Amber blushed. With a moist leer the camouflaged man said, "Yeah, I didn't see that on no menu!"
The ponytailed one observed that Amber wasn't too keen on the kissing idea. He cocked his face upward and tapped a dirty fingertip on the bicycle patch. "Mebbe it's me. Mebbe you prejudiced against handicaps."
Amber, sensing (as all good waitresses can) that her tip was in jeopardy: "No, oh no, I can explain. That's my boyfriend."
In unison the men twisted in their chairs to reappraise Tony across the restaurant. He returned their stares with a belligerent sneer.
The ponytailed redneck said, "No shit. The hell is he, Cuban?"
Amber said no, Tony was from Los Angeles. "Sometimes he gets carried away. I'm sorry if it upset you."
Through a mouthful of onions, the one called Bode said: "Meskin, I'll bet. They're all over California is what I heard."
On the way back to the bar station, Amber stopped at Tony's table and curtly related what had happened: "Thanks to you, they think I kiss all the customers. They think it's part of the service. You happy now?"
Tony's eyes darkened. "Those dirtbags they wanted a kiss?"
"Do us all a favor. Go home," Amber whispered.
"No fuckin' way. Not now."
"Tony, I swear to God ... "
He was flaring his nostrils, puffing his chest, flexing his arms. All that's missing, Amber thought, is the workout mirror.
Declared Tony: "I'll straighten those shitheads out."
"No you won't," said Amber, bitterly surveying the suddenly empty table. "They're gone."
She hurried back, hoping to find some cash. Nothing they'd skipped on the tab. Shit,she thought. It would come out of her pay.
Suddenly she was enveloped by Tony's cologne, as subtle as paint thinner. She felt him looming behind her. "Goddamn you," she said, retreating to the kitchen. Predictably, Tony stormed out the door.
Two hours later, Amber's redneck customers returned, anchoring themselves at the same table.
She tried not to appear too relieved. "Where'd you fellas run off to?"
"Jest needed some fresh air," said the ponytailed one, lighting a cigaret. "You miss us? Say, where's that kissing-machine boyfriend a yours."
Amber pretended not to hear him. "What can I get for you?"
The camouflaged man ordered four more beers, two apiece, and a fresh heap of wings. "Add it on our bill," he said, flashing the Visa card with two stubby fingers.
Amber was waiting for the drink order when the barmaid handed her the phone. "For you, honey," she said. "Guess who."
Tony, of course. Screaming.
"Slow down," Amber told him. "I can't understand a word."
"My car!" he cried. "Somebody burned up my car!"
"Oh, Tony."
"Right in my fucking driveway! They torched it!"
"When?"
"During wrestling, I guess. It's still on fire, they got like five guys tryin' to put out the flames ... "
The barmaid came with the tray of Coronas. Amber told Tony she was really sorry about the car, but she had to get back to work.
"I'll call you on my break," she promised.
"The Miata, Amber!"
"Yes, baby, I heard you."
When she brought the beers and chicken wings to the two rednecks, the one named Bode said: "Sugar, you're our rock 'n' roll expert. Is there a band called the White Clarion Aryans?"
Amber thought for a moment. "Not that I ever heard of."
"Good," Bode said.
"Not jes good," said his ponytailed friend, "fan-fucking-tastic!"
JoLayne Lucks demanded that Tom Krome teach her the thumb-popping trick. "That thing you did with the he-she back at Shiloh's."
When they got to a stoplight, Krome took her left hand to demonstrate.
"Not too hard!" she piped.
Gently he showed her how to disable a person by bending and twisting his thumb in a single motion. JoLayne asked where he'd learned about it.
"One time the newspaper sent me to take a class on self-defense," Krome said, "for a feature story. The instructor was a ninja guy, weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds. But he knew all sorts of naughty little numbers."
"Yeah?"
"Fingers in the eye sockets is another good one," said Krome. "The scrotal squeeze is a crowd pleaser, too."
"These come in handy in the newspaper biz?"
"Today was the first time."
JoLayne was pleased he didn't let go of her hand until the light turned green and it was time to steer the car. They stopped at a Burger King on Northwest Seventh Avenue and ate in the parking lot with the windows down. The breeze was cool and pleasant, even with the din from the interstate. After lunch they went on a tour of JoLayne's childhood: kindergarten, elementary school, high school. The pet shop where she'd worked in the summers. The appliance store her father once owned. The auto garage where she'd met her first boyfriend.
"He took care of Daddy's Grand Prix," she said. "Good at lube jobs, bad at relationships. Rick was his name."
"Where is he now?"
"Lord, I can't imagine."
While Krome drove, JoLayne found herself spinning through the stones of the significant men in her life. "Aren't you sorry," she said, "you left your notebook at the motel?"
He smiled but didn't take his eyes off the road. "I got a helluva memory." Then, swerving around a county bus: "What about Moffitt he's not on the List of Six?"
"Friends only." JoLayne wondered if Krome's interest was strictly professional, caught herself hoping it wasn't. "He dated both my sisters, my best friend, a cousin and also my nursing supervisor at Jackson. But not me."
"How come?"
"Mutual agreement."
"Ah," Krome said. He didn't believe it was mutual. He believed Moffitt would go to his grave asking himself why JoLayne Lucks hadn't wanted him.
"We'd been buddies so long," she was saying, "we knew too much about each other. One of those deals."
"Right," Krome said. He pulled to the curb while two police cars and an ambulance sped past. When the wail of sirens faded, JoLayne said, "Plus Moffitt's too serious for me. You saw for yourself. Why I'm telling you this stuff, Lord, I don't know."
"I'm interested."
"But it's not part of the story."
"How do you know?" Krome said.
"Because I'm telling you so. It's notpart of the story."
He shrugged.
"What in the world was I thinking," JoLayne said, "bringing you in on this. First off, you're a man, and I've got rotten instincts when it comes to men. Second, you're a reporter,for heaven's sake. Only a crazy fool would believe a reporter, am I right? And last but not least "
"I'm awfully white," Krome said.
"Bingo."
"But you trust me anyway."
"Truly it's a mystery." JoLayne removed her floppy hat and flipped it in the back seat. "Can we stop at a pay phone? I need to call Clara before it gets too late."
Clara Markham was the real estate broker who had the listing for Simmons Wood. Clara knew JoLayne wanted to buy the property, because JoLayne had phoned the night she'd won the lottery. But then, two days later, JoLayne had called back to say something had happened and it might be awhile before she could make a down payment. Clara had promised not to accept any other offers until she spoke to JoLayne again. She was a friend, after all.
Krome spotted a pay phone outside a sub shop on 125th Street. JoLayne got Clara Markham at the realty office.
JoLayne said, "Whatcha up to, working so late."
"Busy, girl."
"How's my pal Kenny?"
Kenny was Clara's obese Persian. Because of its impeccably lush whiskers, Clara had named it after Kenny Rogers, the country singer.
"Much improved," Clara reported. "The hair-ball crisis is over, you can tell Dr. Crawford. But I'm afraid I've got some other news."
JoLayne sucked in a deep breath. "Damn. Who is it?"
"A union pension fund out of Chicago."
"And they build malls?"
"Girl, they build everything."
"What's the offer?" JoLayne asked gloomily.
"Three even. Twenty percent down."
"Damn. Goddamn."