Page 22 of Midnight Valentine
On the other end of the line, there’s a long sigh. “Sweetie, that story needs to be told over drinks. What’re you doing tonight?”
I look around the kitchen, at the scorched floor, the boarded-up windows, the empty takeout containers crowding the counter. “Not a thing.”
“Be ready at six. I’m driving. And wear a skirt, for God’s sake. I have a reputation to uphold in this town, and your homeless stoner look isn’t cutting it.”
She hangs up without waiting to hear the argument she already knows is coming.
* * *
At precisely six o’clock that night, Suzanne arrives looking like she has an appointment to meet Hugh Hefner. I’ve never seen so much cleavage in my life.
“Hi, Suzanne.” I warily eye her hairdo, which is teased and sprayed to ’80s hair band proportions, her stilettos, which are sky-high, and her skirt, which is so tight I suspect her circulation is being compromised. “Please tell me we’re not going clubbing.”
She looks at me as if I’ve been smoking crack. “There aren’t any clubs within an eighty-mile radius. We’re going to Booger’s.”
Booger’s? This is why I never go out.
“Don’t give me that look!” Suzanne scolds when she sees my expression. “It’s a very nice, upscale restaurant.”
“I think our definitions of ‘upscale’ might be different.”
“Jeez, what’re you, ninety, Grandma?”
“Thirty-two, actually.”
Suzanne grimaces. “You’re younger than me too? How did I not notice that on your escrow docs? It’s a pity I already decided not to hate you. Nice dress, by the way.”
“Thanks. I had to go out and buy it today because I didn’t own one. I didn’t want to get clobbered by my real estate agent.”
She narrows her eyes at my waistline. “Are you wearing a waist trainer under that?”
Perplexed, I look down at myself. “What the hell is a waist trainer?”
She groans, throwing her hands in the air. “I changed my mind. I do hate you. Let’s go, you’re making me thirsty.”
I lock the front door, she grabs me by the arm, and we’re off to Booger’s, which I suspect will be about as pleasant as a visit to the gynecologist.
When we arrive, I’m surprised to find I was wrong. Whoever named the place was off his rocker, but the location is spectacular. Booger’s sits at the end of the beach promenade, overlooking the ocean. It has a kitschy seafaring theme that manages to be ironically sentimental instead of just plain tacky.
Fishnet is strung from the ceiling and hung with starfish and Christmas lights. Brick walls are covered in framed black-and-white pictures of old movie stars and dotted with big portholes for windows. Candles glow atop polished wood tables, and an enormous captain’s wheel garnishes the hostess stand where Suzanne gives our name to a hostess who looks fifteen years old.
“It’s cute,” I say, looking around.
Suzanne nudges me with her elbow and grins. “Would I steer you in the wrong direction?”
“The name, though.”
“It’s the nickname of the owner. Someone caught him picking his nose in elementary school, and it stuck.”
I grimace. “Hopefully, he’s abandoned the habit and doesn’t pick his nose in the kitchen.”
“This way, please.” The hostess, holding a pair of menus, gestures for us to follow her.
Suzanne gets a lot of stares as we walk to our table. Even some of the women seem interested in her beauty queen bounce. I admire her self-confidence and have to smile when a guy drops his spoon into his soup as we pass by.
Once we’re seated, we spend a few minutes looking at the menu, then order our drinks and meals from the heavyset waitress who comes by. When she’s gone, Suzanne says, “So. Theo Valentine.”
“The man of the hour.” I munch on nuts from a bowl the waitress left on the table. “Mystery man with a name like a porn star.”
