Chapter Five

If I expected life to go back to normal while I was waiting, then I was mistaken. It did for a few days. I rarely checked the CCTV in the store, as I was not alarmed by anyone who came in. Once or twice I wondered why Mr Wayne had specified that the camera in the living room should be behind and above the chair I normally sat in, as if he wanted to see what I was reading. But I rarely failed to turn it off, so he saw nothing, if indeed he was looking.

So he would not have seen the reappearance of the Bat. A note appeared on the store counter, left, the CCTV showed me, by a child. It told me he would come in through my bedroom window, and stipulated a time to open the shutters and the casement. Since the time he specified was eleven-thirty, I dozed on the bed, attempting to read. I was woken at nearer to midnight by a tapping on the glass.

I opened the shutters and the casement, and the Bat climbed in, shaking his head.

'Couldn't stay awake, huh?'

'Yeah, well . . . What can I do for you?'

I followed him into the sitting room.

'Just wanted to ask you about your husband's research. His specialised subject. It is off, isn't it?' He pointed to the CCTV camera.

'It's always off, unless I go out, which never happens. The history of the indigenous peoples of this area?'

'Yes.'

'Anything in particular?'

'The interaction of the indigenous peoples and the settlers.'

'That's probably more history than archaeology, wouldn't you say? James was more artefacts – more bowls and pipes. Arrow heads, that sort of thing.'

'But it all existed in a context – didn't it? He must have studied the context.'

I had to concede that point.

'Do you have any of his papers here?' he asked.

'No, I'm sorry.'

He could see how small the apartment was. There was no way I could have stored James's papers here.

'Where are they?'

'Presumably at the university still.'

Had I asked his head of faculty to store them? I had no idea. I had meant to; I had meant to ask at the wake, but I couldn't remember if I had or not.

'What do you want them for?' I asked.

'Just something I'm working on.'

'Connected to the murder?'

'I don't know yet. Can you get them for me?'

'Is this . . . anything to do with James's death?'

'I don't know that, either.'

I tried to explain that my connection with the murder was probably done. Evidence had come to light that would prove criminal negligence, and I was expecting the lawsuit to be settled. While he listened, he pressed his lips into a thin line.

'Is that it?' he asked. 'The money? Is it only about the money for you?'

'No. Of course not.'

'What else do you want, then?'

I had to think about that. How important was it to me to have a name, a face, a person to blame? Did I really want to see someone go to prison for causing James's death? Or would it be enough to have a company take the rap? Which would be Larsson Construction, I was guessing. But Larsson Construction was the small fry, the sprat in all of this, as far as I was concerned. Conviction of Larsson Construction for corporate negligence or corporate manslaughter, or whatever the American charge was, would not satisfy me, I realised.

'I don't know,' I said. 'Justice, I suppose. Closure.'

He looked at me intently, his gaze made more intense by the small eyeholes of the cowl, that appeared to reveal only his irises. I struggled to meet it.

'Then help me. Get James's papers. Let's see where it goes.'

How high up Gotham Developments. Justice for James, my sense of closure, would be found somewhere at the top of Gotham Developments: that was what I wanted to find, now I thought about it honestly.

'There might be a lot. You do know that, don't you? It won't just be a few document holders and a few sheets of paper.'

He shrugged. 'Yeah, I kind of guessed as much.'

'If the university still have them, can I get them delivered somewhere? Somewhere more convenient than here?'

'You mean you don't want to drink whisky with me and go through them?'

There was the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. I sighed. More clutter for the stock room, and the university wouldn't take them back once I had removed them.

'You'd better get some more supplies in, then,' I said.

'Isn't it your round?'

'Only if you're happy to drink fifteen-year old single malt – which you're not.'

'Okay. My round, then.' He passed me a business card, but there was nothing on it except a cell number. 'Call when you're ready. Leave a message. No names.'

'No pack drill. Will do.'

He nodded his thanks and left the way he had come. I closed the window and shutters, and flopped on the bed. What was I getting myself into? Running around, doing the leg-work for some strange, self-appointed vigilante – all because I thought he understood me, because he treated me like I existed, like I mattered. He was becoming difficult to say no to. But he probably wasn't registered as a private investigator, so how much of what he was doing was even legal? I'd read Raymond Chandler. But somehow the hard questions – about him, his motivation, what he thought he was achieving – never got asked. I didn't even have a name to call him. And I had forgotten to ask him how he knew the store now had CCTV, so he needed another way in. I made a note to call the dean of faculty, and went to bed.

