Page 41 of Deja Who
TWENTY-ONE
“It’s probably going to be one of your patients,” Archer told Leah, who was looking especially scrumptious with her dark hair piled on top of her head like a sexy brunette donut, a dark green straight skirt
(pencil skirt? pen skirt? something... his cousin would know)
that fell just past her knees, one of those pretty blouses that looked like a fancy T-shirt in a lighter shade, skin-colored pantyhose
(nude? that’s what they call that color, which seems pretty un-PC but it’s nude, right? argh, don’t think about nude and Leah don’t don’t)
and orange and white running shoes.
“Huh,” he said, staring down at them.
“What? Have you tried running around in pumps all day? No? All right, then. Also this is Chicago and there is no way you have never seen a woman wearing tennies with a suit. Besides, in a bit I’m going to the park to have lunch with Cat.”
“Ijust had lunch with Cat; she’s fine. No, really,” he added at her frown. “She didn’t mind bag lunches at 10:30 in the morning. Also, she’s really carrot crazy.” That probably wasn’t the only kind of crazy she was. It was just too weird that the former mayor of Boston spent gobs of time loitering in a small Chicago park with an Insighter doomed to be murdered.
He no longer thought she was homeless; he decided Cat had a home that she didn’t want to go to. There was definitely more to her story and he was dying to hear all about it. He’d hinted that he’d be interested and had gotten, “You’re as subtle as a pimple on a dick,” as a retort. Archer had tactfully changed the subject.
“So like I was saying, one of your patients is probably going to kill you.”
Leah groaned a little under her breath and crooked a finger, like she was going to lead him to her office to make out.
“Idiot,” she breathed.
Or maybe not. But he was saved when one of the patients, a pale young man in his early thirties, impeccably dressed in gray from neck to heels, nodded at once. “Oh, sure,” he said, “I can see that.”
“What?” Leah rounded on the patient, then turned back to Archer. “This is not the appropriate place.”
“Yeah,” the other patient added, closing last month’sVogue. She was a cheerful-looking brunette about Archer’s age, in knee-length denim shorts and a black T-shirt with the slogan “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. And spiders.” “She’s awful. Impatient and chilly and sometimes I get the vibe like she’s just really, really bored with everything coming out of my mouth.”
Leah said nothing, just rubbed her forehead and glared at the carpet.
“During one of my sessions I get a little PO’d,” Gray Guy said, clearly ready to bond with Spider Shirt Girl over Leah’s awfulness, “and called her a chilly twat—”
“Hey!” Archer yelped.
“—sorry.” He held his hands up, placating. “It was a rotten thing to say and I’m not proud of it, but I did and it was out there, and she, Ms. Nazir, she just blinks at me real slow, like an owl, and says ‘chilly was unnecessary.’ I felt like I wasn’t even in the room for her.”
“Itisweird that that’s the word she picked up on.”
“Did you prefer I jumped up and stabbed you?” Leah cried, aggrieved.
“No,” Archer told him. “You definitely don’t want her to do that.” Thank God, he was a fast healer. The wounds were still sore, but he was off the prescription pain meds.
“It was only because she told me I used to be William Simmons. Imperial wizard of the KKK,” Gray Suit went on at the raised eyebrows, indignant. “Which is just bullshit. Ilikeblack people! African-Americans, I mean.”
“Oh,” Spider Shirt Girl said.
“I’m sorry?” Archer added, not sure of the etiquette of the situation. Sure, most people knew who they’d been before, but it was considered private business. People didn’t generally walk up to a stranger and open with, “Did you know I used to cut Washington’s hair?”
“And she was just so cold about it,” Gray Suit complained. “Just, ho-hum, you were a real shit in a former life, which is why you’re a real shit now, don’t worry, we take Blue Cross/Blue Shield, see you next week.”
“Again: should I have stabbed you instead?”
“That’s not a rhetorical question,” Archer added. “So don’t be fooled.”
“I like you okay, Ms. Nazir, but your bedside manner’s pretty, um, shitty,” Spider Shirt Girl said, slightly apologetic.
