QUEENIE BABY: On Assignment (3 page)

I turned on him. “I don’t know, Granddaddy, because Uncle Grover is in the hospital.”

He furrowed his brow. “Oh, what the heck! That guy is a pansy. Did he up an’ faint again?”

“Yes, he fainted and he hit his head. As in knocked out! You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said shaking my head.

He actually looked like he might be feeling bad. “Maybe leaving the ransom note and the hair was a bad idea,” he conceded.
 

“Ransom note? What hair?” I asked incredulously.

He shrugged. “Well, I left a note saying ‘Give me my gun and you’ll get the mutt back’. I cut off that stupid pony tail on the top of her head, bow an’ all, as proof. Just like in the movies,” he added. “I thought about bringin’ her here with me. But that dog is mean. She bit me twice when I was tryin’ to cut her hair off. So I tied her to the front door of the SPCA.”
 

I dropped my head in my hands. I just couldn’t take anymore. I needed a drink. Now. I stood up and resolutely walked to my room. I changed into a sweater and jeans and swapped out my heels for suede boots. I checked the mirror. Not bad. I pulled my hair from the confines of a tight pony tail and tucked my long bangs behind one ear. In the kitchen I put Granddaddy’s pants into the dryer and pulled some leftover Chinese out of the fridge.
 

“There’s Chinese on the counter. Cover it with a paper towel before you microwave it, please,” I said as I grabbed my purse.
 

“You goin’ to McGlynn’s?” he asked.

“Yes, and you’re not,” I said firmly.

“That ain’t no way to treat your Granddaddy,” he complained.

“You don’t have pants,” I pointed out. “So you can’t go. And, frankly, I need some alone time.”

He acknowledged his lack of pants with a shrug. “You singin’ tonight?” he asked.

“No. Just drinking,” I said as I shut the door behind me.

It was almost 7:00 when my feet touched the bricks on West Street. The two block walk to McGlynn’s was cool and quiet. For a moment I almost forget that I had a crazy old man with no pants on in my house. Oh, and don’t forget dognapper. I checked my phone, wondering if I should call my sister. We had an on again off again relationship. We got
on
each other’s nerves and pissed each other
off,
but were pretty good friends. I caved and called.

“Well, he’s alive,” she said dramatically. “No thanks to Granddaddy! I just picked up Honey Bunny and still have to pick up the kids from swim practice.”

“I’m bringing Granddaddy home tomorrow after I get off work,” I said.

“No way. Uncle Grover is adamant that he isn’t living with him anymore,” she said.

“Then I’ll bring him to your house,” I replied.

“Don’t you dare!” she shrieked.

“Hey, you’re in charge while The Parents are gone,” I reminded her. “He stays with you until they get back and work things out.”

Total silence on the other end. I had her and she knew it.

“Great! Just what I need. Let’s just make Ashley’s life a little more like Hell on Earth,” she said. Again with the drama. “While the perfect Diana lives the life of a rock star.”

I rolled my eyes. I can’t believe I called her. “I temped for a vampire today. I wouldn’t call that the life of a rock star.”
 

That threw her off. “An umpire?” she said. “So you’re working in Baltimore?”

“No, a vampire. You know with a cape and everything,” I said.

“Very funny,” she said. “I’m dealing with a disaster here and you’re making jokes. So typical.”

“Hey, he was wearing a cape and his name was Vann Pyres. Seriously! And I was the one with Granddaddy Hacker—without pants I might add—on my doorstop when I got home today. Not you!” I passed a couple and they gave me a strange look. I lowered my voice. “Look, I get that this has been a shit day for us both, but let’s just get through it. I’ll bring Granddaddy to your house tomorrow. Hopefully, The Parents can patch things up when they get home.”

“Fine,” she conceded, “but next time you’re in charge of these nuts I’m turning my phone off. Don’t expect me to drop everything just because you’ve got a gig or some hot-bodied, young grunge singer you’re sweatin’ it up with.”

She plucked my last nerve. “Noted. See you tomorrow. Bye.”

For the record, I hadn’t sweated it up with anybody in over six months. It’s not that I don’t have offers, but I have rules. I don’t date musicians, men I meet in bars, or men that I work with. Don’t even get me started about online dating—not happening. So basically, that just leaves men that my friends set me up with or men that I run into on the street. My sister along with everyone else in my family was under the delusion that, not only was I a barfly spending my evenings partying it up on the music scene, but that I also enjoyed the company of a countless number of hot, young groupies. Five years ago when I first moved to Annapolis and started working as a musician, I defended my trade and my honor vehemently. I was not a party girl. I was a working musician, living off the fruits of my craft. Well, now that I’m thirty, no closer to selling a song or landing a recording contract, and living mostly off the fruits of temping, I don’t mind them making my life more exciting than it is—it gives me hope. And in some strange, dysfunctional way, it shows me that my family still believes in me.

I rounded the corner at West and Calvert. I could hear the sound of bad karaoke blaring from McGlynn’s a half a block away. Damn! I forgot about Karaoke Night. Karaoke was the bane of live musicians eking out a name for themselves in every local bar scene. Why pay a musician if your customers could amuse themselves with a $99 Karaoke machine? Hey, a couple of them might even be good singers, said the bar owners. Yeah, right. I hated karaoke. The martinis better be good and strong tonight.

