Lindsey looked at his glass. It was mostly full. He held it up so Bruninski could see it. The old man shrugged and emptied the last of the wine from the bottle into his own glass. He said, “This is one soupy melodrama, isn’t it?”
Lindsey watched the man in the pineapple shirt and the man in the denim shirt disappear around a corner. He turned away from the window and returned to his chair. He said, “What is?”
“Albert, Maizie, me. Something that fool Hemingway could have written. After the war the three of us wound up in Chicago. Don’t ask me how we got there. We were all young and crazy. Young and crazy. Maizie called herself Mae Carter. Albert and I both wanted to marry her. She picked me. Isn’t that rich? She could have gone back to California with Albert, been a millionaire’s wife, li
