Tess, who had started with the eclairs and planned to work backward to the couscous, didn't say anything. Her mouth was full.
Jackie had written a script, which she stuck to with almost grim determination, rattling off her lines into her cell phone. "We're not trying to sell you anything…just doing a survey for a local publisher on Baltimore's favorite baby names…for answering our questions, your name will be entered into a raffle for a twenty-seven-inch color television set…May I ask what you and your husband do for a living? Do you have any children? Their names are? Their ages?…Thank you. Have a nice night."
Tess tried to vary the pitch, partly to keep herself interested, partly because she didn't want to admit even to herself how clever Jackie's plan was. But she quickly learned it was inefficient to try the spiel extemporaneously and resorted to the script Jackie had made for her. But where Jackie had a talent for making each call sound fresh and spontaneous, Tess's voice became deader and deader as the evening worn on. How did anyone do this for a living?
By ten, Jackie's witching hour, they had worked through about half of the names. And Tess, despite her slow start, had ended up reaching a few more families than Jackie. They had found a five-year-old Caitlin, an eleven-year-old Caitlin, and even one thirty-two-year-old Caitlin, a woman whose parents obviously were ahead of their time. But not a single thirteen-year-old Caitlin, not in North Baltimore County.
"You may have a future at this," Jackie said, studying Tess's list. "If the private detective thing doesn't work out, you could always come work for me. Although then you really would have to ask people for money, and that's a different skill altogether."
"Can I have a drink now, boss, as it's quitting time?"
"Sure, but I didn't bring anything like that."
"We can always go down to the Korean's. He sells beer. ‘The Korean's.' Listen to me. I'm beginning to talk like everyone else on Butchers Hill."
"I'm not much of a beer drinker," Jackie said, wrinkling her nose. "I prefer wine."
"Now that's a problem. Mr. Kim stocks more kinds of Doritos than he does of wine. I know, we'll go over to Rosie's Place. It's around the corner from here."
"Aren't these neighborhood taverns kind of rough?"
Tess laughed. "Not Rosie's. You'll understand when we get there."
From the outside, Rosie's looked like any of the corner bars in East Baltimore. A neon sign advertising Budweiser on tap, a pair of porcelain fisherman in one window, two of the Marx Brothers in the other, Harpo and Chico. The inside was nothing more than a long bar, with a television set turned to some sitcom, and a set of pale green booths along the far wall.
"People are looking at us," Jackie whispered to Tess as they seated themselves in a booth. "Is it because I'm the only black woman in here?"
"Well, you're better dressed than everyone else. They don't see a lot of Chanel suits in Rosie's. But they probably don't see many interracial couples, either."
"You mean…?"
"You were quick to notice it was all-white, but you missed it's all-female as well," Tess said. "Can you imagine a more tolerant group than working-class lesbians? I think I'll have a mixed drink, after all, something different. You know what I want? A mint julep."
"Do you think they have white wine?" Jackie was still whispering.
Tess whispered back. "Of course they have white wine. They even have decent white wine. But have a julep with me. The bartender makes the syrup from her own mint plants, which she grows out front. They're fabulous."
The juleps were served in ten-year-old Preakness glasses, commemorative cups used at the track, usually with a vile concoction of vodka, grapefruit juice, and peach schnapps known as black-eyed Susans. The bartender at Rosie's was wise enough to keep the glasses and avoid the drink.
"Spectacular Bid, Sunday Silence," Jackie read from the side of the glass. "You know, I've never even been to a horse race."
"It's fun, as long as you keep it in perspective." This batch of juleps was syrupy, and served over so much cracked ice that it was like a snowball with an alcohol kicker. "You can't go to the track expecting to win, not unless you're willing to do the time to become a real handicapper. I got lucky my first few times out, hit an exacta and a dollar triple, total beginner's luck. Then I got cocky and thought I could make real picks, began trying to calculate speed figures and use the past performance charts in the Racing Form. I lost every time. Now when I go, I think of it as an interactive entertainment, like a play in which I have a vested interest in the outcome."
"A kind of performance art."
"Exactly. I make goofy bets, but educated goofy bets. If it's not too crowded at the betting windows, I like to watch the post parade, pick out the horse who looks like he's ready to run a good race."
"How can you tell a winner, just by looking?"
"Well, as I said, nothing's foolproof. But I like the ones whose ears are straight up, and look kind of prancey. My favorite race of all is the very last one on Preakness Day."
"Isn't that the Preakness?"
"Uh-uh. Preakness is the penultimate race. The last race is just a little stakes race, no big deal. Half the paid attendance has already left. But I've always had good luck at that race. Hit an exacta there just this year."
"I thought you said the exacta was a sucker's bet."
"It is."
Jackie actually smiled, although she tried to hide it behind the rim of her glass.
"So you do have a sense of humor."
"Who said I didn't?"
"You don't laugh at most of my jokes."
"Did it ever occur to you that most of your jokes aren't very funny?"
Tess pretended to clutch her heart. "What perfidy."
"Truthfully, it's good to hear you cutting up the way you usually do. You seemed a little distracted this evening. Is everything all right? What was the deal with that guy who wanted to see you this morning?"
"I've had some…unexpected developments on another case."
Jackie hesitated, then said as if reciting a phrase from a foreign language handbook: "Do you want to talk about it?"
"It wouldn't be ethical. You wouldn't want me chatting about your case with another client, right? Besides, if the cops do come after me, I can't maintain I'm entitled to client-attorney privilege if I've been blabbing about the case all over town."
"Could that really happen?"
"It's possible."
"Could it happen any time soon?"
Tess had to laugh at Jackie's worried face. "Don't worry, Miss Weir. I'll be here tomorrow night, ready to continue the survey of Johnson-Johnstons of North Baltimore County."
She signaled the bartender for another round, but Jackie covered the rim of her glass. "I have too long a drive home."
"Not me," Tess said. "Did you know James M. Cain had a snowball machine and used it to make mint juleps? I bet they weren't half as good as these, though."
Some people she knew could have talked about that single detail for hours. But Jackie's imagination wasn't engaged by long-dead writers, not even ones who knew the secrets of every hash house waitress and insurance man.
"You always want more, don't you?"
"Huh?"
"I was thinking of that photo back in your office. More juleps, more rides on the flying rabbit, more chocolate malts."
"I did love malted milkshakes. I always asked for an extra teaspoon of malt. Poppa would give it to me, Gramma wouldn't." Suddenly, the second julep didn't seem so delicious. Second helpings never did. "Gee, isn't it shocking that I developed an eating disorder, what with one grandparent urging all those treats on me, and the other one always trying to take them away?"
"An eating disorder. Now that's real white-girl craziness. Anorexia?"
"No, just a little garden-variety bulimia. An occasional binge, followed by an occasional purge with the help of Ipecac. Exercise was my coping mechanism. I was running ten miles a day when I was in high school, doing endless sit-ups in my room. By the time my parents finally figured out I wasn't even on the track team, I had shin splints like you wouldn't believe."