We stay there for a while, sipping our drinks. Teasing you subtly so sexy you can’t take your eyes off me, wanting to tease you till you explode… I finish my drink and slip my foot back into my stiletto. I stand and walk towards you; your hands grip your pint, nervously. I lean towards you and whisper in your ear ‘let’s go play…’ I take your hand; you’re a little reluctant to stand up because of the obvious bulge in your trousers. You move close behind me, wrapping your arm round my shoulder and down my front from behind, ‘you honry little bitch!’ you giggle into my ear. I giggle back as we move to the door. I step out of the door, then step back inside, playfully blowing a kiss at the watching barman, who’s polishing glasses, it flusters him and he drops the glass. I grab your hand and run outside, giggling. I reach my car, playing with my hair, tucking it behind my ears. You step forward, pushing against the car. You run your fingers through my hair, pulling me closer. You kiss me. Using the steely self-control for which I am celebrated, I refrained from à-la-moding it. Vanessa stuck with hot water and lemon. Artie did the Boston Cream Pie with a scoop of vanilla and, for nutritional balance, a scoop of strawberry.I nodded at the waitress, “Hit me.”Artie ate slowly, precisely, just like Daddy does. Maybe it’s a cop thing.He said, “Your boy. Arthur Flanders lives in a nursing home, a pretty decent one. St. Catherine on South Muskego Avenue. I called over there. He’s in decent shape, usual problems for a man in his 80s. But he wasn’t a smoker, social drinking only. No drugs.”Vanessa said, “A peach. Fucking pedophile.”I flashed on Walker for a moment, then brought myself back to Al’s Diner.Artie looked at Vanessa thoughtfully. He’d seen a lot. “Dave told me about your grandmother.” Dave. Dave Jennings. The Captain.Vanessa said, “Sasha Andrushchenko. Flanders bought her from my great-grandmother when Sasha was young. In Kiev, 1965.”I said, “Does Flanders have all.
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