A special thanks goes out to my wonderful beta who wishes to remain exotic and mysterious.
"Quid pro quo"
Trials & Tribulations
Chapter 3
Saturday Morning
Perry Mason was oblivious to the rain pelting against his office window as he was laboring over a difficult partnership agreement. The lawyer released a weary sigh and pursed his lips with frustration as he read over a rough draft of the document. As a favor to a friend, he had agreed to assist the young brothers in setting up a business partnership. But it didn't take long before he realized the two strong-will siblings would require the patience of Job and the Wisdom of Solomon in precisely wording the document to anticipate any future conflicts between his ambitious clients. Leaning forward in his chair, staring at the last page, the lawyer's fingers drummed on his desktop.
"Damn," he muttered and reached for his pen to add a much needed clause to the last page. Carefully the lawyer began his notations and grew increasingly irritated as the ink grew faint leaving grooved letters on the paper. Turning, he aimed, and with a graceful arch, shot the useless instrument into the corner trash can-before he released a satisfied smile.
If only the agreement were so easy, he mused and reached for the center drawer, and gave it a tug. The drawer wouldn't budge. Thinking a pen or piece of paper had halted the drawer's progress the lawyer pulled a little harder and placed his fingers inside and pressed down. The drawer opened revealing a glossy photograph, palm fronds, a spectacular sandy beach, billowy clouds, aquamarine water and in the distance, seeming to hover over the water's surface, a thatched tiki. Mason stared intently at the building's unique appearance and with closer inspection noticed the wooden supports disappearing below the water's surface. And to insure privacy-the only means of reaching the tiki, a small launch moored at the structure's private dock.
Curiosity had quickly taken precedent over the pen. Greedy for more information, Mason pulled the thick brochure from the drawer and spread it out over the legal document.
Immediately the lawyer could imagine casting his line from the tiki's porch, or swimming from its private dock. Was it his imagination, or did the palm fronds appear to be moving with a breeze and he could feel its subtle caress. Mason's brow peaked and exuded a sly smile. With an air of suspicion he looked around his office and decided to check another drawer and instinctively reached for the drawer Della used, the one containing her pens and steno books. Just as he had anticipated, another travel brochure-a moonlit dance floor on the deck of a majestic liner. Elegant couples were dining and dancing by candlelight as the ship sliced through the shimmering tropical waters, the liner, the 'Star of the Orient'. Removing the literature, the lawyer couldn't resist opening another drawer to find yet another Oriental adventure.
Mason softly chuckled and sensed a presence in the doorway. Looking up from his new discovery, the lawyer found Della Street leaning with her usual seductive pose, hands and back pressed against the door frame, a pose usually signaling she had been up to some mischief or better yet-she had a mystery to share.
Enjoying her dusky look, Mason leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head with an air of satisfaction and delivered a come-hither look.
"You've been a busy girl."
Running the tip of her tongue across her lips she oozed a naughty smile.
"You always said I was a handy girl to have around."
Mason's gaze intensified as his eyes flowed over her. "You're a crafty one…. and a damn beautiful one too."
An elegant brow arched at his compliment as she playfully shrugged. "So I've been told."
The literature spread across his desk covered most of the Pacific and the Orient. Mason's eyes slowly narrowed in thought. "I bet you've already booked tickets."
Easing away from the door frame, Della Street stepped forward with an easy grace, smoothing down the elegant lines of her navy suit as she walked. Nearing his desk, her eyes widened with mock innocence and replied. "No...but they are on hold."
Mason leaned forward and studied the array of destinations. "Appointments, cases?"
"Cleared till we return."
Mason's brows knitted together with concern recalling the business agreement hidden beneath their tropical pleasures.
Bending over and placing the palms of her hands flat on the surface of his desk, Della eyed the unfinished document.
"All is clear except for our two petulant partners."
Mason's lips pulled to the side with annoyance, thinking of what obstacles he had yet to clear and grimaced with pain.
Della's eyes frowned with concern as she moved around to take her place behind his chair. The lawyer rubbed his neck and turned his head as her strong fingers began to knead and massage his tired shoulders.
Frowning with disgust, he didn't understand why the pain would not go away. Della's talented fingers always managed to soothe any pain.
