The Best of Sisters in Crime Read Online Free PDF

way— a health club. Did all right there
too. But goddamn, it’s tiring. So then I joined a bunch of church groups—you meet a lot of horny
women there. But churches encourage matrimony, and I’m not into that.”
    “So you applied
to All the Best People. How long have you—?”
    “Not right away.
First I thought about joining AA, even went to a meeting. Lots of good-looking
women are recovering alcoholics, you know. But I like to drink too much to make
the sacrifice. Dear Abby’s always saying you should enroll in courses, so I
signed up for a couple at U.C. Extension. Screenwriting and photography.”
    My mouth was
stiff from smiling politely, and I had just about written Jerry off as a
possible suspect—he was too busy to burglarize anyone. I took a sip of wine and
looked at my watch.
    Jerry didn’t
notice the gesture. “The screenwriting class was terrible—the instructor
actually wanted you to write stuff. And photography—how can you see women in
the darkroom, let alone make any moves when you smell like chemicals?”
    I had no answer
for that. Maybe my own efforts at photography accounted for my not having a
lover at the moment. . . .
    “Finally I found
All the Best People,” Jerry went on. “Now I really do all right. And it’s
opened up a whole new world of dating to me—eighties-style. I’ve answered ads
in the paper, placed my own ad too. You’ve always got to ask that they send a
photo, though, so you can screen out the dogs. There’s Weekenders, they plan
trips. When I don’t want to go out of the house, I use the Intro Line—that’s a
phone club you can join, where you call in for three bucks and either talk to
one person or on a party line. There’s a video exchange where you can make
tapes and trade them with people so you’ll know you’re compatible before you
set up a meeting. I do all right.”
    He paused
expectantly, as if he thought I was going to ask how I could get in on all
these good eighties-style deals.
    “Jerry,” I said,
“have you read any good books lately?”
    “Have I . . . what?”
    “What do you do
when you’re not dating?”
    “I work. I told
you, I’m in sales—”
    “Do you ever
spend time alone?”
    “Doing what?”
    “Oh, just being
alone. Puttering around the house or working at hobbies. Just thinking.”
    “Are you crazy?
What kind of a computer glitch are you, anyway?” He stood, all five-foot-three
of him quivering indignantly. “Believe me, I’m going to complain to Best People
about setting me up with you. They described you as ‘vivacious,’ but you’ve
hardly said a word all evening!”
    Morton Stone was
a nice man, a sad man. He insisted on buying me dinner at his favorite Chinese
restaurant. He spent the evening asking me questions about myself and my job as
a legal researcher; while he listened, his fingers played nervously with the
silverware. Later, over a brandy in a nearby bar, he told me how his wife had
died the summer before, of cancer. He told me about his promise to her that he
would get on with his life, find someone new, and be happy. This was the first
date he’d arranged through All the Best People; he’d never done anything like
that in his life. He’d only tried them because he wasn’t good at meeting
people. He had a good job, but it wasn’t enough. He had money to travel, but it
was no fun without someone to share the experience with. He would have liked to
have children, but he and his wife had put it off until they’d be financially
secure, and then they’d found out about the cancer. . . .
    I felt guilty as
hell about deceiving him, and for taking his time, money, and hope. But by the
end of the evening I’d remembered a woman friend who was just getting over a
disastrous love affair. A nice, sad woman who wasn’t good at meeting people;
who had a good job, loved to travel, and longed for children. . . .
    Bob Gillespie
was a sailing instructor on a voyage of self-discovery. He kept prefacing his
remarks