While I was trying to arrange to get James's papers, Lacey was her usual coming-and-going, breezy self, excited about the upcoming Founders' Ball, and the quest for a gown to wear. That was her excuse for not being able to spend much time in the store. The Founders' Ball had started out being something to do with the families supposed to have founded Gotham City. Now it was mainly a charity fund-raiser, but the scions of the old families were expected to attend. And I meant the really old families, the nearest thing Gotham had to royalty. Although Harry's family was old, it wasn't old enough. And you needed an invitation to get in. An invitation to buy a ten thousand dollar ticket, so most people who went were invited by their companies. The movers and shakers, the civic great and the good of Gotham City, all together in one place. Lacey and Harry had never been invited before. Gotham Developments were taking a couple of tables this year, and as a senior executive now, Harry merited a place.

'Wow,' I said. 'That's got to be one mighty amazing gown, then.'

We whiled away the dead time doing internet searches, then Lacey made appointments to go to the stores stocking the gowns she liked the look of. The days of traipsing round the stores browsing were well and truly gone. Probably a good job, as she was hard to please.

'I'll know it when I see it,' she said.

She had just set off on one of these errands one Tuesday morning when Mr Walker came into the store.

'Good morning, Mr Walker,' I said. 'Or is it?'

'It is not, as you so rightly observe,' he said. 'It's Pennyworth. Alfred Pennyworth.'

'And that is a London accent, if I am not much mistaken.'

'It is indeed.'

'A bit more West London than East London, is it?'

'Your ear is very good, Mrs Rossingdale. Most Americans assume we Londoners are all cockneys.'

'I think that's the fault of Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Annoying, though, isn't it?'

'Indeed.'

He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out a square envelope of very high quality paper. He handed it to me.

'I am instructed to wait for an answer,' he said.

Like a Victorian servant. I opened it. Inside was a stiff, gold-embossed cardboard invitation to the Founders' Ball. My surprise must have shown on my face.

'This must be a mistake,' I said. 'I can't possibly. Please thank Mr Wayne and pass on my apologies.'

'Mr Wayne is quite insistent that you come.'

'Mr Wayne will be papped with me, he knows that, doesn't he? He will be ridiculed and I – well, I don't want my life splashed all over the papers and social media, thank you.'

He smiled. 'Don't worry, I don't think you'll actually be sitting with Mr Wayne. He will send a car, but I don't think he'll escort you in.'

'So does he expect me to attend this event by myself?'

'He will make sure you are looked after.'

'And what does he want in return? It's ten thousand dollars a ticket – he will want me to do something.'

'Not really. Just . . . chat to people. He would be grateful if you would make it known that your late husband was Professor James Rossingdale, and what his work was.'

'Because . . . ?'

'I usually find he has his reasons. He doesn't always tell me what they are.'

He offered to arrange a gown for me, but I declined. I knew how much Lacey was expecting to pay for hers. I wanted to look like the widow of a visiting professor, who lived above a second-hand bookstore. I wanted people to see I was not someone like them.

'If you change your mind,' he said. He handed me the business card of a very expensive boutique. Then he headed towards the door. In the doorway, he turned.

'Oh, one last thing. Please don't tell your friend, Mrs Johnson-Brown. Mr Wayne specifically requested it.'

Before I could ask why, he stepped out and walked away.

I stood at the counter, the invitation in my hands, stunned. A couple of weeks ago, I was living a quiet, uneventful life. Then I found the Bat in my store in the middle of the night, and life had not been the same since. I had met Bruce Wayne, and now I was stepping out to the Founders' Ball with the great and the good of Gotham City, at his invitation, even if I wouldn't be sitting with him, or arriving (and leaving) with him. Lacey would be very upset that I didn't tell her, and I didn't know how I was going to explain it.

It turned out to be easy not to tell Lacey, so wrapped up was she in finding her outfit and getting her hair appointment. All the best stylists were pretty much booked up, including her own, which annoyed her intensely. I suddenly realised I had given no thought to my hair, but because I wore it quite short, I thought I could get away with just making sure it was tidy and reasonably under control. There wasn't too much grey showing, and it wasn't too unruly, although I quite liked the sea-hair look, as James used to call it. I thought it made me look intellectual, with more important matters to think about, when in reality it probably just made me look like a slovenly Brit. I was more worried about how Lacey would react when I walked in than what people would make of how I looked.

