The rich smell of Indian curry hit their noses as the door opened to the restaurant. The cab ride had been pleasant enough, Wyland and Connie mostly exchanging complaints of office life and deeply entrenched bureaucracy. Wyland hadn't mentioned the case to her since they left the office. Connie had warmed considerably towards him, and he found that they got along quite well.
The maitre'd ushered them in and seated them near the windows of the colorful and brightly lit space. It was still early, so there were few other patrons about, and they mostly had the place to themselves. There were colored lamps, and rich burgundy carpet, and the tables were made of some dark and beautiful hardwood.
Connie asked about what lawyering in the states was like, and Wyland answered, almost rhyming as he said it, that "it was like being surrounded by fools, everyone hates being there, and they're all playing a game where no one knows the rules". She laughed deeply in response to this, a genuine laugh, slightly roguish but still feminine in character. Wyland described how much lawyers were hated, and she agreed that it was the same in England. Wyland, sensing her character, then pulled out the old "two thousand lawyers at the bottom of the sea" joke (a good start), to which she laughed even harder, so much so that she snorted, and had to put her hand over her mouth to avoid spitting tea everywhere.
They ordered, Connie requesting roast duck in a curry sauce and Wyland getting tandoori chicken. They munched on naan and sipped tea, chatting about inane differences in culture and dress between their two countries. She had much to say about the British opinion of Americans and the U.S. in general; a strange mixture of guilt that America is a direct descendant of the U.K. and it's political philosophy, and disgust at the rampant stupidity of U.S. imperial interests. The Brits had already been there and done that, and the fall of an empire is a painful experience. She said that most Brits wonder why on earth the Yanks hadn't learnt from the earlier mistakes of Britain. The only possible answer? Straight up stupidity and brash ignorance to the lessons of history. Wyland had never thought about it before, but he knew she was right.
Wyland was rapt. She was funny, and smart, with a cutting wit. Wyland felt better than he had in quite some time, sitting here enjoying the company of a still lovely and intelligent woman who actually seemed to tolerate him. The food was outstanding, far and away the best Indian food Wyland had ever had. They ordered chocolate martinis for dessert.
Sated now, and slightly buzzed, Wyland decided, against his better judgement, to bring up curses. But Connie was much happier and looser now, and freely gave her opinion.
She said "It's all foolishness, if you ask me. I'm tempted to believe the claims, but what're we to do about such-a-thing?" She was slurring a little as she said this, with an sudden accent Wyland couldn't place. She went on, "I'd prefer to stay as far away from the whole thing as possible. Quite a few people in the case have died, and the timing, more than anything, says curses are real. If you really want to pursue this, I'd wager you'll be cursed, too, and die in some strange and horrible way." She looked at the floor, a little girlish, like she had said something embarrassing.
Wyland had a deep, concerned look on his face as she looked back up at him. It was humid, even in the restaurant, and the bald spot on his head reflected the multicolored chandelier above them, and he looked to her like he might have a little pastel halo hanging over his head. He said "I have to pursue this. For a variety of reasons I'll not go into, I have to."
She got quiet now, and leaned in so close to him he could smell the curry on her breath. He could also smell something else beneath the curry, sex and pheromones and perfume, that sent his mind reeling. She put her hand on his chest. He could see right down her shirt to the soft curves of her small breasts in a black bra, and he could feel himself getting hard.
She steadied herself, pressing harder into his chest, looked a bit cross-eyed at him, and closely whispered into his face: "there were two men seen in the vicinity of Petrovik and Steins before their deaths. Scotsmen. We looked them up, didn't bring them in, it just seemed too risky if they really can kill with a word. Cunninghill, I think. Crom and Oliver Cunninghill. Steins never said a word about 'em, and we let it drop there." He could feel her hair on his forehead, it was soft as silk. Her hand slid down his chest, and her fingernails ran gently along his thigh before she leaned back and sat down, still looking a bit cross-eyed at him.
Wyland ordered another round of martinis, silently, by holding up two fingers while making eye contact with the waiter. When it was brought out, Connie slammed it down in one shot, without grimacing at all. Wyland also drank his down quickly, his mind going from disbelief to excitement and back again, trying to drunkenly process multiple bits of information all at once. It resulted in a mostly blank mind and a peace he hadn't felt before.
The check came, and it was for nearly one hundred pounds. Wyland showed Connie the check, and she seemed genuinely impressed when he paid for it without a second thought, and left a massive tip for the waiter, who was kind and had mostly let them be.
As they got up, she smiled at him, a wry smile that held a potential Wyland hadn't seen in far too long. She said to him, "Well, I'm far too drunk to go back to work, so what shall we do now?"
Wyland, smiling ear to ear, took her by the hand and led her out to a taxi, thanking whatever gods there might be for the reprieve.
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