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You Can Always Tell A Lawyer, But You Can't Tell Her Much

More: You can always tell a lawyer, but you can't tell her much.
Ginny — 16 Sep 1998, 6:57 AM

The woman in maroon walked up the steps to Quark's. She flung the swinging wooden doors open and stepped into the gloomy interior of the saloon. She hesitated a moment just inside the doors, letting her beautiful brown eyes adjust to the dim light. All activity and conversation momentarily ceased at her appearance, and the cowboys and saloon girls watched her move toward the bar, murmuring to each other as she passed. The woman placed her hands lightly on the polished surface of the bar and smiled at the sweet-faced young bartender with the crinkly nose. "Good afternoon, barkeep. And what might your name be?" the woman asked in her pleasantly accented contralto.

"Gerron, ma'am," the boy answered, with a shy smile of his own.

"Well, Gerron, who do I have to sue to get a decent chardonnay in this town?"

Gerron looked startled, then replied smoothly, "Californian or British Columbian, ma'am?"

The woman laughed in delight. "By all means, Gerron, make mine Canadian." The bartender reached under the counter and pulled out a wine bottle. He opened the bottle and poured a small amount of wine into a glass. The woman took the glass, lightly brushing the young man's fingers in the process, sniffed the wine's aroma delicately, and sipped the pale gold liquid. "Lovely. Do you have any more of this wine, Gerron?"

"Yes, ma'am. A whole case full."

"Excellent. Have the whole case sent to the conscierge at the best hotel in town--that's where I'll be staying." The woman turned to leave in a swirl of silk and ostrich feathers, but Gerron softly cleared his throat, and she half-turned to look back at him over her shoulder.

"Um, what name should I give the delivery man, ma'am?"

One corner of the woman's mouth quirked up, and she replied, "Darrow. Clare Ensfriggen Darrow." With that, she turned and walked out of the saloon into the hot Voyager City afternoon.