had vouched for him. I then sharpened the notion. Sam’s assurance had arrived by an indirect path.
I would have to be extra-cautious until I could talk to Sam. Starting with staying alert and not sitting with my back to the door.
“What choices do I have in the Merlot column?” I said.
The bartender waggled his finger at a list of by-the-glass pours. “Lady behind me wants to know if you’re Alex Rutledge, famous photographer.”
“That’s my name. I’m not so sure about the rest.”
“Run with it, guy. She’s got your drink, and you’re welcome to join her.”
“Can you pick a red for me?”
“How about a head start,” said the bartender, “like a favorite.”
“There’s a permanent soft spot in my heart for Gallo Hearty Burgundy. What does she do, sit there every night and wait for her dream date to show up?”
Too late I saw the warning in the man’s eyes.
I felt her close behind me: “Call it what you want, handsome. My name is Lisa. Can I join you?”
“Where were you sitting?”
She sashayed and I followed to the far side of the bar, finally noticing the music that had played since I entered. Frank Sinatra singing a duet with Carly Simon. I chose the farthest bar stool, next to the server station, too late realizing that we now faced an enormous television. I swiveled to face Lisa Cormier.
“More comfortable facing the door?” she said.
“Like the boss in a gangster film.”
“It’s also positive feng shui. What do you see when you look around the restaurant?”
Was I supposed to spot surveillance or a sniper? “Can I have a category?”
“I mean, with your photographer’s eye.”
I turned my head to scan the room. “Thick steaks and atmosphere battling for dominance, each side armed with large knives.”
“More details, please.”
“Ten-pound butcher blocks masquerading as supper plates, bourbon-soaked mahogany paneling and barrel-aged candles in sconces. An abundance of wide, dark wood window blinds. Exposed yet attractive air conditioning ducts. This may be more than you want to know, but the Kelvin temperature of the room’s indirect lighting is flattering to skin tones.”
She looked around, slowly nodding. “More yellows than blues, I get it. What do you see when you look at me?”
If I wanted to be a wiseass, I could describe the TV show reflected on her face by the marble bar top. I took a sip from the huge wine glass that had appeared before me. Without looking at her I said, “I see a woman comfortable with her loveliness, in no danger of having to wrestle the chub demons.”
“What’s lovely about me, in order of importance?”
Eyes front. “Your smile, eyes, face, hair, figure… and your confidence.”
“You fired that back pretty quickly,” she said. “One of your tried-and-true lines?”
“Did we come here for this discussion?”
She smiled. “The floor is wide open.”
I looked at her face, noticed imperfections I hadn’t seen at Louie’s Backyard. Her eyes a touch too close together, an off-kilter dimple low on her right cheek that made her more attractive.
“You’re acting a shade nervous, Lisa, like a lonely housewife here to pick me up. Is that part of the act, for observers we can’t identify or who may not even be here?”
The smile froze, faded to anger. “Fuck part of the act and fuck observers,” she said. “My husband dreamed up an altruistic nightmare. You think I don’t worry my ass off? Every day I worry my heart out.”
“Copeland said five people are involved. Are they all in the Keys?”
“He also forgets, there are six involved. I am not the frigging wallpaper.”
“If you’re looking to recruit a seventh,” I said, “I doubt that my skills match the job requirements. Or that my commitment even comes close.”
“Is that wine okay, or would you rather have ‘Ocho’ on the rocks, Bacardi 8, like mine?”
“Very good wine. If anything, I’m a bit hungry… oh, shit.” I looked at my wrist.
I would have to be extra-cautious until I could talk to Sam. Starting with staying alert and not sitting with my back to the door.
“What choices do I have in the Merlot column?” I said.
The bartender waggled his finger at a list of by-the-glass pours. “Lady behind me wants to know if you’re Alex Rutledge, famous photographer.”
“That’s my name. I’m not so sure about the rest.”
“Run with it, guy. She’s got your drink, and you’re welcome to join her.”
“Can you pick a red for me?”
“How about a head start,” said the bartender, “like a favorite.”
“There’s a permanent soft spot in my heart for Gallo Hearty Burgundy. What does she do, sit there every night and wait for her dream date to show up?”
Too late I saw the warning in the man’s eyes.
I felt her close behind me: “Call it what you want, handsome. My name is Lisa. Can I join you?”
“Where were you sitting?”
She sashayed and I followed to the far side of the bar, finally noticing the music that had played since I entered. Frank Sinatra singing a duet with Carly Simon. I chose the farthest bar stool, next to the server station, too late realizing that we now faced an enormous television. I swiveled to face Lisa Cormier.
“More comfortable facing the door?” she said.
“Like the boss in a gangster film.”
“It’s also positive feng shui. What do you see when you look around the restaurant?”
Was I supposed to spot surveillance or a sniper? “Can I have a category?”
“I mean, with your photographer’s eye.”
I turned my head to scan the room. “Thick steaks and atmosphere battling for dominance, each side armed with large knives.”
“More details, please.”
“Ten-pound butcher blocks masquerading as supper plates, bourbon-soaked mahogany paneling and barrel-aged candles in sconces. An abundance of wide, dark wood window blinds. Exposed yet attractive air conditioning ducts. This may be more than you want to know, but the Kelvin temperature of the room’s indirect lighting is flattering to skin tones.”
She looked around, slowly nodding. “More yellows than blues, I get it. What do you see when you look at me?”
If I wanted to be a wiseass, I could describe the TV show reflected on her face by the marble bar top. I took a sip from the huge wine glass that had appeared before me. Without looking at her I said, “I see a woman comfortable with her loveliness, in no danger of having to wrestle the chub demons.”
“What’s lovely about me, in order of importance?”
Eyes front. “Your smile, eyes, face, hair, figure… and your confidence.”
“You fired that back pretty quickly,” she said. “One of your tried-and-true lines?”
“Did we come here for this discussion?”
She smiled. “The floor is wide open.”
I looked at her face, noticed imperfections I hadn’t seen at Louie’s Backyard. Her eyes a touch too close together, an off-kilter dimple low on her right cheek that made her more attractive.
“You’re acting a shade nervous, Lisa, like a lonely housewife here to pick me up. Is that part of the act, for observers we can’t identify or who may not even be here?”
The smile froze, faded to anger. “Fuck part of the act and fuck observers,” she said. “My husband dreamed up an altruistic nightmare. You think I don’t worry my ass off? Every day I worry my heart out.”
“Copeland said five people are involved. Are they all in the Keys?”
“He also forgets, there are six involved. I am not the frigging wallpaper.”
“If you’re looking to recruit a seventh,” I said, “I doubt that my skills match the job requirements. Or that my commitment even comes close.”
“Is that wine okay, or would you rather have ‘Ocho’ on the rocks, Bacardi 8, like mine?”
“Very good wine. If anything, I’m a bit hungry… oh, shit.” I looked at my wrist.
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