"Luigi the Wharf Rat, that's the name of it. They won't let you in,
though, unless you tell them you're with me. It's special." Hsi's eye
closed in Rosalie Pan's wink. "Half an hour," Hsi said, and was again
himself. He began to shake.
The waiter brought him straight whiskey and, pretense abandoned, stood
by while Hsi drank it. After a moment he said, "Scares you. But--I
guess we're all right. She couldn't have heard much. You'd better go,
Chandler. I'll talk to you again some other time."
Chandler stood up. But he couldn't leave Hsi like that. "Are you all
right?"
Hsi almost managed control. "Oh--I think so. Not the first time it's
come close, you know. Sooner or later it'll come closer still, and that
will be the end, but--yes, I'm all right for now."
Chandler tarried. "You were saying something about the Society of
Slaves."
"Damn it, go!" Hsi barked. "She'll be waiting for you.... Sorry,
I didn't mean to shout. But go." As Chandler turned, he said more
quietly, "Come around to the store tomorrow. Maybe we can finish our
talk then."
* * * * *
Luigi the Wharf Rat's was not actually on the beach but on the bank of
a body of water called the Ala Wai Canal. Across the water were the
snowtopped hills. A maitre-de escorted Chandler personally to a table
on a balcony, and there he waited. Rosalie's "half-hour" was nearly
two; but then he heard her calling him from across the room, in the
voice which had reached a thousand second balconies, and he rose as she
came near.
She said lightly, "Sorry. You ought to be flattered, though. It's a
twenty-minute drive--and an hour and a half to put on my face, so you
won't be ashamed to be seen with me. Well, it's good to be out in my
own skin for a change. Let's eat!"
The talk with Hsi had left a mark on Chandler that not even this girl's
pretty face could obscure. It was a pretty face, though, and she was
obviously exerting herself to make him enjoy himself. He could not help
responding to her mood.
She talked of her life on the stage, the excitement of a performance,
the entertainers she had known. Her conversation was one long
name-drop, but it was not pretense: the world of the famous was the
world she had lived in. It was not a world that Chandler had ever
visited, but he recognized the names. Rosie had been married once to
an English actor whose movies Chandler had made a point of watching on
television. It was interesting, in a way, to know that the man snored
and lived principally on vitamin pills. But it was a view of the man
that Chandler had not sought.
The restaurant drew its clientele mostly from the execs, young ones or
young-acting ones, like the girl. The coronets were all over. There had
been a sign on the door: