by Beth Ciotta
I massaged my temples and contemplated calling my dad. It had been a while since we’d spoken. Not that that was unusual. The Parishes were minimalists when it came to communication. I’m pretty sure we’re listed in the dictionary under dysfunctional.
Still, I couldn’t get over the fact that, after twenty years as a bank president, Dad had snubbed retirement and Mom and bought a tavern. He’d never been a barfly. Although he enjoyed the occasional beer, the man could nurse a can of Bud for an hour. It had to be a life crisis. I could sympathize. I wanted to sympathize. But if I called him, I’d have to call Mom. Otherwise, she’d hear about it and accuse me of taking sides.
My parents had split up just before my cruise, for reasons I still didn’t understand. Neither of them wanted to talk about it, which was normal since it was a private matter and they never talked about emotional issues. My brother, Christopher, who lived near our parents, assured me he’d “fix it.”
I decided to wait until tomorrow, until I had more energy, before touching base on the home front. If something were terribly wrong, one of them would have called. Maybe.
I pushed my ex and my family from my mind and concentrated on my new job. Sitting straighter, I dialed the number given to me by Special Agent Beckett, who I still thought of as Tex Aloha—don’t ask.
“The Chameleon Club,” a deep voice answered.
Suddenly jazzed, I stood and paced. “Is Milo Beckett there?”
“Sorry.”
Beckett had asked me not to refer to him by his official title, which only heightened the intrigue. He’d also asked me to call him Milo, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. He was, after all, my boss—and a government agent, to boot. I wasn’t sure if I should leave a message, only he had given me this number—oh, and a name. “Are you, by chance, Samuel Vine?”
“I am.”
“Then I’d like to leave a message. My name is Evie Parish and Mr. Beckett—”
“Hired you.”
“He told you about me?”
“He did.”
I detected a smile in his voice. A smile at my expense. My heart pounded, and it wasn’t from pacing. Had Beckett told this man I’d tackled him? Had he told him about my lockjaw incident? Or how I’d ended up topless in St. Thomas? The government agent had witnessed more than a few embarrassing bobbles on that cruise, and it burned my buns that he’d shared them with Mr. Vine, whoever Mr. Vine was.
“Are you coming in?”
I blinked. “When? Now? No. I just got…I was in…”
“England.”
“How did you…Oh, right. I guess Mr. Beckett told you about my vacation.”
“He did.”
Mr. Vine was a man of few words. If he was privy to my Caribbean misfortunes, perhaps he’d keep my antics secret. One could hope. “Would it be all right if I came in tomorrow? Do you think you could ask him—”
“Tomorrow is fine.”
“Don’t you think you should ask—”
“We’ll expect you at noon.” He gave me an address, then said something about getting back to work—him, not me. Then he said, “’Bye, Twinkie,” and hung up.
I gaped at my phone. Before I’d known Beckett for who he really was, I’d known him as a Texas oil baron. He’d been undercover and his disguise had been a hideous combination of the Duke meets Don Ho. Hence my thinking of him as Tex Aloha. He’d repeatedly referred to me as Twinkie, and although I’d been disguised as a bubble-headed bimbo, I totally resented that name. “I can’t believe he told his associate to call me…” I couldn’t say it. I didn’t even want to think it. Did he tell the rest of the team, too? “Great.”
The needling behind my eyeballs graduated to stabs. I stalked to the bathroom in search of Tylenol. I told myself to calm down. Milo Beckett was now my boss, and though I’d only gotten to know the real him over a sporadic two days, he seemed pretty decent. Tomorrow I’d tell him—nicely—that I didn’t appreciate the nickname. Evie is fine, thank you very much. I washed down two capsules with a paper cup of lukewarm water, then schlepped into the next room and collapsed on the bed.
Almost time for blissful oblivion. One more call, and I’d saved the best for last. His was the voice I wanted in my ears when I fell asleep. I took a deep breath and willed my heart not to flutter. I reminded myself that we were just friends now. Parting at the airport had been easier than I’d anticipated. No bittersweet Casablanca ending. Mostly because Arch still flirted, and when the time came to board, the kiss we shared didn’t feel like goodbye. It felt like maybe later.