Mason groaned and pulled himself forward in his recliner. Confused, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked around at his surroundings, and recalled the night of pacing and fretful sleep. As morning sun sliced through the window of his apartment he was sadly reminded he was still in San Francisco.
Yeah, still San Francisco. Why couldn't he be in the Pacific, in the privacy of that tiki, lying in her arms beneath the moonlight? Thoughts of travel had played heavily on his mind throughout the night. And then he knew why-surrounding his chair were magazines opened to reveal beautiful photographs and amazing stories from around the world, stories from the pages of the National Geographic.
They were there when he returned to his apartment, boxes of magazines. He needed a distraction, a distraction from Burrows, the court, the dissention, from everything. The stacks of magazines provided a needed outlet, a fresh and exciting mystery to unravel. After all, next Thursday would soon arrive; he would need a counter to her counterpoint. Quid pro quo. He knew the photographer would be ready, she would slide some newspaper story or a revealing photograph across the table to him and the she would watch and wait. Or she would have a new framed photo within his field of vision then she would watch him like a fox. She would observe how many times his eyes would stray to the framed picture. Regardless, he would have on his courtroom face. He would be turning the tables as well; he would be watching her responses for any subtle ticks, a flutter of lashes, anything. He had to admit, she was good, very good. Mason found himself nodding. Yes, she would have something worthy, he was sure of it.
He needed something to counter her lead, something equally as interesting. Looking around his chair, taking in all the details of each story, he still had time to make his decision. Stretching, he massaged the cramp in his neck and felt the need to pace, to think- he needed to walk. The tropical scene on the wall was a reminder of an earlier productive excursion. Wandering the streets a small art gallery had caught his attention and in the front window, the painting with the enigmatic signature of a lock and key.
Pulling himself from his chair he lumbered into his bedroom while shrugging off clothes on his journey to the shower.
~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~
An hour later Mason stood in the cool morning air examining the paintings outside a small art gallery. He had hoped he might find more paintings with the lock and key signature. So far he had had no success. Casually dressed, hands thrust in his pocket, jingling his change he easily blended in with other window shoppers who were inspecting the gallery's selections. Looking through the paintings on the street the jurist decided to step inside. Mason smiled and nodded as a young couple passed him on their way out of the shop. The interior was cramped, framed artwork hung on the walls as well as stacked in wooden racks along the walls. Mason thumbed through frame after frame; casually looking, then hesitating, before coming to a complete stop, his fingers holding the frame out for further inspection. Across the painting were splashes of blue and white ocean spray that surrounded two large bull seals poised at the top of a rocky outcrop. As the giants lunged at each other with barred teeth, smaller seals surrounded them, mouths open, barking, their eyes wide with terror. Mason looked up and recalled Friday's courtroom confrontation.
The battling duo, Mason thought. The news from the heated proceedings had spread like wildfire through the courthouse. During their walk back to his chambers Mason could see the news spreading like wildfire, conversations ceased as they approached, the flashing of polite smiles as the jurist and his clerk passed and then when they were out of sight whispered conversations resumed as each person wanted to add their own bit of information to the story. As the door to Mason's inner chambers closed, and he and Leslie Marks pulled their chairs together at his work table, the door opened and Gloria Steiner moved to join them. The concerned look on his secretary's face revealed the courthouse grapevine had moved with warp speed. Mason, wanting to dispel any gloom, smiled as he rubbed his hands together and placed them flat on the table. "Well, ladies….let's get started, there's nothing I like better than a good fight!"
Again Mason glanced down at the giant mammals; teeth barred, necks scarred and bleeding, and thought that at least the two giants were brave enough to engage in battle unlike the publicly strutting Chief Justice. Once behind conference room doors Burrows deflated. Mason could see the man for what he was-an arrogant, pompous shyster who danced around the room, always careful to maintain a safe distance, and always checking to make sure his ally, Justice Jameson Clark, was close by. Mason had slammed his fist on the table and had taken two quick steps around the table just to watch the shyster jump and scurry away from him. The man was all show and no substance. Sitting in the back of the Town Car on his ride to his apartment Mason felt a building frustration-a frustration that Burrows had not been man enough to stand up to him. Adding insult to injury, Burrows had also denied him the delight of placing a well-placed blow to the Chief's jaw-a blow he guaranteed would have knocked the man out cold. That thought and many others had contributed to his sleepless night.
