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.“What goes with jazz?”Matt found himself focusing.“The, uh, the sirloin tips are good.That’s what I had here.Grilled Chicken Picata.”“Sounds like a Temple Barr preference,” Max said, of the chicken entrée.“Actually, I was here with Lieutenant Molina.I’ll have the Salmon Fettuccini.”“You’re a brave man.” Kinsella let his comment confuse Matt for a long moment then continued: “artichoke, purple onion, and garlic all in one go.”“I apparently like to eat dangerously.They have a great pale ale here, even Guinness stout.”“No beer, ale, or stout for me,” Max said.“I’m allergic now.”“Oh.Well, you don’t look like a wine guy.”“Not like you were.”It took Matt a second to realize Max Kinsella had been reared Catholic and understood ex-priest almost as well as he did.“No,” Matt said, “sacramental wine hasn’t been on my menu lately, either.Why not just skip the well-aged angst and order the hard spirits of our choice?”Max laughed with genuine appreciation.“Gandolph didn’t tell me you were easy to underestimate, too.Scotch whisky it is for me, a double.A doughty drink.Neat,” he added, to the now-hovering waiter, whose brow furrowed.“No ice,” Max added in explanation.“I’ll have…” Matt observed that Max had ordered the most manly drink first.“… A vodka gimlet.Ice, no sugar, and a lime wedge.”“So she’s sweet and you’re sour,” Max commented.“Are we talking about Kathleen O’Connor or Temple?”Max chuckled softly again.“You’re not what I expected.”“And you expected—?”“Mister Nice Guy.”“I am.”“You won that.” He glanced at Matt’s wrist.“Not by much.”“Doesn’t matter by how much, trust me.”“I can’t.”“On that you can.Listen.I don’t like this any more than you do.”“What’s not to like?” Matt asked.“Guys’ night out.I can … help you with a lot of those blank areas in your memory.It’s my business.Trust me.”“I can’t.”“You should.”The waiter brought their drinks and waited like an expectant chipmunk for their food orders.Even food-service jobs in Vegas were hard to come by nowadays.Matt ordered his salmon and Kinsella his Caribbean Spiced Prime Rib of Pork, just to be left alone for a while.“Talk about eating dangerously,” Matt said.“Pork with habanero-banana salsa and Diablo Sauce?“Have to keep up with the competition.”“Look,” Matt said.“I’m glad you’re alive, but I’m not happy about you coming back to Vegas from the dead.Temple is a true-blue soul.She’d never leave you out there, twisting in the wind with serious losses to deal with and no memory.”“And you?”“Me neither,” Matt heard himself almost snarl.“So you’re our pet project.I want to help you on your merry way to mental health and new places and faces, okay?”Max took a long slug of Scotch, nodding.“Self-interest I can buy.Meanwhile, chew on this: I don’t remember much, Devine.Frankly, I don’t know much, but I do know that Temple is not my type.”“How do you know?”“I encountered it … her … on my escape route.”“You’re with another woman?”“I was.”Matt let a lot of vodka and lime fill his throat before he answered.“That’s … crummy.”“What? You’d want me back, whole, picking up where I’d left off?”“No.” Matt sipped some more of his mixed vodka-sour feelings.“Temple shouldn’t be that easy to get over.”Max lifted his amber glass.“I’ve made my point.I’m a cad without a memory.You have nothing to fear … but Kathleen O’Connor.I’m here not because of Temple or any memory or feelings I have of or for her.I’m here because we all three have a mutual enemy.And Kathleen’s like that vengeful wife abuser from your once-innocent airtime advice show.She won’t go away and stop hurting people, mainly us, until we catch her and stop her and put her away.Sláinte.”Max held out his glass.The word predestination crossed Matt’s mind before he chimed rims with his second-worst nightmare.Kinsella was right.Handicapped but right [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]