Smiling, I dialed the number he’d given me. He’d told me to check in when I settled in my apartment. I assumed he’d be waiting on pins and needles, wondering if I’d arrived safely. I assumed he’d answer on the first ring. Three rings in, I heard an automated greeting. Taken aback, my brain glitched. “Hi, I…it’s me. Evie. I…well, I’m home and I’m okay and I’m…here. Right. I said that. Okay. Call. You know…If you feel like it.” I signed off before I made an idiot—strike that—more of an idiot of myself.
I placed the phone on my nightstand, within reach. I told myself not to obsess about where he was and why he hadn’t answered. It was probably the middle of the night there, only I was too tired to do the math. I told myself to journal my frustrations, only I was too tired to hold a pen.
“Just friends,” I mumbled. “Coworkers.” I repeated those words like a mantra over and over until I started to drift.
Just. Friends.
It triggered a tender memory: spooning with Arch and quoting lines from Titanic.
I don’t know this dance.
Just go with it.
Right.
CHAPTER FIVE
I WOKE WITH A START. I’d been dreaming about Arch. About pulling a con, only I screwed up—or, as Arch put it, cracked out of turn. You’re not up to this, he said, only he’d morphed into Michael, who had his arm around a young girl with a swelled tummy, and when he spoke again he said, You’re too old for this.
It was a crummy, awful dream.
Fuzzy-headed, I lay there for a second, willing away a sense of failure and loss. I rolled to my side, wanting to snuggle with my Scottish lover, only he wasn’t there. Right. He’s in London. I’m at home. And Michael and Sasha are shacked up and celebrating future parenthood. Not that I cared. Okay, that’s a lie. But obsessing would only agitate my TMJ.
I massaged my tight jaw and squinted at the alarm clock. Eleven-thirty in the morning.
It took a minute to register.
Eleven thirty-one.
Head thunk. The next morning!
I kicked off my duvet, collected my wits. I’d fallen asleep around this time yesterday, woken up in the middle of the night, unpacked, showered and journaled in my diary. Wide-awake, I’d booted up my laptop, thinking maybe Arch had e-mailed—he hadn’t—and ended up clicking on Amazon.com and ordering books about con artists and scams. Eyes and heart heavy, I’d snuggled under my cover, waited for Arch to call—he didn’t—and at some point fallen back to sleep.
I shoved my tangled hair out of my bleary eyes. “I’m supposed to be somewhere,” I rasped.
The Chameleon Club.
“Crap!” The curse came out a garbled croak. Clasping my throat, I flew into the bathroom. I was hoarse. My throat hurt and my nose was stuffed. I blamed it on a screwed-up body clock. On three weeks of travel. On the drastic changes in climate—balmy Caribbean to chilly London to windy and damp Brigantine. I sneezed, then coughed. “Great.” My first day on a new job and I was sick. If I lingered too long over my appearance, I’d be late. “Damn!”
I primped and dressed in record time. Minimal makeup, ponytail and as close to a conventional men-in-black suit as my funky wardrobe would allow. Medicated on Robitussin and herbal cold caplets, I grabbed my purse and sailed out the door. Barring a flat tire, speeding ticket or head-on collision, I’d arrive at the Chameleon Club five minutes ahead of schedule.
I didn’t factor in the possibility of torren
tial rains.
On the short drive to the Atlantic City Inlet, the dark, fat clouds that seemed to be hovering exclusively over my car exploded. I’m not the world’s greatest driver on a clear, sunny day. I know this. If I hydroplaned, I was screwed. So I slowed to a crawl. Death grip on the steering wheel, I swiped off my MIB shades, leaned forward and squinted through my blurry windshield. The wipers weren’t wiping as much as streaking. Or maybe I needed glasses. I was over forty, after all.
“You’re too old for this.”
The need to meet with Beckett and to start this new and exciting phase of my life intensified with each sluggish mile. I’d purposely taken the back route so I wouldn’t have to navigate Atlantic or Pacific Avenue, the city’s main drags, the streets that paralleled the boardwalk casinos. I no longer felt welcome or wanted within the gambling venues that had once provided the bulk of my work. My last audition had been disastrous, and as it had transpired only a few weeks before, the wound resulting from the insensitive behavior of the baby-faced execs was still fresh.