Letting the frames fall back into place, Mason heaved a giant sigh, stepped away from the stack and walked along the length of the shop.
Strange, he missed Hamilton Burger. Over all the years and all the cases, he now looked back fondly at his times with Burger. It certainly didn't start out that way, at the beginning of their careers. But like everything else in life, they had mellowed, mellowed enough for the prosecutor to ask him to defend his friend on a charge of murder. "I couldn't think of anyone else, Perry. If I were charged with murder, I'd want you defending me. I'm asking this favor as a professional courtesy." Of course, he had agreed. And later they would enjoy each other's company for a week-end of pheasant hunting.
Pausing, head lowered, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he reminisced.
"Where's Della?" Clay asked, sliding the lawyer's favorite drink across the table.
"A prior obligation," Mason said and took a sip of the drink. Without looking at the menu, he ordered his usual.
"Well, sometimes it's nice just to dine alone," Clay idly responded, leaning against the booth, eyeing the attorney speculatively before leaving with the order.
Mason chuckled, thinking of just how many times Clay had probably dined alone. Slipping the napkin from the table, the lawyer gently wiped his lips and noticed Burger walking in. Only hours before they had concluded a very interesting trial, even the reporters were shaking their heads as they rushed to file their stories. Burger nodded, seeing the lawyer in his usual booth, and decided to stop by.
"Perry."
"Hamilton."
The two men nodded their greetings as the prosecutor noticed the lawyer was seated alone.
"No celebration?" Burger asked.
"No, Hamilton, just a quiet evening at Clay's. Meeting someone?" Mason asked, noticing the prosecutor didn't seem to be searching for anyone in particular among those present in the restaurant.
"No," Burger replied simply.
With an elegant turn of his hand the lawyer gestured to the seat across from him. "Care to join me?"
The prosecutor hesitated, thinking it over, then smiled. "Sure, Perry, I'd be glad to."
Mason motioned for a server and in a few moments Burger was enjoying his drink.
"You know, Perry, we've been doing this a long time. How long's it been?"
"Too long, Hamilton, but then who's counting," Mason agreed before leaning back in the booth, looking over the prosecutor. Time and the weight of an ever increasing caseload had taken its toll on his capable adversary, the man had aged. But to be honest, they both had. Still, Burger attacked his duties as an officer of the court with a persistent seriousness of purpose. No one could say Burger did not give his full effort in finding justice for the victims of crime as well as seeking to punish their perpetrators. No matter their differences, they both had the same goal-they both wanted justice to be served. Unlike, Erskine Burrows, Hamilton Burger was no shyster.
"You know I was sure I had your client dead to rights, Perry."
Mason nodded and smiled.
Burger stared off for a moment and rubbed his jaw in thought. "So how did you know Franklin Cummings was really Hanley Gillette? The plastic surgery totally changed the man, even his fingerprints."
The lawyer took a sip of his drink, then stared off for a moment before gently running the tips of his fingers along the angle of his jaw as he recalled the facts.
"You know, of all the variables in this case, there was one thing that kept bugging me. It was the Akita. All the neighbors stated the Akita was an excellent guard dog, and would bark at any stranger, but yet on the night of the murder, the dog was silent, no one heard a thing. Now why on the night of the murder would the Akita not sound the alarm?"
Burger's eyes watched, carefully following the lawyer's train of thought.
"And then it dawned on me, the Akita was quiet because the animal recognized his previous owner, it had to be Hanley Gillette, or as we know him, Franklin Cummings."
Shaking his head, lips pursed, Burger muttered, "Well, I'll be damned. That certainly makes sense. Dogs are like that. Humph." A moment of silence followed before finally the prosecutor lifted his glass toward Mason. "Well, counselor, here's to justice."
Mason nodded and raised his glass to touch Burger's. "To justice."
Yeah, justice, Mason thought. And unlike Erskine Burrows, Hamilton Burger was no shyster. The lawyer stood in front of a cluster of paintings as a young clerk walked by and stopped to ask if he needed assistance.