While Lacey was chasing down her outfit, I managed to make an appointment to see James's dean of faculty at the university. Just after lunch on Friday, her secretary showed me into her office. Professor Makayla Louderbough Allbird, or MLA, as she was affectionately known, rose from behind her desk to greet me. We embraced, then she directed me to her little circle of armchairs, where she held informal meetings and tutorials.

'Good to see you,' she said. 'It's been too long.'

'Now that James doesn't . . . I didn't want to be in the way,' I said.

'You are part of the GCU family. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. God, we miss him. But let's not get too maudlin. Too early in the day for drinking and remembering, sadly.'

Drinking, remembering and crying. I remembered the students and colleagues, including Professor Allbird, who had cried with me at the funeral.

MLA couldn't remember what they had done with James's papers, although she was convinced they wouldn't have thrown them away: they never knew when someone's research would be useful. She and her secretary decided between them, after a few phone calls, that James's files had been packed up and moved into storage, somewhere in the archive. When she knew what I thought he had been working on, she said she would ask around and see if anyone in another department had anything of his. They would call when they had information.

That was the best I could achieve at the time. It had been three years; I don't know why I thought there would be files and document wallets sitting reverentially on shelves in an office, like a shrine. James hadn't even been tenured: he was just a visiting lecturer. We were both sure that the Professor title was a courtesy, but it sounded good.

MLA and I chatted for a while. I had only met her a couple of times, and had only exchanged a few words with her on each occasion, but here she was, treating me like we were good friends from way back. I knew it was because she felt sorry for me, having lost my husband in such circumstances, then being treated so shabbily by his company, but she was good at making you feel you were the centre of her attention, for the time she was talking to you. I was beginning to see why James liked this department so much, why he was thinking of working here full-time. I was home by four, but then I had to get ready in a hurry to go out, to the Founders' Ball.

When the doorbell rang at six, and I stepped out on to the pavement, I was met by a young man in a dinner suit. He introduced himself as Ryan, but disappointingly, he did not turn out to be my escort for the evening, but my driver.

There was a line of cars waiting to pull up in front of the main entrance of the Gotham Grand. When Ryan brought the car to a halt, another young man in a dinner suit, his hair scraped back into one of those tiny man-buns, stepped forward to open the door for me.

'Good evening, Mrs Rossingdale. I am Calvin, I am here to look after you this evening,' he said.

'Pleased to meet you, Calvin. Are you going to be with me all evening?'

'I'll be in the background, Mrs Rossingdale. Don't you worry about a thing.'

He offered me his arm, and we walked in. There was a press round the board holding the seating plan, so we held back. While we waited, I observed the ladies, in their finery: their long dresses, the decollages, the side boobs, some dresses backless down beyond the waist, the jewels, the mix of elaborate (the older ladies') and deceptively simple (the younger ladies') hair do's, the heels, the fuck-me shoes, as James and I liked to call them. And there was me, in my calf-length, black, lacy cocktail dress, long lacy sleeves, my black pantyhose, my sensible mid-height heels. I felt a little bit like the bad fairy at the baptism of Sleeping Beauty, but I was not quite sure why.

I appeared to be seated on a Wayne Enterprises table, and I recognised none of the names round me. This would be a challenge; I hoped Mr Wayne realised that, how much he was asking me to do. Calvin discreetly took my elbow and steered me into the room. He acquired two glasses of fizz for us, and we stood to one side, observing the spectacle of the great and the good meeting and greeting. I made small talk with him, and learned that he was an undergraduate at the university, studying social anthropology, and that he had Native American heritage.

'Oh, which people?' I asked. 'The Nanticoke? The people of the tidewater?'

He looked at me in surprise. 'No – the people who lived near the ocean. The Unalachtigo.'

'Your elders came to my husband's funeral,' I said.

The light dawned. 'Professor Rossingdale. Of course. I'm so sorry, I did not make the connection.'

'It's okay, I didn't expect you to.'

'I met him once or twice. At the university. I went to a couple of his lectures. Will you carry on his work?'

