Page 6 of Wham Line
When I’d first seen this woman, the makeup and hair had taken most of my attention.I gave her a closer look now.Her face had a slightly blocky look to it, and something about it—in spite of what I assumed were expensive cosmetics and possibly a touch of surgical intervention—suggested a bulldog.Her clothes weredefinitelyexpensive—a silk blouse, high-waisted trousers, and the kind of heels that require professional certification to walk in.
“It must have been awful,” she said, pushing the drink toward me.And then, without even pretending to wait a beat: “What happened out there?”
Anything I said felt like it might have been too much, or confirmation, so I settled for shaking my head.
“I know, I know,” she said.She must have given up on the drink because she set it on the hearth.She even patted my shoulder robotically.“I’m sure it was terrible.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I think I’d like to be alone—”
“Sparkie Sanchez,” she said.“God, you were so brave, the way you ran out there after those gunshots.”She did something with her eyelashes and leaned in.“I love a bold man.”
It took about five seconds longer than it should have.
I blame it on the fact that I was still—to use a medical term—discombobulated.
Then it hit.Someone must have thrown a few dozen logs on the (gas) fire because I started sweating, and I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“Why,” Sparkie said, “you’re practically a hero, and I don’t even know your name.”
She did something again with her eyelashes, and let me tell you: pit stains were only the beginning of my problems.We’re talkingbucketsof sweat.I glanced around for Fox—now would be an ideal time for them to come back with my drink—but they weren’t at the bar, and I couldn’t spot them anywhere in the dining room.
“Uh, Dash Dane,” I said.And then, because I will forever be Dashiell Dawson Dane, somehow I heard myself say, “Practicing homosexual.”
Sparkie stared at me.Her grip on her drink loosened, and for an instant, I thought she might actually drop it.And then she tittered a laugh.
I laughed too.The way you might laugh, eyes rolling, while edging toward the closest exit.In my case, though, there wasn’t anywhere to go, and so Sparkie kept laughing, and I kept laughing, and I wondered if maybe Ishouldhave that drink after all.
“God, how embarrassing,” Sparkie said, her voice a trace brisker now, with a kind of self-deprecating amusement.“I’m sorry; it works on straight men most of the time, I promise.Can we start over, and I’ll act like a human being?”She held out her hand.“Sparkie Sanchez.”
Something about the shift in tone, the slight hint of self-mockery, made me take her hand.“Dash Dane.”
“You can’t blame me for trying,” she said.“A gal’s got to do whatever she can.The restaurant industry is an old boys’ club; you wouldn’t believe how hard it is for a woman.”
“I didn’t know that.The chef here is a woman, isn’t she?”
Sparkie nodded and sipped her drink.“But Talmage is useless in a crisis, which is why the restaurant is at a standstill.”
I tried to think of a response to that, and then I realized something important was happening.Something useful.
“Talmage?”I asked.
“The chef.”Sparkie tilted an unpleasant smile into the middle distance.“The one who came out here and gave Mal a new bunghole.”
(I mean, kind of—she did use the wordholeat least.)
“Yeah,” I said, “what was that all about?”
Sparkie shrugged.“The usual, I suspect.Mal’s never been able to hang on to a wife.”
“Talmage is his wife?”Before she could answer, though, something about the way she’d said it struck me, and I said, “Hold on, you were married to him too?”
“I told you: a gal’s got to do whatever she can.”
Several questions came to mind—as well as the fact that Sparkie, as an ex-wife, might make an excellent suspect.
“Why does everyone call him Mal?”I asked.“I thought his name was Thomas.”
“Just a nickname.He’s had it for years.His last name is Malick, and somebody shortened it.”She studied me over her glass.“Someone shot Mal, didn’t they?Don’t look so surprised; we all heard the shots, and he hasn’t come back.”