Politely, Mason declined and walked along, continuing his perusal of struggling artists when suddenly he stopped again. The painting on the wall, it was a copy to be sure, but the creator had put forth a noble effort in capturing the essence of Johannes Vermeer's the 'Girl with the Pearl Earring'. Mason's eyes studied the work, the precise colors, and the capturing of details- the sensuous glow on the young girl's parted lips and the pivotal highlight on the pearl earring. Leaning in, he stared at the highlighted orb and recalled the luster of other pearls.
He hadn't even undressed and despite his whispered protest she pushed him on the bed, pulled up her skirt and straddled his legs. He wasn't in the mood and yet he made no effort to stop her nimble fingers from massaging the tense muscles of his temples- forcing him to relax.
"There….." she cooed in her husky voice, "There…there," she whispered near his ear as her skilled fingers slipped his jacket from his shoulders.
Tossing his jacket aside he continued his whispered protests. Still fighting the frustrations of what he had to do in court, he was oblivious to his tie slipping from his neck or the fingers loosening the buttons of his shirt.
"Della!" he protested louder for her to hear, but strong hands pushed him back on the bed. Tired, his hands rose to rub across sleep deprived eyes. Lost in the turmoil of his own world he didn't hear the rustle of clothing, or feel the pressure of her body reclining on the bed next to his. Lowering his hand from his eyes, he blindly allowed it drop to her shoulder. Feeling the softness beneath his fingertips, he allowed his eyes to join his fingers as they slowly traveled across the curve of her bare shoulder. His protests stopped. The light from the lamp illuminated dark dusky eyes, glistening full lips and the highlights of the pearls she wore. Staring at the lustrous orbs he realized she wore nothing else.
"Perry," she whispered, leaning closer, allowing her hands to slip beneath his open shirt pushing it to the side. "You did what you had to do," she said, as her lips trailed along his cheek and beneath his chin. "I understand," she said in a voice both soft and soothing. Feeling the warmth of her breath and the softness of her lips on his chest, he closed his eyes and surrendered.
He had yearned for her touch and surrender last night. Tossing and turning, the sheets twisting around him like an evil force, he finally fought them off and began to pace. What was this fresh hell he lived in? It was a hell of his own doing. And now Della was happy and working without him. He should be happy; everything had worked out just as he had planned. He was after all, the master of manipulation, a man who could push all the right buttons to illicit confessions from murderers.
"Sir, are you alright?" the young clerk asked with concern, looking at the pained expression covering her customer's face and immediately thought- heart attack.
Mason's eyes shot to meet the young woman's and immediately answered, "No, I'm not alright." And with those abrupt words the jurist turned and marched out onto the street with the clerk in pursuit.
"Sir, if you're not alright, I should call an ambulance," she called after him, window shoppers on the street looked up, watching the exchange. The clerk's shoulders slumped as she watched the broad-shouldered man with the long strides disappear out of sight. Shaking her head, she reluctantly stepped back in the shop.
~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~PM~~~
After much walking and thinking, Mason suddenly found himself standing and staring through a plate glass window. Emblazoned in cursive white letters- the simple words, "EATS". Wafting through the open door was the aroma of bacon, sausage and the sweet smell of maple syrup. Behind the pane of glass, Mason watched a pair of massive arms, tattooed with anchors and mermaids flip and maneuver links of sausages and strips of bacon. Wearing a white apron, T-shirt, and a sailor's cap, the cook worked the griddle like a conductor works a symphony. Effortlessly he flipped two patties on a white porcelain plate, reached over head and with one massive hand cracked and released an egg on the steaming griddle. In between eggs he would turn and argue with a customer sitting at the counter.
The aroma and the vision transfixed the attorney and suddenly he was back in the ship's mess deck. Stepping through the open door, the interior reminded him of the diner he and Paul use to frequent in L.A. A long counter faced the griddle and kitchen, tables in the center and booths along the side. Slick melanin surfaces and vinyl and chrome chairs, a basket of napkins and condiments at each table, the lawyer felt right at home. Along the counter sat an assortment of blue collar workers dressed in their uniforms. Postal workers, bus drivers, cable car operators, cab and limousine drivers, doormen, all workers who plied their respective trades on a Saturday morning were lined up at the counter for breakfast and coffee, or at least a lively discussion with the cook who commanded the open grill. A small dark-haired woman scurried behind the counter, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried out to meet him. Obviously he was new, the other customers in the restaurant looked up when he walked in and seemed to turn to each other as though inquiring, 'Who's the new guy?'