It was my turn to look at him in surprise. He explained to me how James had been helping the tribal elders put together a case for their grievances, to be presented in court at some point, to get redress for the wrongs done to them when Gotham was being founded and there was a great hunger for land. It was going to be a long and difficult fight, given that the Unalachtigo, or Original People, had no knowledge of European reading and writing, and no concept of land ownership way back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. He made some reference to the land on which the river tower was being built, the one in which James had died. By the artefacts James had found, the Unalachtigo had been able to prove a link to the site, but not ownership. Gotham Developments had paid them, in their opinion, a token amount of compensation.

'Who did own it?' I asked.

'It's complicated.' Said with a weary sigh. I had heard that sigh many times from James, bloodied from his encounters with the senior leadership team of Gotham Developments.

Just then we were invited to take our seats, so Calvin guided me to mine. After murmuring that he would not be far away if I needed him, he retreated. I didn't pay attention to the grace; I was too busy digesting the information I had learned about James. Was it just possible that he was the target of the building collapse after all? But that was silly: you couldn't just make concrete give way when you wanted it to.

As we sat down, I glanced towards the top table. Bruce Wayne was slow to take his seat, scanning the room with that slightly concerned look he had, eyes narrowed. He found me, but did not register a reaction, then his gaze moved on, and he sat.

The older gentleman on my left was trying to introduce himself to me, so I brought my attention back to the task in hand. He had a full head of silver hair and a silver goatee beard, which gave him a passing resemblance to Commander Lawrence, in The Handmaid's Tale. His place holder named him as Ranald Fairfax and he introduced himself as head of property management and maintenance. But, he said, that was all very boring, so maybe we wouldn't talk about that. I told him I thought his name sounded very English, and we got into a discussion about how many old English names were still in use in the US, when they had fallen out of favour in the Old Country. Daryl Oxlake, on the other hand, on my right hand side, was only interested in finding out my connection to Wayne Enterprises. When he heard that I was there because of the generosity of the son of a friend (the cover story I had decided on), and that I was the proprietor of a second-hand bookstore, he quickly lost interest.

'The rudeness of youth,' Ranald murmured. 'Don't mind him. He's still climbing the greasy pole. He only cultivates people who can assist him with that.'

'Do you know him?'

'He's in my department, so for my sins, yes, I do. I apologise for his rudeness.'

'There's no need for you to apologise,' I said.

'And there's no need for you to talk to him. I absolve you of that duty.'

Ranald was attentive, without ignoring the lady on his left. I quickly discovered that we were the only singletons on the table; the others were couples, split up but still able to have loud, cross-table conversations. It was a lively table, they bantered with each other. They were polite enough to try to include me; they asked me a few questions, and I was able to fulfil the mission Bruce Wayne had given me, namely to drop James's name and the field he was interested in.

'We don't do enough of that,' Ranald said quietly, when the conversation broke up again. 'Preserving our heritage, I mean. Well – not our heritage. You know what I mean.'

'And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge – '

' – the old order changeth, yielding place to new.' He smiled. 'You look surprised.'

'Outside of students in my store, I don't meet many people who can quote Tennyson. Especially something so obscure.'

'Is it?'

'Well, that's the famous bit. The rest of it . . . '

'I like old Tennyson. I used to be able to recite the whole of Ulysses.'

'Love that poem.'

'To strive, to seek, to find – '

'And not to yield.'

The young people gave us strange, uncomprehending looks, which made us laugh together, like toddlers sharing a joke that only they understand.

In between courses, people got up and wandered between tables. I saw Harry circulating, pressing the flesh, smiling his business smile. Lacey was radiant on their table, but seated at such an angle that she would not be able to see me unless she stood and turned in my direction.

Which she did, once dessert had been served, and people were relaxing with coffee and mints. The look on her face was priceless: I could see the astonishment from my side of the room. Then she was approaching me with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

'I'm guessing you're heading for the powder room,' Ranald remarked.

'I'm guessing so, too,' I replied.

By the time she reached me, her professional smile was in place. She did a good job of pretending to be pleased and surprised to see me, and invited me to join her in her trip to the powder room. I delayed the inevitable by introducing her to Ranald and he, the gentleman, said he mustn't come between two such good friends who must be dying to catch up. If I had known him better, I would have kicked his ankle, but it was exactly the sort of thing James would have said, because he would have found it funny.

