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She walked across, opened the door and looked
into the eyes of a complete stranger. How did he get past
security? And why this vague feeling she had met him before?
Immaculately groomed, custom tailored gray suit,
shirt pale yellow, silk tie and handkerchief a light plum.
The man had a feel for color. She could smell his cologne.
Reminded her of Valentino, maybe? Olive skin, but lighter.
Same height, almost six foot, but stocky, the body of a wrestler.
Not nearly as handsome as Valentino, of course.
Except the eyes. Power. Like looking into the
eyes of a tiger.
He was holding a pearl gray fedora and a bouquet
of red roses.
Roses? She looked up at his eyes.
The building was quiet, people left quickly
on a Friday night.
He stood taking her in, as if reading her, his
head tilted. Kid-in-a-candy-store smile, yet something more.
If he could tell she’d been crying, he didn’t let
it show.
She’d never seen eyes that shade. Gray
as fog. Not pearl gray like the fedora, darker.
Roses. She smiled.
“Miss Walton,” he said finally, “I
was afraid you might be gone. Took me awhile to track these
down, then talk my way back in. Told the guard we had a date.”
He held out the bouquet. “Long stem,”
he said.
“Thank you.” She took the roses, breathed
the fragrance, didn’t say more. She wanted him to speak.
She’d been wrong. They could not have met before. She
would remember those eyes, that voice. No accent, or maybe
a hint of Brooklyn. The tone one might use reading to a child.
Or standing at the edge of a meadow, not to frighten away
a doe. In Oregon they set apples out and the deer came right
to the porch. Uncle Tommy held one once for her to pet, its
heart pounding.
The way hers was pounding now. Only not from
fear.
“I watched you for hours today,” he
said. “Came out from Chicago on the train, just for a
few days. Thought I’d see how they put a film together,
maybe open a theater back home. Wanted to see the girl that
jumped off that airplane. Mazie, Queen of the Air. What a
scene!” He shook his head. “Planned to visit some
other sets, but couldn’t pull myself away. Something
about you, Miss Walton. You got spunk, I can see it. Minute
you came through that door, the way you looked straight into
the camera. Did it all with your eyes. Like you got the world
by the... tail.” He nodded.
“Spunk, that’s it. I knew I wasn’t
gonna leave this town without spending time with you. Or trying.”
He smiled, playful. A delicious sort of playful.
Soft baritone. Well modulated, her old speech
coach would say. Quiet. Unassuming.
“I’d like to take you to dinner, Miss
Walton. We’ll put on the dog, maybe some dancing. I’m
a good dancer, you know, but... I need to ask you something
personal.”
“You do? And what might that be?”
A dinner date! With a stranger, an immaculately groomed stranger.
“Well, you see, my trip is on the quiet
side. My... associates needed the vehicle tonight for some
business. And the street car, well, I don’t do street
cars. So... exposed, you know what I mean?”
She nodded, just listening to his voice.
“Do you own a car, Miss Walton?”
She smiled. That was personal?
“I do.” Wait till he sees, she thought.
A night out.
“I’d have to change,” she said,
“find a vase for these. They’re beautiful.”
Dancing! She held the roses to her face, partly
to hide her grin.
“We can go by my bungalow, but... I don’t
even know your name,” she added. Not that it mattered.
“It’s Al...”
He hesitated as if deciding which name to give.
Not unusual in Hollywood.
“Al Capone,” he said.
He offered his arm, and she took it.
The name meant nothing to her.
“And what business are you in, Mr. Capone?”
“Ah, yes... I’ll tell you over dinner.
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