“Jones, you’ve really gotten yourself in deep now.”
“I don’t know what to do. But I can’t show up looking … like I do.”
“You have to. You made a date. You can’t stand her up.”
“I know. But I can’t go, either. I thought … maybe I could get someone to take my place.”
“Oh, right. You’re going to hit the streets till you find someone who matches this imaginary physical profile you invented.”
Jones coughed. “Actually, Boss … I based the physical description on you.”
Ben froze, then began slowly moving away. “Now, wait a minute.”
“It wouldn’t be hard. You’re going to be at the club anyway.”
“Forget it, Jones. It isn’t going to happen.”
“You could just meet her. Check her out, make sure she’s on the level.”
“I’m telling you, Jones, I’m not going to do it. This is not going to happen!”
“Please, Boss! It would mean so much to me!”
“Absolutely not!”
“But, Boss—”
“No!”
Ben stood in the lobby of Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium watching for a woman wearing a red carnation. At least he hoped it would be a woman.
Why do I let myself be talked into these things? he asked himself for about the millionth time. But there was no point. It was done, he had relented, and here he was—wearing a tan jacket with a red rose and pretending to be someone named Jones. He hoped she didn’t ask what his first name was, because he didn’t know. He’d asked; Jones wouldn’t tell. Even the paychecks Ben signed had been made out to “O. Jones.”
Jones tried to brief Ben on his online conversations, but he and Paula had done a lot of talking and it was only a ten-minute drive. Plus, Ben had the distinct impression that Jones was doing a lot of mental editing. Still, even the expurgated version had a lot of seriously hot and heavy content.
“This is insane,” he had told Jones during the drive. “I have serious misgivings about anyone who would seek out conversation of this nature.”
“Relax, Boss. You can handle her. For Pete’s sake—she’s a librarian.”
“Yeah. Like you’re a private detective.”
Watching the front door, Ben saw a petite young woman wearing an elegant black dress … with a red carnation near the neck.
He stepped forward, already relieved. If nothing else, she was clearly a real live woman. Moreover, she was not at all unattractive. She was small and thin, with a pleasant face and auburn hair cut just above her shoulders. She had obviously gone all out to make herself look nice tonight, and with considerable success.
He stepped in front of her. “Are you Paula?” he asked.
“And you must be Fingers.” She giggled. “Jones.”
Ben smiled, but didn’t say anything. Just to preserve what little conscience he might have left, he was going to avoid out-and-out lies whenever possible. “I’ve got a table waiting. Let me show you.” He took her arm and escorted her to a quiet nook in the back by the spiral staircase that led to Earl’s office.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, please.” She was obviously nervous—who wouldn’t be?—but she was doing a good job of containing it.
Ben signaled the waiter, who came straight to their table. “What’ll it be, Ben?”
Paula looked up. “Ben?”
Ben winced. “Uh—”
“Oh, of course. Is that your first name?”
“Um, well, no … I mean—”
Earl came bounding down the spiral staircase. He brushed against Ben as he hit the landing. “Hey, Ben, how’s it hanging?”
Ben smiled awkwardly. “Everything’s fine, Earl. Just peachy.”
Paula tilted her head. “But I thought you said—”
“Scat’s up in my office,” Earl continued. “Try to see that he ain’t disturbed, okay? Got some big important announcement planned.”
“You got it.”
Earl scurried away.
Paula picked up where she left off. “Ben? I thought you said that wasn’t your name.”
Ben glanced up at the waiter, who was still standing by. “Well … it’s not that it isn’t … I mean, it isn’t, but …” He wiped his brow. “I only use it here.”
“You use a different name when you’re at the club?”
“Yeah. That’s it. You know, like you use a different name when you’re online. Can’t be too careful.”
“Oh.” She nodded her head slowly. “I see. I guess.”
“What would you like?”
“Scotch and soda, please.”
The waiter nodded. “And for you, Ben? The usual?”
Ben glanced at Paula. “Yes, the usual.” The waiter scurried away.
“He seems to know you,” Paula said.
“I come here often.”
“Really? You know, now that you mention it, you do look familiar …”
Ben blanched. “I just have that kind of face. Everyone says that.”
“Oh.” She glanced up at the waiter, already on his way back to their table. “So what’s the regular? I bet it’s a margarita. I remember you waxed quite poetic about the sour and salty ecstasy of margaritas.”
“Uh … right.” The waiter plunked the glasses down on the table, the clear one before Paula, the brown one before Ben.
Paula stared at his glass. “Chocolate milk? Your usual is chocolate milk?”
“Funny, huh?” He swallowed. “I don’t like to start on the margaritas before … uh … midnight.”
“You said you like to take a thermos full on picnics.”
“I did? Oh, right. But only on midnight picnics.”
“Midnight picnics?”
“Right. Under the moonlight. Very romantic.”
Paula stared at him for a moment, then downed about half of her Scotch. “I never would have guessed.”
Ben decided it was best to change the subject. “Would you like something to eat? An appetizer, perhaps?”
She grinned. “I already ordered something special. Just for you!” She waved, and a different waiter appeared out of nowhere with a tray.
Paula beamed. “Oysters!”
Ben stared at the contents of the tray, the blood draining from his face. “Oysters?”
“And all for you!”
“Actually, seafood makes me break out in—”
“Ecstasy! I remember you told me that Tuesday night.”
The word Ben had been planning to pronounce was hives, but he could hardly say that now. “To tell you the truth, I’m not terribly hungry.”
“You don’t—I mean—You won’t—Well, of course, you don’t have to.”
“All right,” Ben said, closing his eyes. “Maybe I could try just one.”
“That’s more like it.”
Ben reached out, careful to stifle the trembling, and took one of the oysters from the tray. “So how exactly do you eat this?”
“Well, you have to open the shell.”
Thank goodness for that. He pried open the shell and stared at the goopy contents. “And … you eat this?”
“I thought you loved oysters.”
“It’s just been a while, that’s all.” He took a deep breath and poured the oyster down the hatch. The instant the slimy contents touched his tongue, he made a gagging noise and reached for his chocolate milk.
“Now that’s disgusting,” Paula remarked as he guzzled the drink.
Out of the blue, Denny came stomping down the aisle, shaking his fist. “Damn! Damn him to hell!” He spotted Ben. “Do you know what he just did?”
Ben squinted. After their previous encounter, it almost seemed strange to see Denny wearing … well, anything. “Who?”
“Earl. Our Uncle Earl.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “He took away my solo. I’ve been practicing that for months. And he took it away.”
Ben could feel Paula’s eyes bearing down on him. “Did he say why?”