The ceiling was tin. The booths were painted with desert scenes. The tabletops were Mexican tile. Mary Lou Buckman and I sat in the first booth, and I, mindful of Wild Bill Hickok, sat facing the door. We were reading the menus. Among the choices were a chicken breast sandwich on sourdough bread with sprouts; blackened salmon; a Desert Burger with green chili relish; and a Cactus Club Sandwich. Bernard J. Fortunato’s apricot pancakes were sticking grimly to my ribs, and, an oddity for me, I wasn’t very hungry. Mary Lou decided on the Desert Burger. I ordered the Cactus Club, to be sociable. We both had iced tea. ‘What is the occasion for this lunch?’ Mary Lou said. ‘Not, of course, that I’m not thrilled to see you.’ She was wearing a white baseball cap, the kind where you can adjust the size by moving a plastic strap in the back. Her blond hair was spooled through the adjustment opening and hung in a long braid to her shoulders. Her dark blue tank top revealed a little self-effacing cleavage, and I had noticed when she walked in that her white shorts were well fitted.
