A Bride To Honor. Arlene James
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Club.” Even at six-fifteen in the evening, a scratchy recording of jazz blared over the loudspeaker by the door and a line of people snaked around the side of the building. Paul parked at the side of the building and pulled Cassidy by the hand around to the back by the hand, where he pounded on a door labeled, Deliveries.
After several seconds the door opened, and a black man wearing a spotless white apron greeted them. “Spence!” He grabbed Paul’s hand and pumped it energetically. “Hey, man, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
Paul grinned broadly. “Well, I thought I’d take my chances for a change, but I see that the place is as popular as ever.”
“We’re hanging in there, man. We’re hanging in.” He switched his gaze abruptly to Cassidy. “Who’s this?”
Paul placed an arm around Cassidy’s shoulders. “This is my good friend, Cassidy Penno. Cass, this old scoundrel is Hoot.”
“Good friend, eh?” Hoot commented, nodding thoughtfully. “Like the coat.”
Cassidy smiled. “Thanks.”
Hoot spread out his arms. “Well, come on in!” He turned and led the way down a long, narrow hall past a bustling kitchen and a variety of other rooms to a small, dusty office, where he put them in chairs and offered them drinks from a small refrigerator in one corner.
“No, thanks, I’m driving,” Paul said.
Cassidy smiled and shook her head, saying, “I don’t drink much.”
Hoot sent Paul a significant look and sat down behind his desk. Paul knew exactly what he was thinking. Paul didn’t drink much, either. Betina believed the “skill” of social drinking was a very important one and that he looked rude when he repeatedly turned down offers of alcohol. He stopped short of pointing out to himself that Cassidy’s feelings on the matter were much closer to his own.
Hoot templed his fingers over the top of his desk and asked, “How did you two meet?”
They both spoke at once. Cassidy said, “My brother works for Paul.” Paul said, “Cassidy’s my costumer.”
Hoot latched onto that last. “Costumer! Costumer? As in Betina’s infamous costume party?”
Paul made a face. “What else?”
Hoot clapped his hands together and boomed laughter. “You poor sucker!”
“I recall seeing your name on the guest list,” Paul reminded him sourly.
“And do you have a costume, Mr. Hoot?” Cassidy asked brightly.
Hoot looked surprised, then his face split in that huge white grin of his. “It’s just Hoot, no ‘Mister,’ and honey, I have the best costume. I plan to wear this big white apron here...”
“That he never gets dirty,” Paul quipped drily.
“And a chef’s hat,” Hoot went on.
“Clever,” Paul said.
“Cheap,” Cassidy added. “Oh, and you should get one of those big oven mitts, too.”
“Hey, good idea!” Hoot said.
“Do you have a chef’s hat?” Paul asked, his brow furrowed in thought.
“No,” Hoot admitted, “but I figure I can find one.”
“Actually I’ll be glad to rent you one,” Cassidy said. “Five dollars.”
His thick, woolly brows shot up. “That is cheap.”
“I’ll even throw in the oven mitt free. Now is that a bargain or what?”
Hoot looked at Paul. “She’s sweet,” he said. “Why don’t you latch on to her and forget Betina the bi—”
“I don’t think we want to go there,” Paul said quickly, frowning.
Hoot linked his hands over a slightly protruding belly. “Hmph!” He looked at Cassidy. “It’s that family of his. Bunch of leeches, if you ask me.”
“Hoot.”
He waved a hand to indicate that he considered Paul’s protest so much spent air. “Long time ago there was a fight in the family over how to run the business, so they decided to pick a goat.”
“Goat?”
“He means a scapegoat,” Paul explained, “and he’s way off base.”
“The ‘goat,’” Hoot said, “runs the business, and the rest of them go on their merry way, trusting him to take care of them all. He gets all the headaches, and they get nice fat checks dropped into their pockets at regular intervals.”
“It gives me a free hand in running the business,” Paul said.
“Is that the way you see it? Seems to me they tie your hands.” He said to Cassidy, “They leave him out on a limb and pretend not to notice when someone else comes along with a saw. He can’t vote their shares, and he can’t ask them to vote with him. If he could, he could tell Hydra to take her marriage scheme and stick it—”
“Hoot!”
“All right, all right, I get it.” He pointed at Cassidy. “This one’s a lady. The other one is a she-devil.”
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