As a professional, Ms. Parish, I’m sure you understand that we’re looking to please our demographic.
Meaning they wanted someone younger. There was a time when you paid your dues in roadside bars or summer stock, when you earned a booking in a casino venue. Those days were gone. These days the number-one priority wasn’t experience, but sex appeal. In demand? Young, slender females, willing to dress provocatively. Perky boobs were a plus. Since I was perfect for that job, and since those execs had managed to uncork my bottled angst, my response had been less than gracious. Wanting to prove I met their physical requirements, I’d flashed a thousand-watt smile in tandem with my perky 32Bs. They’d responded by having me escorted off property by security. No Hollywood ending for me. Typical.
My jaw ached like the devil. Stop clenching, Parish. The last thing you need is another lockjaw episode. Go to your happy place.
Unfortunately, my happy place was in London, with Arch. Arch, who hadn’t returned my call.
I sneezed into a handful of tissues. “It’s only been a day and a half,” I rasped. “He’s not your husband. He’s not your significant other, lover, crush or whatever it is they’re calling it these days. He’s your friend. F-R-I-E-N-D. Friend.”
The self-directed lecture helped a little. Anything to keep me grounded. Lord knows I didn’t need another worry. I was stressed enough. Stressed because of the blinding rain. Stressed because I was running late. Stressed because I was obsessing on my washed-up career. “I don’t want to go back. I want to zoom forward.”
I turned onto North Maine Avenue and focused on the Chameleon Club a few blocks ahead. No more auditioning. No more rejections. The enormity of my relief took me by surprise. There was a time when I believed I’d been born to entertain, period. But after my boneheaded behavior at that botched audition, I’d been certain I’d never work in this town again. A traditional nine-to-five had loomed in my future, and given my specific skills, prospects were limited and frightening. I’d dreaded a normal life. I’d dreaded never again hearing the sound of applause.
Today, this moment, I didn’t care if I stepped foot on another Atlantic City stage. Ever.
The world is our stage, Arch had told me when we’d first met. As a con man’s shill, I’d still be acting, but on a grander, more important scale. Evie Parish: Crime Fighter. I’d always felt that I was meant for something bigger. This, I thought as I sniffled and steered into a puddle-ridden parking lot, is it.
The rain poured. The wind howled. The herbal medicine sucked. It had yet to curb my sneezing or clear my sinuses. All I felt was sluggish. Damn jet lag.
I reached beneath the front seat and yanked out a compact umbrella. The club was only a few feet away. Nothing was going to keep me from this appointment. Not rain nor snow nor shoe-sucking mud. I rolled back my shoulders, forced open my door and braved the elements.
Holding on tight to my flimsy umbrella, I sloshed across the parking lot, frowning when I read the sign: Please Use Boardwalk Entrance. The famous Atlantic City boardwalk stretched the length of town along the ocean and curved around to the lesser-known, more secluded Inlet. No casinos here. Gardiner’s Basin, a historic region hugging the bay, offered an aquarium, a small maritime museum and old-fashioned fun. Unfortunately, I was navigating the wasteland smack between the Basin and downtown AC. Run-down buildings and vacant lots. No fun to be had here unless you got a thrill out of the possibility of being mugged.
I scaled the steps leading up to the boardwalk and squealed as the gusting wind blew the rain at a hard angle. Umbrella or no, I’d be soaked by the time I reached Beckett. I barely cared. At this point I just wanted to get inside.
Fate had other ideas.
My heel was just narrow enough to wedge into a large gap between two soggy wooden boards. As I struggled to free myself, the wind blew my umbrella inside out. “Dammit!”
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
I peered up through the pelting rain to find a scruffy-bearded young man with his hands stuffed in the pockets of a ratty trench coat. He could be a drunk, a pickpocket or a panhandling con artist. Arch had made me leery of, well, everyone. Even if he was an upright guy, he reeked of some god-awful cologne and he’d just called me ma’am. Two reasons to make me grimace.
“Looks like your heel is stuck,” he yelled over the wind.
Well, duh.
