Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta
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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?”
“Fine.” I wiped tears from my eyes, brightened when I noticed no black smudges on my fingers. Tear- and monsoon-proof. Points for Maybelline. “If you could just direct me to Mr. Beckett …”
“He isn’t available.”
“We have an appointment.”
“He had a conflict. He asked me to get you started. He’ll be down later.”
So the offices were upstairs.
Pops waved over one of the barflies, an Antonio Banderas look-alike sporting a slicked-back ponytail and a thousand-watt smile. “This is Tabasco. He’ll be accompanying you.”
“Accompanying me where?”
On the flight home from the islands, Beckett had mentioned key members of Chameleon, describing Jimmy Tabasco as a transportation specialist, so I was surprised when Zorro dude grinned and replied, “On the guitar.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m not a professional like you, but I have a good ear and can read chord charts.”
“We don’t have a stage,” Pops said. “But we made space over there beside the jukebox. Tabasco appropriated a small speaker system and a microphone.”
Appropriated?
“I set up a Shure 58 for you, hon, but if you prefer to use your own mic—”
“Evie,” I said. What was it with these guys and sweetie-pie nicknames? “And I’m sorry, but … why do I need a microphone?”
“You want to sing acoustically?” He scratched his jaw, shrugged. “Twinkie and Tabasco Unplugged. Works for me. How about you Pops?”
“Fine.”
“Not fine,” I croaked, a hint of hysteria in my voice. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Beckett didn’t hire me to sing.”
“He did,” Pops said. “Wednesdays through Sundays.”
“That gives us two days to rehearse,” Tabasco said. “Although maybe we should skip today. You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m fine.” I sneezed into a cocktail napkin. “Just confused. Beckett hired me to … He said I could …”
Both men raised their eyebrows, waiting for me to elaborate. Only I realized Milo Beckett had never specifically stated my job responsibilities.
No,