Tuesday, Oct.  8   5:15 pm
 
     Bernard LaPlaca, a dark-haired, stoop-shouldered man of 36 dressed in khaki slacks and a blue down jacket, loitered inside the door of the Landmark Hilton lounge, pretending to scan the choices on the cigaret machine.  He stood there a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness but calculating at which point the cocktail waitress now serving drinks to two women in one of the tall booths along the wall would be obscuring their view of him in the mirror behind the bar.  At that precise moment, he moved quickly into the booth next to the women's, unseen thanks to the six-foot-tall oak partitions.
     As he slid off his coat, the waitress was already greeting him.  He said one quiet word — "Beck's" — when she took his order, and nodded when she asked if he'd like a menu.  When she left he sat back and took a deep breath.
     All day he had tried to get a private moment with Cassandra, just to tell her how concerned he really was for her.  He wanted to know more about her attack at Port Authority.  He wanted to know the guy's name, and where they took him.  He wanted her to know that if she ever needed a ride, she should call him.  She didn't have to take a bus.  He wanted to inspect her bruised chin, tell her it didn't mar her beauty one bit, that every woman should have such a lovely bruise.
     She had passed on his offer of coffee that morning.  Well, fair enough, she always took her coffee break with Rachel McDonough, the managing editor, in her office.  "Sanner," the boss called her.  That was a girl thing.  And lunch — well, she was busy, and she had that special section to get out, so naturally she passed on his lunch invitation and ordered in.  During the afternoon he'd passed her cubicle several times, so near his own spot at the copy desk, sometimes saying hello or offering to get coffee or a snack for her, other times just looking at her typing away, and smelling that great perfume she wore.  A few minutes ago he'd seen Cassandra and the boss slip out, and he'd stood at the window near the coffee maker, watching the two walk briskly through the chilly dusk to the Hilton across the plaza.
     Now the waitress brought his beer and a glass and poured it for him.  He smiled quickly, his trim mustache flexing once like a surprised caterpillar.  When she left he sat back again and concentrated, trying to filter out the chatter in the lounge and the "lite" jazz coming from two speakers suspended from the ceiling.  He heard the strong, streetwise voice of Rachel McDonough, and then Cassandra's voice, animated but softer.
     "Five bucks says the computer goes out again before we're finished tonight, Sanner."
     "God forbid."
     "Happens every time whatsisface the computer guy is on vacation. They're probably trying to call him now, wherever he is.  Nobody else seems to know a fucking thing up there."
     "I hope they find him.  I want to get home some time before midnight."
     "Somebody waiting for you?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Give it up, girl."
     Now two young men in suits sat at a table near the booths and began talking loudly about the baseball playoffs, and for several minutes Bernard couldn't make out most of what the women were saying.  The waitress came over to him, and after quietly ordering a cheeseburger he sat there holding his beer glass, glaring at the men, but neither budged or even looked over.  Only when two women entered the lounge and greeted the men, and they all moved off to a booth farther down the line, could he hear again.  The women seemed to be finishing the barbecued chicken legs the waitress had brought them.
     "Those were fabulous," he heard McDonough say.
     "Hmmm," said Cassandra.  "And so good for you."
     "Yeah, regular health food.  So, are you going to that airline conference in Orlando next week or should I send someone who doesn't hate Florida?"
     "I'll go, I'll go.  Anything to get out of the office a few days."
     "Ah.  Bernard launch a new love offensive?"
     "You can laugh.  He's weird.  He stares at me."
     "Awww.  He's got a crush on you."
     "Ugh!  He's a slug.  A slouching slug."
     "Just think: Mrs. Bernard LaPlaca!"
     "Let's go before I lose my dinner."
     In the next booth, LaPlaca, pretending to retrieve a napkin, ducked his head under the table as the two women left the bar.  When he came back up again, red- faced, the waitress was there with his cheeseburger.  He sat and looked at it for a few minutes before leaving.