“Tell Cliffie for me he’s a moron,” Kenny said.
Tomlin smiled. “I’ll let you tell him that yourself.”
“Aw, forget it, Kenny. C’mon. I’ve got work to do, and so do you.”
“I’d appreciate it, McCain,” Tomlin said.
“But do me a favor, Bill.”
“Sure, McCain.”
“Tell him to go to hell.”
4
She hadn’t lost her touch with the rubber bands.Ever since she’d hired me, Judge Esme Anne Whitney would sit on the edge of her desk and fire them at me. Up until a few years ago, she would have been partaking of brandy while she did this; but a trip to a Minnesota clinic where alcoholics were treated had taught her-despite all her noisy bitter initial objections to the truth-that she was an alcoholic and had to give up drinking completely.
This morning she wore a tan linen suit, yellow blouse, tan hose, and brown pumps. The imperious and finely wrought beauty was remarkably intact, the short silver hair only adding to the appeal. And the other important things were intact, too-her endless self-regard, her impatience, and her judgment that at sixty-some years of age, who knew how to run the world better than she did?
“You look funny with a rubber band hanging off your nose.”
“Gosh, and just think. Next year you’ll be in fifth grade.”
“I have a Polaroid camera in my desk, but I suppose the rubber band would fall off by the time I got it.”
“Aw, shucks.” I ripped the rubber band off my nose, strung it between thumb and forefinger, and fired it back at her. I missed, as I usually do.
“Now who’s being juvenile, McCain?” She lifted her blue package of Gauloises from her desk and lighted one with a fey little solid silver lighter. “Lou Bennett was a friend of mine. Of sorts.”