Free Confidence Tricks by Hamilton Waymire Page B

box on the sideboard and blew her nose. “I’m sorry, Benson. I didn’t mean to make a scene or anything. I was just so happy to see you.”
    We talked a lot, had some dinner, walked around the block, and made love. Lying in bed, sweating profusely, watching the ceiling fan whir at maximum speed, I lit a cigarette and said, “Wanna hear about my day?”
    Cathy propped herself up on an elbow and kissed me. “Sure.”
    I told her about Mrs. Drummond and Cybil.
    Cathy took a long drag from my cigarette. Letting the smoke waft out of her nose and mouth, she said, “And you took the case, right?”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because you’re a sucker for melodrama,” she replied and stuck the cigarette back between my lips.
    * * *
    Downtown Disney is an outdoor retail and dining mall adjacent to the theme park. Despite the mid-July heat, the place bustled with tourists, many of them in business suits and wearing name tags. I figured there was a conference on at the Anaheim Convention Center, which was practically around the corner.
    At ten-forty-five, I entered the Moonstone, got myself a large coffee and an LA Times and took up my post at a corner table. I didn’t have to wait long. Before my coffee was finished, a tall blonde in denim hot pants and a white tank top entered the store. Her pink bra glowed through the flimsy fabric of the shirt. Not exactly conservative dress, but in Orange County, nothing to write home about, either.
    She was accompanied by one of those burnt-out surfer dudes. The guy was about forty-five and wore his dirty-yellow hair slicked back. He gave the woman a peck on the cheek, turned on his heel, and left the store.
    Most of the woman’s face was hidden under humongous sunglasses. As she approached the counter, she pushed them up into her hair. Prominent cheekbones, the nose a little large for the face, but she was definitely pretty, if slightly cheap. Age tallied, too.
    “Can I get a name for that order?”
    “Cybil,” she told the cashier.
    Bingo .
    I weighed my options while Cybil stirred sweetener into her nonfat latte. Plan A consisted of chatting her up and asking for her phone number. The risk was that she might blow me off, especially if Surfer Dude was more than a casual acquaintance, and then I would’ve lost the anonymity I needed if I was to follow her. I adopted plan B: wait and see.
    Cybil chose a table at the far end of the room. She folded her smooth, golden-tanned legs and extracted a tattered paperback from her pink handbag. With some squinting, I could discern a bare-chested man on the cover.
    Cybil seemed to find her romance novel more engrossing than I did the LA Times . After half an hour, I was bored stiff, no matter that my mark was easy on the eyes. Just as I was about to revert to plan A, I heard Cybil’s cell phone ring to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
    She answered the call but didn’t say a word. After perhaps a minute, she shut the phone, stowed it and the book in her bag, and marched toward the exit. I could smell her perfume when she passed my table; she wore a lot of it, and the scent was too heavy for the season.
    I left my paper on the table and followed Cybil. She made a beeline to Catalan, a Mexican restaurant known for its guacamole, not far from the coffeehouse. The outside sitting area was crowded, but a number of tables were available in the air-conditioned barroom.
    At the center of the room sat a stout middle-aged businessman wearing one of those conference name tags. He was eating fajitas and sweating, despite the A/C. Cybil gave him a brief nod and a smile and sat at a neighboring table. I chose a seat at the bar close to the wall that allowed me to watch Cybil while staying largely out of sight.
    I ordered a beer and some chips from the barkeep. A pimply, overweight chick in an apron brought Cybil a menu and took her drink order.
    “What’s that you’re having?” Cybil asked the business suit when the server had left.