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CHAPTER THIRTY

 At midnight, the McDonald's restaurant at the corner of Commerce and Griffin in downtown Dallas looked like a goldfish bowl. It was brightly lit. Through the plate glass windows, everyone inside was as clearly visible as actors standing on center stage.

The cashier was taking an order from a somber loner. A wino was sleeping it off in one of the booths. Two giddy teenage couples were squirting catsup on each other.

Breathless from having walked three blocks from the hotel, Avery approached the restaurant cautiously. Her formal attire distinguished her from everyone else who was out and about. It was foolhardy for a woman to be walking the downtown streets alone at this hour anyway.

From across the street, she peered into the capsulized brilliance of the dining room. She saw him, sitting alone in a booth. Fortunately, the booth was adjacent to the windows. As soon as the traffic light changed, she hurried across the broad avenue, her high heels clacking on the pavement.

"Mmm-mmm, mama, lookin' good!" A black youth licentiously wagged his tongue at her. With punches and guffaws, his two chums congratulated him. On the corner, two women, one with orange hair, the other with burgundy, competed for the attentions of a man in tight leather pants. He was leaning against the traffic light post, looking bored, until Avery walked by. He gave her a carnivorous once-over. The orange-haired woman spun around, propped her hands on her hips, and shouted at Avery, "Hey, bitch, keep your ass outta his face or I'll kill you."

Avery ignored them all as she walked past, moving along the sidewalk toward the booth. When she drew even with it, she knocked on the window. Van Lovejoy looked up from his chocolate milk shake, spotted her, and grinned. He indicated the other bench of the booth. Avery angrily and vehemently shook her head no and sternly pointed down at the grimy sidewalk beneath her black satin shoes.

He took his sweet time. She impatiently followed his unhurried progress through the restaurant, out the door, and around the comer, so that by the time he reached her, she was simmering with rage.

"What the hell are you up to, Van?" she demanded.

Feigning innocence, he curled both lanky hands in toward his chest. "Moi?"

"Did we have to meet here? At this time of night?"

''Would you rather I had come to your room—the room you're sharing with another  woman's husband?" In the ensuing silence, he casually lit a joint. After two tokes, he offered it to Avery. She slapped his hand aside.

"You can't imagine the danger you placed me in by speaking to me tonight."

He leaned against the plate glass window. ''I'm all ears."

"Van." Miserably, she caught her head with her hand and massaged her temples. "It's too difficult to explain—especially here." The women at the comer were loudly swapping obscenities while the man in leather cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. "I slipped out of the hotel. If Tate discovers that I'm gone—"

"Does he know you're not his wife?"

"No! And he mustn't."

"How come?''

"It'll take a while to explain."

"I'm under no deadline."

"But I am," she cried, clutching his skinny arm. "Van, you can't tell anybody. Lives would be put in danger."

"Yeah, Rutledge just might be pissed off enough to kill you."

"I'm talking about Tate's life. This isn't a game, trust me. There's a lot at stake. You'll agree when I've had a chance to explain. But I can't now. I've got to get back."