CHAPTER 9I took her to a small French restaurant in the vicinity of the hospital. It was sneaky but practical. I would have to see Rinaldi, and visiting hours started at eight. I would figure out what to do about Gilda when the time came.
She had a couple of drinks, got giggly and said “Oh dear” a lot. She was cute. She didn’t want to talk about astrology, she said, because she didn’t talk shop when she was eating. I thought it was a joke and almost laughed, but she was serious. She ordered chicken grand-mere and we had some champagne.
“Peace,” I said.
“Harmony.”
The champagne brought on more giggles, and by seven thirty she was sleepy.
“Oh dear,” she said, “I hate to be such a pooper—”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “The fact is, I have to make a call.”
“Telephone?”
“No. I’ve got to v
