Speaking of dogs, Jimmy’s best friend and constant canine companion-the miniature dachshund named Otto-was at the table, too (or under it, I guess you would say). He was curled up in a soft brown wad and sleeping soundly in his master’s lap. I was dying for Otto to wake up and and come sit on my lap instead, as he’d often done in the past. That way I wouldn’t feel so lonely, or so much like a third wheel.

“John Smith!” I barked, trying to get Abby’s attention again (and wake Otto up). “Did you ever hear a more obvious alias? Couldn’t the lazy creep have made up a better pseudonym than that? He may be handsome but he sure as hell isn’t creative!”

“He’s handsome?” Abby asked, perking up like a flower in a shower. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Some things are better left unsaid.” I took another sip of my drink (gin and tonic, just like I’d wanted), and another drag on my cigarette. “Besides,” I added, “what do the man’s physical attractions have to do with anything? Apart from your ongoing quest for new models, that is.”

“Maybe nothing,” Abby said, gazing off into the mysterious distance like a daft fortuneteller, “or maybe everything.” She emphasized the last word in her sentence with a deep, spooky undertone. You could almost hear the thunder rolling in the background.

I put out my cigarette and lit another. “Get real, Abby! With you, it’s always the looks that count. With me, it’s the name. And I’d bet my whole bankroll this guy’s real name is

not John Smith. It could be Hamlet or Heathcliff or Alfred Hitchcock-but it’s not John Smith. Maybe it’s Randy. The burning question is, why did he register at the Mayflower under an alias?”

“Oh, don’t be such a cube, Paige!” Abby scoffed. “There are thousands of reasons why people use phony names when they’re checking into hotels. Do I have to list them for you?”

“Please spare me,” I said, realizing the futility of pursuing the issue. Maybe John Smith was Aunt Doobie, and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he knew Gray Gordon, and maybe he didn’t. He could be a vicious, cold-blooded killer, or just an out-of-town businessman trying to sleep off an all-night bender in his private, air-conditioned hotel room. Since there was no way on earth either Abby or I could know the truth at this point, why continue this silly guessing game?

“What about Willy?” I asked, flipping the page to a different puzzle. “You don’t think he could be the killer, do you? I’m convinced he’s not. He’s too high-strung and squeamish. The only reason he’d ever use a knife would be to chop celery or carve a radish rose.”

“Who’s jumping to conclusions now?” Abby said, arching one of her eyebrows to a peak and spreading her lips in a contemptuous smirk. “Willy was obviously in love with Gray, and Gray wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Unrequited love, you dig? That’s the likeliest murder motive known to man. And Willy has the same blood type as the murderer! How can you ignore the only bit of real evidence that has come up in the case so far?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling foolish, realizing that Abby was right. “It’s just that I

like Willy,” I mumbled in self-defense. “And I feel a strong urge to protect him.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jimmy said, speaking in the same deep, sexy baritone that had made him a celebrated reader of his own dopey poems. “Maybe you got it backwards, babe. Maybe what Willy needs is an

erection, not protection.” Jimmy shot up straighter in his chair and started snickering like an idiot, so proud of his feeble rhyme he was about to pop.

Abby giggled and started twirling her fingers through his beard again.

Startled by the sudden noise and movement, Otto jumped off Jimmy’s lap and skittered over to me. He huddled around my ankles and gazed up at me-with the softest, sweetest, sleepiest brown eyes you ever saw in your life. I picked the little pooch up and settled him in my own lap, stroking his head and velvety back until he feel asleep again.

Sometimes, I mused, happily petting the warm little weiner-shaped pup, there actually is such a thing as justice in the world.

LATER IN THE EVENING-AFTER WE’D discussed the inscrutable murder case to death, and worn the grooves off Abby’s new Miles Davis record, and consumed at least five gin and tonics and a hundred cigarettes each-Abby stood up from the table and announced that it was time for us to go.

Oh, no, not again. “Go where?!” I sputtered. Remembering the last time she’d dragged me off to points unknown, I sat rooted to my chair, firmly deciding that I wasn’t going anywhere but home.

“To the Vanguard, of course,” she said. “Jimmy’s going to recite his new poem there tonight. It’s a masterpiece! It’s a far-out Independence Day epic, and he’s going to read it at the stroke of midnight. Isn’t that cool?”

“It’s totally cool,” I said, “and I appreciate the invitation. But I can’t possibly go out tonight. In the first place, I’m not dressed for it.” (My yellow piqué sundress and red patent stilettos belonged at an afternoon tea party, not a midnight soiree at the local jazz joint.) “And in the second place, Dan’s supposed to call me later-right after twelve, when the rates change.”

“But you already spoke to him this morning!” Abby yelped.

“So what? Is there some law that says I can’t speak to him twice?”

“How can he afford two long-distance calls in one day? It’ll cost him an arm and a leg.”

“Dan’s not a pauper, you know. And maybe he’d rather lose limbs than lose contact with me.” I shot her a stubborn smile.

Abby flipped her long braid from one shoulder to the other and leaned over the back of her chair like a gargoyle. “Oh, come on, Paige!” she said, whimpering (just like Otto does when he has to pee). “Jimmy and I both really want you to be there. It’s important. You dig what I’m saying?”

I dug what she was saying all right. She was dreading the poetry reading every bit as much as I was, and she expected me to come with her-whether I wanted to or not.

I groaned to myself and gave her a nasty, I’m-going-to-make-you-pay-for-this look.

She grinned and gave me a look that said,

Stop whining, sister. I just treated you to a feast of pizza and gin. The least you can do is keep me company in my hour of need.

“Oh, all right!” I snapped, picking Otto up off my lap and setting him down on the floor. “You win! But if Dan has a fit wondering where I am, it’ll be on your head. He worries about me a lot, you know.”

“I worry about you, too,” Abby said, with a snort. “Now hurry up. Go change your clothes.”

Chapter 15

IN SPITE OF THE HEAT AND THE HOLIDAY, the Vanguard was packed. All the tables were full, and black-clad bohemians were standing three-deep at the bar, drinking beer, smoking weed, and snapping their fingers to the live sounds surging from the piano, bass, guitar, and drums ensemble on stage. In my black capris, sleeveless black shell, black ballerina flats, and heavy black eye makeup, I blended in perfectly with the hip, cool (and, if you ask me, corny) crowd.

“Hey, Birmingham!” one of the bartenders called out to Jimmy, as we stood near the entrance looking around for seats. “Come park your pets over here!” I hoped he was referring to Abby and Otto-not me.

Jimmy led us to the single empty stool at the end of the bar and sat down on it himself. Cradling Otto in the crook of his left arm, he rested his other elbow on the counter and ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “You girls want anything?” he asked, finally remembering that Abby and I were there.

“I’ll have a beer, too,” I quickly replied, before he could rescind the offer. “Whatever’s on tap. In a frosted mug.”

“And another G and T for me, sweetcakes,” Abby said, slithering up as close to Jimmy’s side as she could. If she was annoyed that he’d taken the seat instead of offering it to her, she didn’t let it show. (As I may have mentioned before, Abby’s a tad more forgiving than I am.)