“And your umbrella—”
“Yes, I know,” I yelled back. “I’m fine. Thank you.” I imagined him getting close enough to help, then snagging my bag. Jayne had been mugged last summer on her way from a casino to the self-parking lot. Busy season, busy area, broad daylight. And here I was, alone on a stormy day in the flipping Inlet. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but I jerked again, and this time my heel popped free. I staggered, but when the bearded stranger reached out, I slapped his hand. “Don’t touch me!”
“Listen, ma’am—”
“Beat it, kid, or I’ll stab you with my umbrella. I warn you—I’m trained in the art of peculiar weaponry.” Whatever that meant. But it sounded ominous to me.
I guess it sounded scary to him, too. “All right. All right. Jeez.” He backed away, shoved his sodden hair out of his face.
Yup. His expression told all. He thought I was dangerous. Or crazy.
Good.
The wind tore the umbrella out of my hand, and though it was mangled, I gave chase. My luck, if I abandoned it, a cop would magically appear and ticket me for littering the beach. I nabbed the useless thing and turned back toward the club. I didn’t see or smell Bearded Boy. Things were looking up. I race-walked, putting my weight on my toes in hopes of avoiding another stuck-heel episode. Please, don’t let me slip.
I was wind-ravaged and soaked by the time I breached the front door of the Chameleon Club. I shook like a wet dog, then leaned against a cigarette machine, composing myself and allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light.
I’d expected a professional reception area, something representative of a government agency. And a secretary. You know, a pristine-suited Moneypenny type who’d lead me to the high-tech, supersecret office of Special Agent Milo Beckett. I’d expected to step in to spy world.
The Chameleon Club was a dive bar.
The interior looked as if it dated back to the late ’50s. Not a trendy retro look but a never-been-refurbished look. The tables and chairs, the painted walls, the linoleum floor. Faded, chipped, cracked, warped. At least it was tidy and didn’t stink.
So…what? Beckett and his team squeezed into a cracked vinyl booth and devised stings over pretzels and beer? I refused to believe it. There must be a back room, a secret room. Maybe they met in the basement or on the second floor. There had to be more to this place than met the eye. Smoke and mirrors. I checked my watch. Twelve-ten. Surely Beckett would forgive my tardiness once I explained the circumstances. All he had to do was look at me.
So much for dressing to impress.
I looked around but
didn’t see my new boss. Maybe he was running late, too. Maybe I could slip into the bathroom and check to make sure mascara wasn’t running down my face. It was waterproof, but the label said nothing about monsoons. Then again, maybe Beckett was in the secret office, waiting.
I stifled a sneeze and squinted at the bar on the opposite wall. A dark-skinned elderly man wearing a white shirt, black vest, skinny tie and a porkpie hat stood behind it, polishing glasses while talking with a couple of early-bird patrons. Probably he knew where Beckett was. Definitely he could point me to the ladies’ room. Even though I looked like a drenched ragamuffin, I approached with the confidence of a pageant queen. He saw me coming and moved away from his patrons, nabbing a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey along the way.
“Twinkie?” he said when I reached the bar.
I’d know that deep voice anywhere. “Samuel Vine.”
“They call me Pops.”
I grasped the warm palm he offered and shook. “They call me Evie.”
I’m thinking he got the hint that I wasn’t keen on the cream-puff nickname. He grinned, a flash of crooked white teeth. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
He poured a shot of whiskey. “For the chill.”
I patted my face dry with a cocktail napkin and tucked my drenched hair behind my ears. The black scrunchie ponytail holder was out there somewhere, blowing in the wind. “No, thank you. Too early for me.”
“Soaked like that, you’re primed to catch cold. Already sounds like one settled in your throat.”
“I’m fine. Just…wet.”
He nudged the glass closer.
It felt rude to refuse his hospitality. Plus, he was an elder, late sixties at least. Snubbing his kindness didn’t sit right with me. Call me old-fashioned. I resisted the urge to hold my nose but held my breath and threw back the whiskey in one shot, determined not to taste it.
I choked and coughed while it burned my throat and singed my stomach. In between the hacking, I managed to thank Pops.
He stroked his wiry silver moustache, a polite but poor attempt to hide a smile. “You okay?”