you be chanting ‘Down with the system’ and campaigning for the release of our unfairly accused brother?”
Marcus turned the car into the O’Farrell Street Garage and paused to collect his ticket. “You’re not exactly little Miss Black Panther yourself. The only reason you’re interested is that you think that if you tweak it a smidge you’ll be able to use the case as a basis for a novel.”
“I have no intention of tweaking anything. All I want to do is take what has been a very high-profile case, write about it and feed it to a voyeuristic society.”
“God bless America.” He slid his car into a spot on the third floor and killed the motor without bothering to remove the keys from the ignition. He shifted in his seat so that he could fully appreciate the enormous mass of hair weighing down my head. “We’re going to have to pull it up in a braid thingy.”
“A braid thingy? I don’t get—”
“You don’t have to ‘get.’ Just sit back and let me prove my genius.” He pushed himself out of the car and came back seconds later armed with a wide-tooth comb, some ozone-depleting hairspray and a Tupperware container full of rubber hair bands and bobby pins.
Fifteen minutes later my hair was swept up into a sophisticated little braid and the few curls I had actually succeeded in creating were gently framing my face, keeping the look from going to severe. I examined myself in the side-view mirror. “I don’t care if you are gay, I still want to marry you. I’ll support you, do your laundry, turn my head when you bring home male companionship—all you have to do is my hair every day of the week and I’ll be satisfied.”
“Honey, the only thing I want to do every day of the week is Ricky Martin. Are you ready to eat?”
I took one last look at my reflection and allowed him to escort me to the restaurant across the street. We seated ourselves at the bar between a bearded man wearing a rather unfortunate Hawaiian shirt with pink palm trees on it and a woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to Prince, during his “formerly known as” period. Without bothering to look at the familiar menu, we ordered our prerequisite Cosmopolitans and a gourmet pizza to share. Marcus tugged gently on his locks as he watched the bartender mix our desired poison. “You’re still coming to Steve’s surprise party on Saturday, right?”
I nodded vigorously. “Like I’d miss an opportunity to eat chocolate cake. How’s he doing anyway? Any change?”
“His T-cell count has gotten ridiculously low, but he’s staying optimistic. He’s going to be so excited to meet you. He’s practically memorized every one of your books. I swear, girl, you are just the female John Grisham these days. Every client I have…”
Marcus’s voice faded into the background as I studied a man on the other side of the restaurant talking on his cell phone. Maybe the prank calls had come from a cell. That would mean that the person could have been watching the apartment while making the call. But I hadn’t heard any background noise, so they probably had come from someone’s home or—
“Sophie? Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah, of course. You were talking about Steve.”
“Yesss…about five minutes ago. What’s up with you?” He paused to order a second round.
“I’m sorry. There has just been some weird stuff happening.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve been getting prank calls. Five today. At least, five that I was home to answer.”
“Oh, I hate those. You know how you deal with them?”
“How?”
“Heavy breathing. As soon as you realize that the person is prank-calling, start breathing heavily into the receiver. Trips them up every time.”
“I’ll try that.” I swirled the remnants of my Cosmo. It must have been evaporating because there was no way I could have drunk it that fast. I thought I caught the pink-palm-tree guy casting me a disapproving stare. I swiveled my bar stool in Marcus’s direction. “So what made you want to go to tonight’s little shindig?”
A dimple materialized on his left cheek. “You know me. I am all about supporting up-and-coming young artists.”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Uh-huh. There was a picture of the artist on the invite?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“He’s cute?”
“Absolutely to die for.”
“He’s gay?”
“One can always hope.”
“But you don’t know. So it’s possible that I stand a chance.”
Marcus raised his glass in salute. “May the best man win.”
“Or woman.”
“Don’t bother me with semantics.”
We were presented with our pizza and I forced myself to wait until the bartender physically let go of the plate before tearing into it. Marcus must have been equally famished, because our conversation came to a halt as we devoured the pie at locust speed. I indicated to Marcus that he should eat the last piece. I was trying to lose five pounds and I had developed a kind of warped diet reasoning in which I don’t have to count the calories of the food I eat if somebody else finishes it. It doesn’t make sense but it does make me feel less guilty, so I choose to delude myself.
I sipped at my third drink while Marcus polished off our dinner. Alcohol was great for diets. If you drank enough of it, you didn’t feel guilty at all.
Marcus checked his watch and grimaced. “It’s almost eight. We want to be fashionably late but not late-late.” He signed the charge slip and waited impatiently for me to collect my purse and jacket before hurrying me out of the restaurant and into the parking garage.
“You know, there’s no way we’re going to find a parking spot within five miles of the gallery,” I said, “and the bus will practically take us to its door, plus it will be faster than looking for a—”
“Honey, you do not impress a man by showing up on a bus.” His tone relayed the sympathy he felt for any woman who was so misguided.
“You never know, I mean he is an artist, a.k.a. a liberal eccentric. Maybe he prefers public transportation for the sake of the environment, or maybe he likes to rub elbows with all us common people who don’t have cars or won’t drive them for fear of losing our parking spots.”
“Uh-huh.” He tapped the face of his faux Cartier. “You need to close those little Mac-painted lips of yours and get in the car.”
I grumbled some unflattering remarks and took my seat. I slipped my finger under the strap of my super-hip new platforms and caressed the forming blister. We would have to walk four city blocks at least—if we were lucky to even find parking.
When we finally did reach the gallery I was ready for a painkiller. Six blistering blocks. I peered through the crowd and eyed the little makeshift bar set up in the corner. Vodka always made a good pain