Of course we didn't go straight to the powder room, where a queue was forming. Lacey almost dragged me to a quiet-ish corner of the lobby and penned me in.

'Why didn't you tell me you were coming?' she hissed.

'Because I wasn't, till a few days ago. And I was specifically instructed not to tell you.'

'By who?' she demanded.

'Someone working for Bruce Wayne.'

'What the . . . ? Bruce Wayne? Paid for your ticket?'

'I can only assume so.'

'And you're not sitting with him? What is going on in your life, Em?'

'I wish I knew.'

We sank down on to chairs, two of those hard, glossily-upholstered sort of chairs that you imagine they had at the court of the French Sun King.

'He's playing some sort of game with someone,' I said, 'but I don't know who. Or why.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Calvin approaching.

'He's even given me a chaperone,' I whispered. 'I bet I have to go back now.'

Lacey eyed Calvin with wonder.

'Are you okay, Mrs Rossingdale?' he asked. 'Mr Wayne was becoming concerned as to your whereabouts.'

'Ooh, smooth,' Lacey said. 'We came out to answer a call of nature, young man, but the queue was too long. Please tell Mr Wayne we will be back in shortly.'

Calvin inclined his head to her. We stood, and he watched us walk to the powder room queue.

'Oh my God, he's a cutie,' she said. 'If you don't take him home, I will.'

'And what will Harry say about that?' I asked.

'You always spoil my fun,' she sighed. 'Get his cell number for me.'

When we re-entered the ballroom, the noise level had gone up, and there were many more people circulating.

'You should come over and say hi to Harry,' Lacey said. 'Boy, will he be surprised.'

But we had not got far towards the Gotham Developments tables when an older, well-groomed man approached us. Or rather, approached Lacey. He was an imposing figure.

'Mrs Johnson-Brown,' he said. 'We haven't managed to speak this evening. How are you?'

'I'm very well, Mr Harlowe, thank you.'

'And Mrs Rossingdale.'

'Mr Harlowe.'

'Mrs Johnson-Brown, I wonder if I might borrow Mrs Rossingdale for a moment?'

Perhaps this was what Bruce Wayne was waiting for: the moment when Rafe Harlowe, Chief Executive Officer, the head of Gotham Developments, could no longer resist speaking to me.

He guided me towards the windows, away from the bar at the back of the room, and away from the GoD tables. I was the last person he would have expected to see at such a function. Friendly as ever, to the widow of one of his senior executives.

'Well . . . you know,' I said. 'You don't get to control everything.'

I hoped I was like Banquo's ghost in the Scottish play. If he wasn't going to play nice, then neither was I. I had had just about enough of him and his superiority, his lack of compassion, over the three years since James had died. It was in his power to release me from this prison of Gotham City, but for some perverse reason he chose not to.

He was surprised at my nerve, turning up here. He wondered how I had afforded it.

'Powerful friends,' I said.

'Very powerful indeed.'

He then muttered on about the lawsuit, and surely I wanted it to come to a conclusion as soon as possible. Well, that was a good question, since it was Gotham Developments that had kept it going for so long, according to the lawyers. It was like they wanted to grind us down. Had they decided that they needed to make a move? Had they got wind of the Larsson papers? It fleetingly crossed my mind that perhaps the GoD powers that be were no longer in unanimous agreement with each other on strategy. A house divided against itself must fall, so the claimants had to stand firm.

'Are you asking me to settle?' I asked.

'You will find that there is no case for Gotham Developments to answer. But we want to be fair to you, Mrs Rossingdale. After all, James was one of our senior employees.'

Employee, not executive. And not respected, not valued. Definitely not much-loved, despite what Harlowe implied at the funeral. Never speak ill of the dead, just shaft their relatives afterwards. Just business, nothing personal. It was never personal. He intimated it was in my best interests to take the settlement on offer. What offer? I had received nothing, which I pointed out to him. But Gotham Developments had shown no desire to settle anything for two years. He insisted there was one coming, which should have reached me already and if not, would soon. I would not like to have been the hapless employee who was going to hear about that. I hoped it wasn't going to be Harry.

'We could throw in a scholarship in James's name,' he said. 'We could assist you financially, if you felt you wanted to move. Even overseas.'

They must know about the Larsson documents somehow. Was this a sign that they were rattled? That they wanted to get rid of me?

