“You were there?”
She had pushed the paper aside to the floor and was leaning over the table.
“With the police.”
“Was—?” Her voice broke huskily. Her white fingers wadded the tablecloth in two little bunches halfway between us. She cleared her throat. “Who was—?” was as far as she got this time.
A pause. I waited. Her eyes went down, but not before I had seen water dulling the fire in them. During the pause the waiter came in, put our food down, went away.
“You know what I want to ask,” she said presently, her voice low, choked. “Was he? Was he? For God’s sake tell me!”
I weighed them—truth against lie, lie against truth. Once more truth triumphed.
“Paddy the Mex was shot—killed—in the Fillmore Street house,” I said.
The pupils of her eyes shrank to pinpoints—spread again until they almost covered the green irises. She made no sound. Her face was empty. She picked up a fork and lifted a forkful of salad to her mouth—another. Reaching across the table, I took the fork out of her hand.
“You’re only spilling it on your clothes,” I growled. “You can’t eat without opening your mouth to put the food in.”
She put her hands across the table, reaching for mine, trembling, holding my hand with fingers that twitched so that the nails scratched me.
“You’re not lying to me?” she half sobbed, half chattered. “You’re on the square! You were white to me that time in Philly! Paddy always said you