“That’s a different purse,” I commented.
“That’s a detective’s eye.”
“Why I get the medium bucks.”
“Where we going?” she asked.
“I reserved a table in the bar at the Beverly Wilshire.”
“Oh. You think I’m dressed well enough for that?”
This gave me the excuse to look closely at her and her ensemble.
“The last time I saw you, you were wearing nurses’ white.”
“I changed for our date.”
“That’s what you wear to work?”
“This dress has been in my locker for weeks. Always be prepared.”
“Well… to answer your question, I’ll be the envy of half the men and you of all the women there,” I said.
Her lips, unconsciously I believe, formed into a kiss.
The bar had a great menu and a professional staff. No burgers served by wannabe actors on a working layover, waiting for a ticket to stardom or a ride back home.
Molayo was the perfect date. She asked for prosecco when offered champagne and had to be convinced, by me, to have the rib eye. She talked about her parents and their separation and then asked about my job, careful not to pry about my business with Mr. Babylon. She did, however, ask what a private investigator did.
“I’m usually hired to find things that are missing,” I said. “People that are hiding or things that have disappeared. Either that or a cheating spouse.”
“Sounds like fun. Does it—does it get dangerous sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
“So you know karate or somethin’?”
“Before I became a PI, I was a New York City cop. They teach you how to fight dirty and with specific goals in mind.”
“Specific goals? What’s that mean?”
“Most people who learn the eastern disciplines use them as both exercise and last-ditch self-defense. When I was a cop, we were taught to be aggressive, to subdue, dissuade, stop, and, if it was called for, to cause serious physical harm.”
“Like kill people?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is that why you quit?”
“I was fired.”
“For what?” Her eyes sharpened to take in the totality of my answer.
“For doing my job.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s because it’s not something I like to talk about.”