'What about the other parties to the action?' I asked.

'What about them?'

Then Bruce Wayne was at my elbow.

'Emma,' he said. 'Good to see you.'

'Good to see you, too . . .' I wasn't sure if I should use his first name. A little awkwardly, we air-kissed.

'Will you introduce me?' he asked.

Rafe Harlowe's face was a picture. I made the introduction, then drifted away.

'Catch you in a minute,' Bruce called after me.

As I attempted to thread my way back to my table, another expensively-dressed man stepped into my way. He was of some sort of heritage that I could not place, probably ten or fifteen years younger than me.

'Forgive me,' he said smoothly. 'Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs James Rossingdale?'

I thought about correcting him: Rafe Harlowe had put my back up, and I did not feel like chatting to strangers. In all my married life I had almost never been addressed as Mrs James Rossingdale, and a good thing too: I had never been his possession, his chattel. But – there was no point making a fuss. And Bruce Wayne had given me a task. I nodded.

'Allow me to introduce myself.' He presented a business card, with the name Ouray Mahigan, attorney at law. An unusual name, impossible for me to place him.

'And what can I do for you, Mr . . . Mahigan?' I did my best with the pronunciation. He didn't correct me.

'It is what I can do for you, Mrs Rossingdale. Should you need any – legal help.' He looked over towards Rafe Harlowe. 'I was sorry to hear about your husband.'

'Don't forget the other three who died with him.'

'Of course not.'

'I couldn't afford you, Mr Mahigan.'

'But it would be no win, no fee.'

I asked him what percentage he would take, should he be successful. He was expensive, but he said there would be a team working on the case, of course. He also said something that sounded like he was offering a discount because he had known James and his work. It was difficult to hear because of the buzz of the room around us.

'I'm really sorry, but we already have lawyers. The other plaintiffs and I.'

I stalled, not knowing what to say. James had never mentioned having a lawyer friend, outside of GoD. The evening was already weird enough without this.

'And where have they got you? Precisely nowhere, am I correct?' How did he know this? Was the whole legal fraternity of Gotham gossiping about the lawsuit? 'You need rottweilers, Mrs Rossingdale. Rottweilers. If you want to return to Europe. If you want to make the most . . .' Whatever else he was going to say, he changed his mind but he gave the impression that he had more to tell me. 'Think about it, at least. Please call me.'

Then someone called to him. He turned his head and nodded to them. He made his apologetic excuses, and moved away, still holding my gaze, miming a phone call.

By the time I got to my table, I also wanted to make my excuses and leave. Ranald was over at another Wayne Enterprises table, chatting; our table was pretty much deserted. I looked for Calvin and beckoned him over.

'Would you be so kind as to ask Mr Wayne if I may leave now?'

'Of course.' He melted away. I could see that Bruce Wayne appeared to be still talking to Harlowe.

While I waited for Calvin to bring me an answer, I picked up my wrap and put it round my shoulders. My purse, on its silver chain, was already slung across my body, where I always wore it. I rarely put it down anywhere: I was always fearful of losing it. This saved having to carry it, and I always knew where it was. It also meant nothing got stolen at events like these. Ranald noticed my activity, the fact that I was standing, waiting, and he came back.

'Are you leaving so soon?' he asked. 'The party's just getting started.'

'I hope to. I have to work in the morning.'

'Of course, the bookstore. Can I persuade you not to open? Or to open later?' He smiled a little mischievously. 'Let's live dangerously, shall we?'

'I've lived quite dangerously enough for one evening, I think. I've swum far too close to some pretty big sharks tonight. But thanks for the offer.'

He nodded his understanding. He thanked me for my company, and I said I had enjoyed his. He said he might just call by the store one day. I wasn't going to hold my breath on that, but I didn't say so. He was just being polite. Calvin was making his way back through the throng.

Bruce Wayne had given me permission to leave, but expected me to come to a meeting on Monday afternoon. I was taken aback by his effrontery, his assumption that he had a claim on my time, but he had paid for my ticket and expected a return on his investment.

Calvin escorted me to the car. He refused to give me his cell number, even when I said it wasn't for me, but for a cougar of my acquaintance. He said that was not his style, but to thank her for the compliment. I thought I could detect a half-smile as he opened the car door. If he did this kind of work often, he must be used to being hit on by older women, but he dealt with it graciously.