"Geeze, Ernie, you don't know nothin about baseball!" the cook barked, jabbing the metal turner toward the man at the end of the counter for emphasis.
The other men at the counter let out an 'oooh' and turned and looked at the bus driver at the end who waved the sports page in the direction of the griddle. "Well, it says it right here, I don't make this stuff up, Frank! You should stick to frying eggs!"
The dark-haired waitress approached the lawyer. "Don't pay any attention to them, they do this all the time. Would you like a table or a booth?"
"AAGGHHH!" Frank loudly groaned with exasperation, through down his hand and turned his attention to the frying eggs. The bus driver got up, tossed down the money for his bill and shoved a tip under his plate and grabbed the newspaper. Before Mason could reply to the waitress the bus driver had offered him the newspaper. "Here you go, Mac, maybe you can talk some sense into that hard-head over there."
Mason took the offered paper and watched the bus driver turn to leave. The cook yelled at the departing driver, "So I'm a hard-head, eh? I heard that!"
"Yeah, you heard right! We'll finish this tomorrow, Frank," Ernie motioned with his hand to the cook as he stepped out on the street.
The lawyer suppressed an amused smile while studying the lay-out of the restaurant.
"I'd like that booth over there." Mason motioned to a booth that commanded a view of the street outside, the griddle and kitchen, counter and the front door. A perfect location for one of his favorite past times, the study of human nature.
Mason sat down and looked eye to eye with the petite waitress standing at his side.
"Would you care for some coffee?"
Mason nodded.
"The menus are on the table behind the mustard and ketchup bottles. I'll be right back with your coffee."
Mason folded the paper and placed it to the side. Immediately he smelled the aroma of freshly brewed coffee as the young woman placed the cup and saucer on the table and a small metal pitcher of cream.
"The sugars on the table… you know….. in that little basket over there." She gestured with a nod of her head. "I'll let you look over the menu, just let me know when you want to order."
"Of course, thank you."
Gingerly Mason checked the hot porcelain handle, then pushed the cup and saucer to the center of the table. The menu, placed in a plastic sleeve, rested between the wall and the yellow and red squeeze bottles. Mason eased the plastic sleeve from its resting place and accidently knocked over the ketchup. Picking up the full bottle, turning it in his fingers, he found he couldn't resist a smile.
Paul Drake rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Man, am I starved!"
Perry Mason, dressed for court, sat across from the detective with an air of concern. "You know, Paul, I dreaded coming in here."
The detective had already scanned the menu and was ready to order. "What's wrong, Perry, this is a great place. We've got a great table here by the window with the view of the street. And I hear from the guys the food's good and they don't skimp on the portions."
The lawyer had placed his menu aside and was taking the opportunity to smooth out and straighten the tie clasp on his light blue necktie.
Mason looked up with an air of mock surprise. "You really don't remember do you?"
"What?" Drake asked, confused.
"The reason why we don't eat at Trixie's anymore."
"Ooh," Drake replied, his shoulders slumping slightly.
Exasperated, Mason pursed his lips, his fingers still worked to adjust the tie clip. "It seems like we find a good place to eat and then you go and ruin it by dating not one, but all of the waitresses."
Drake started, "But, Perry, I can explain…"
The lawyer interrupted, "And then you don't call them, or they find out you've been going out with all of them, they start comparing notes….." Mason's voice trailed off and was followed by a weary sigh, "And then we can't show our faces in there again."
Paul, nervous, picked up the bottle of ketchup, moved it around in his hands. "Yeah, don't two-time the woman who handles your food, that's what I always say." Drake looked out at the sidewalk, watching people passing by. Rolling his eyes, the blonde Romeo added, "And it certainly doesn't take a detective to figure that one out."
