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"Short for Tarquin," Valentine said.
She transferred her shoes to her purse-holding hand. "Fran Paoli. I work up at Xanadu too."
"I'm liking it better and better there," Valentine said, shaking her offered hand. She laughed, but lightly.
Valentine showed her the bottle.
"That's real Kentucky Bourbon, I believe," she said.
"Care for a snort?" Valentine asked.
"With water," she said. "About 5ccs."
"How much is that?"
"A shot glass."
When Valentine returned from the refreshment table with two ice-filled plastic cups of water, she stood next to a paper-covered table festooned with balloons reading "Happy Birthday."
Valentine set his glasses down and held out the chair for her. "Why did you take your heels off?" he asked.
"I can be sneaky that way. Besides, it makes me feel sexy."
It also makes you two inches shorter than I am, Valentine thought. "I didn't know we'd have any doctors in attendance."
"I'll be it. Oriana and I came down to the waterfront to do some shopping."
"And you just couldn't resist the music and the decor?" Valentine passed her drink to her. She sipped.
Fran rolled the liquor around in her mouth, and swallowed. "No. I wanted to meet you."
"You're very direct."
She looked up as the liquor hit. "Whoo, that takes me back. I did a term with a field hospital down your way."
"Wanted to meet me?" Valentine insisted.
"When you get a few more years' . . . oh . . . perspective on life, let's say, you run short on patience for gamesmanship."
Valentine watched more uniforms flow in. Couples began dancing, doing curious, quick back-and-forth movements, one part of the body always touching. Hand gave way to arm that gave way to shoulder that gave way to buttock that turned into hand again. He felt like a scruffy backwoodsman at a cotillion.
Good God. Ali's here.
She wore a plain woolen skirt and a yellow blouse that flirted with femininity, but went with her flame-colored hair. Lipstick and eye makeup were making one of their rare appearances on her face. A soldier who looked like a wrestler's torso on a jockey's legs was introducing her to one of the Churchmen. Valentine wondered if he was looking at an infatuated boy or a dead man.
"Do you want to dance?" Valentine asked.
"You don't look like the slinky-slide type."
"Is that what that dance is called?"
"It was when they were doing it in New York ten years ago. God knows what it's called out here." Her thin-lipped mouth took on a grimace that might be called cruel.
Valentine tried a tiny amount of bourbon, just enough to wet his lips and make it appear that he drank. "So how did you know you wanted to meet me?"
"Moonshots."
"Is that something else from New York?"
