Death Benefits Read Online Free PDF Page B

of that’s worth any unpleasantness at all is a woman who’s amenable to your favorite pastimes, and whose voice doesn’t set your teeth on edge. Would I trade everything I’ve got for it? Sure. I’ve done it about four times.”
    “I thought it was three.”
    “I’m counting one who didn’t let it get that far. I loved her. I even learned to make martinis for her—spent several evenings watching the bartender at the Mark Hopkins and asking him questions. It cost more than medical school on a per diem basis, and nearly ruined my liver. One night she was at my place, and I went to the kitchen to make some drinks. When I came back, she had bolted. The door was open, swinging on its hinges. Later, I asked her why she didn’t want to marry me. She said, ‘The martinis weren’t strong enough for that.’ I always count her.”
    He stared at the table for a moment in a reverie, then seemed to remember Walker. “Never judge people by what they have. That’s mostly luck. Judge them by what they want.” He waved his hand. “Do they want to mind their own business and be somebody decent, or do they never quite feel right unless they take what they get from somebody else and leave them bleeding so they can savor the contrast?” He lifted his eyes. “Ah, David,” he said. “What have you brought for us?”
    The waiter happily rattled off a group of unfamiliar Chinese phrases as he set plates on the table and proudly whisked the tops off. Walker could see dumplings, pieces of chicken and meat that he suspected was pork but could conceivably have been duck, and vegetables that he had seen before. None of it looked particularly unusual.
    “Wonderful, David,” said Stillman. “Thank you very much.” He heaped various things from the serving dishes onto Walker’s plate, and they began to eat.
    Walker spent most of the meal wondering what Stillman was up to. If he had invited Walker here in order to get him to incriminate himself or someone else, he was doing a poor job of it. He continued to do two-thirds of the talking, and showed far less interest in McClaren Life and Casualty than in women, weather, the behavior of passersby on the street below them, or food.
    Walker had been deceived by the appearance of the food. He took two bites and decided it was the best food he had tasted in two years in San Francisco, and he felt bereft at the thought that he would never come to this restaurant again. If he tried, he would probably run into Stillman. Even if that didn’t happen, he couldn’t imagine ordering whatever Mr. Fo had ordered. It occurred to him that he had no idea what the place was called. He assumed it was on the menu, but he had not seen a menu.
    On his way out, he made one last try. He pointed to the neon sign and said to Stillman, “What does that say?”
    “Good luck,” Stillman said. “They always say ‘Good luck.’ ”
    On the eighth day of Stillman, at five minutes to twelve, as Walker was trying to compose the concluding paragraph of his interpretation of sea-loss figures for the quarter ending June 30 in time to go to lunch, he caught a shadow in his peripheral vision, and looked up to see Stillman in his doorway.
    “Come on, kid. Time to go.”
    “One second,” said Walker. He decided to skip some of the preliminaries and rapidly typed the words “Recommmend no action at this time,” then saved the report and let the terminal return to the main menu. He looked up again, but Stillman was gone. He supposed “Time to go” had been Stillman’s way of saying he wanted to go to lunch again. Walker took his coat from the hanger and stepped out in time to catch a quick almost-glimpse of Stillman turning the corner into the hallway near the elevators, just a vague impression that a charcoal-gray coat had been there an instant ago.
    When he reached the hallway, Stillman was standing in an elevator holding the door open for him. The rest of the McClaren people were streaming into elevator number