Mason started to reach for his silverware when Drake called out, "Whoa, Perry, you gotta take a look at that!" The lawyer's head swiveled around to follow the detective's appreciative gaze as a shapely blonde seductively came into view and glided along the sidewalk in a form fitted dress that hugged every curve. Seeing the detective ogling her through the window, the blonde managed to catch the detective's eye, smiled then winked.
The lawyer marveled at their fleeting flirtation as his friend gave a breathless, "Wow!"
Only seconds elapsed before Drake spoke again. "Ah oh!"
Confused at the change in tone, Mason turned his head to look across the table at the dumbfounded detective. Growing concerned, he followed Drake's wide-eyed gaze to the front of his own shirt, to the glob of ketchup that slowly made its way down the length of his light blue tie.
Mason replaced the ketchup and stared across the booth. Releasing a bittersweet smile his eyes began to well. Funny, he remembered distinctly wearing Paul's gaudy geometric tie to court that day, a tie he swore was the ugliest tie ever made. Even now, he still finds the tie in his collection from time to time. Why would he keep the ugliest tie ever made? It didn't take a detective's logic to know the answer. He knew.
Vinyl seats squeaked and bodies shuffled causing the lawyer to give his attention to the lunch counter. The men who were earlier slumped over their plates suddenly perked up as though they had been infused with rarified air. What could cause their transformation and then he saw her-the other waitress who had been on break who now stood in the kitchen doorway. Every male eye was on her and Mason could understand the attraction. Honey blonde hair, full figured and a regal air, she had the physical appearance of Grace Kelly. She knew how to make an entrance and stood in the kitchen doorway as though waiting for her name to be called at the Queen's Gala along with the names of other royalty and dignitaries. Despite the aqua uniform of a waitress, the full figured blonde stood with an air of sophistication, even the simple task of putting on her white apron held the attention of every male in the room.
"Ah, Mae, we've been waiting for you," one of the men called out and was quickly joined by other male voices who eagerly agreed.
Mason propped his chin on his fist and watched with rapt attention as Mae stepped to the coffee machine and retrieved the steaming decanter. Her every movement was flowing, elegant and poised and then she spoke.
The sound was a slow, seductive, mellifluous Southern accent. "Oh, …boys…you…are…so…kind." Moving along the counter, she spoke with each one, each movement, precise and regal as though presiding over a high society tea.
How did a woman like that, end up in a place like this? Mason pondered.
"Mae, Frank was picking on Ernie," the doorman announced. The cook paused and turned at the sound of his name. Mae finished refilling the last cup of coffee and with an elegant turn replaced the decanter on its stand.
"Oh, Frank!" she exclaimed placing both of her hands on the curves of her hips. The gesture drew every eye to her curves and the ample cleavage revealed by the straining top button of her uniform. "You've….got…to…be…nice….to …the customers."
The burly cook took on the appearance of a young boy being scolded by his mother and responded in a faux Southern vernacular. "Ah, Mae, honey, I didn't mean no harm."
Mae's eyes, the color of milk chocolate widened and snapped. "Don't …cross me… don't….be …like…Beau,….I'd…hate…for….you…to…..make…that…mistake."
"Oooooh," the men at the counter said in unison.
"You don't want to be like Mae's, Beau!" the taxi driver warned.
"Yeah," the limousine driver chimed in, "you might disappear in the bayou, never to be seen again."
The men at the counter were nudging each other, laughing and grinning, enjoying the playful drama at their neighborhood diner.
But Mason's eyes narrowed, he wasn't so sure this playful drama was all in fun. The lawyer began to suspect there was more truth than fiction in their little melodrama. It would certainly explain why a genteel Southern beauty would be waiting tables in San Francisco. Mae's Beau disappearing in the bayou, well, there was certainly more to that story. Perhaps it was taking a button and sewing a vest on it, but he did love a mystery and he had all the time in the world.
Frank left the grill, head lowered, carefully approaching the shapely blonde.
"I'll be nice to Ernie," he soothed, leaning into her, then quickly planting a kiss on her cheek. The guys laughed and watched Mae's sparkling eyes soften as the burly cook returned to his work, and she gracefully turned and removed the decanter and began her rounds.
