a sweetie! She walked inside her filthy apartment and swept Bud's picture off the end table with the back of her hand. It landed on the floor with a satisfying crash.
Arnold was grinning wider than the Joker himself on the way home. She liked him! She liked him, and he liked her. It would be wonderful, they would be wonderful together, and Friday they'd go on their first real date and everything would be perfect. He could hardly wait to tell…
Mister Scarface.
Arnold's thoughts (and his car) screeched to a halt. Mister Scarface. The plan.
Oh boy.