Like a beautiful butterfly Mae fluttered from one table to the next. Moving through the tables Mason was able to notice more details about the waitress. Sipping his coffee, he watched, observed and wondered what other nuances Della might glean if she were able to observe the mysterious Mae. The lawyer took in the shapely but mature figure, the efforts to hold back the hands of time he found had been effective, Mae did not look what he estimated to be in her late forties.
Mason finished his coffee and felt her presence next to him. Taller than the other waitress, he looked up into her warm chocolate brown eyes and noticed the faint signs of wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. Time had been good to Mae. Mason found her to be an extremely beautiful woman and yet the lawyer couldn't say life had been kind to her, her eyes told a different story.
He was a new customer and the waitress paused, the coffee carafe still poised in her hand as her sparkling eyes swept over the lawyer's face and continued to return to his blue eyes over and over again. Mason waited, would she ask if wanted more coffee. The silence between them was not uncomfortable and when she began her voice was soft and as seductively sweet as Tupelo honey.
"My…..your eyes,….they..do..tell..a story."
Mason's eyes softened as his brows knitted together. Her full mouth pulled into an easy smile, a dazzling smile.
The lawyer's mouth pulled to the side and asked incredulously, "Are you flirting with me?"
Her laugh was deep and sultry, then more playful. "Oh, my…..no…I..just have a way….a way of saying what I mean. Life's…just..way too short…to.. waste…on…flirtation."
Mason couldn't help but find her eerily enchanting. "I agree, life is too short," he said and watched her lower the carafe, indicating a refill.
The lawyer nodded, and Mae filled the cup and placed the container on the table and removed her order pad.
"I'm fine, the coffee's good," the lawyer said. "I'll wait before I order if you don't mind."
"I…don't…mind." She answered returning the pad to her an apron, but she didn't leave. Mason could feel her desire to talk, to learn more about her new customer and the lawyer obliged by providing an opening.
"This is a colorful place you have here."
"Oh, yes…everyone…knows..everyone…its really…quite…nice. So what do you do, Mr. Blue?" The name came out quickly, and immediately she placed her fingertips to her lips, and gave a little girl giggle.
"I'm…so…sorry…that…just…slipped out. I…have..a..way..of giving…customers…little…nicknames….it..helps…me remember. And besides….you..have…the…most…beautiful…blue…eyes."
The lawyer lowered his eyes and suppressed a smile at her compliment. "That's perfectly, alright, Mae. I may call you, Mae."
"Of..course…remember…life's …too…short…for…flirtation."
Again Mason nodded and they both softly laughed.
"You…didn't…answer….my..question…Mr. Blue?"
Mason toyed with the handle of his coffee cup and contemplated what anwer he should give her. "I study people," he answered simply.
"Well, isn't..that…interesting…so…do… I. I…guess…we'll…have…a lot…to talk…about…won't…we….Mr. Blue."
The men at the counter were craning their necks, stealing glances at Mae and the new customer who seemed to be occupying way too much of her time. Their eyes became like darts, piercing the lawyer with tinges of jealousy.
"Tell me, Mae, I do have a question about human behavior. Perhaps you could assist me."
Mae looked around, checking for customers who might need her services.
"Why….of….course….I'd….be…most…happy…to help."
"What if an attractive woman doesn't really flirt with a man, even though there could be a physical attraction? But what if she's not interested in flirting, what if she's only trying to get inside his head."
"My… what…an…interesting…question, Mr. Blue. I think..you..must…have..something…she…wants…something…she needs."
Mason listened and waited intently.
"I think…..she needs…..answers. And you….Mr. Blue….have….the….answers….she's..looking…for."
Brows furrowed, Mason became thoughtful. "Thank you, Mae, you've been very helpful."
Picking up the carafe, Mae smiled with satisfaction. "I'm…so…glad….I …could…be… of assistance."
"Mae!" the taxi driver called, feeling the new customer had taken enough of her time.
"Coming, Bennie." Turning, she gently touched Mason's arm and returned to the counter.
You have something she needs; you have the answers she's looking for. The lock and key. Mason sipped his coffee, eyes narrowed in thought, he watched Frank crack eggs and Mae hold court and decided, 'Eats' would definitely require a return visit.
~~~tbc~~~