* * * * *
 

“Lady Di,” called Woody from behind the bar. Yes, his name is Woody like from Cheers. But don’t mention it. He’s a little touchy about it. “Didn’t think to see you in tonight. Going to honor us and sing some karaoke?”
 

I grimaced. Woody knew better. I performed at McGlynn’s a couple times a month during the slow season and once a week during the summer. It didn’t pay a lot, but it was a short gig, usually nine to twelve and close to home. I had also booked two private parties and a wedding from people who had seen me play here.

“I think I can arrange a drink on the house,” he teased.
 

I plopped down in front of him at the bar, my back to the little stage where a woman was crooning a drunken version of
I Will Survive
. “Nope,” I said, “not for ten free drinks.”

“What you drinking tonight? Appletini?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Make it a plain vodka with two olives.”

He whistled. “Wow, you must have had a bad day.”

“Granddaddy Hacker showed up at my door today with no pants on.”

“’Nough said. I’ll make it a double. Hacker is one crazy dude.” He went to work making my drink.
 

“Yes, he is,” I agreed. Woody had met Granddaddy last fall. That was when I learned how irritated Woody could get about the whole Cheers thing.

Woody set my drink in front of me. It looked heavenly. The screeching in my ears, though, was ruining the moment. “Karaoke sucks,” I muttered.

 
Woody said, “I would’ve thought you’d be more supportive of your friend. She may not be good, but she’s got passion.” He pointed to the stage.

I turned around. There was Carol, just launching into a barely intelligible rendition of Dolly Parton’s
9 to 5
. She was still in her work clothes and her bob was slightly mussed. Her owl glasses were gone. Right in the middle of belting out the song she said into the microphone, “Diana, is that you?” She squinted blindly into the stage lights. “Yoo-hoo,” she called to me and waved.
 

The small audience turned in unison and to look at me.
 

I waved back.
 

She covered the mike and mouthed to me, “I’ll be right there.”
 

I gave her the thumbs up and turned back towards the bar. I took a big gulp of my martini. Man, what a day!

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

IT TURNS OUT that the numbers Carol was so worried about were bad. Really bad. So after making things presentable at the office she headed to McGlynn’s to meet me and drown her sorrows in a martini. Of course, I was busy with Granddaddy. So Carol started without me and kept drinking until karaoke started. Karaoke has the uncanny ability to turn otherwise quiet, respectable people into mike-hogging divas. Its’ siren call lures even the most timid to belt out songs they will spend weeks trying to erase from their minds. Okay, the liquor might have something to do with it too.

I ordered Carol a glass of ice water and watched her try to stay upright on the bar stool. One of her pumps had fallen to the floor. The other one dangled precariously from one toe.
 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she slurred. “I love my job. I’m good at my job, you know,” she said wagging her finger back in forth in front of my nose.
 

“You’re the best!” I replied brightly. “Mr. Greene is going to be impressed with you.” Just not right now so much, I added to myself.

“Did you like my last song?” she asked, changing the subject quickly.

“It was great. I didn’t know you liked to sing,” I replied.

“I didn’t know it until now myself,” she giggled. Yep, karaoke will do that to you, I thought. “Maybe we can do a duet. That would be fun!”

Woody had been listening to the conversation. “Yeah, Di,” he said, “go get the book.” I gave him a back off look that he chose to ignore.

“Oh, pleeease!” begged Carol. “This could be our last chance. I may have to move back to Philly and live with my mother.”

Oh, brother, I mumbled under my breath. I hate showing up at the party late when everybody is three drinks ahead of you. “Another martini, Woody,” I said as I headed to the stage to retrieve the song book.
 

When I returned with the book a tall, well-built man was leaning on the bar next to my stool. He was ordering a beer from Woody and making small talk. His hair was short and brown and was just starting to get a little shaggy around the edges. The skin on his smooth shaven face was tan. He looked like a man that spent a lot of time outdoors. Maybe out on the water, one of those trust fund yacht guys. Yuck!
 

I slid into my seat and set the book on the bar top with a thump. Carol pounced, eagerly flipping through the pages looking for just the right song for us to sing. I ignored the Thurston Howell III wannabe.

“How about
The Night the Lights Went out in Georgia
?” she suggested.

I made a face. I could see that if I didn’t find something semi-decent this was going to be a train wreck of epic proportions. “It needs to be something easy to sing that we both know most of the words to,” I said.

“I know,” she said excitedly pointing her finger at the page. “
The Rose
by Bette Midler!”
 

“That sounds like a winner,” Thurston Howell chimed in over my shoulder.

“See,” said Carol, “Mark thinks it’s a good choice.” Like I was supposed to know who Mark was.

“Well, then maybe Mark would like to sing it with you,” I suggested turning around to face the interloper.

“Not me,” he said with a grin holding up his hands. “I’m just trying to help you ladies out. Let’s start over,” he said offering me his hand. “I’m Mark.” He had a wide friendly smile and his hand was warm and a little calloused.

I shook his hand. “Diana,” I said. “And it looks like you already met Carol.” We both glanced over at Carol taking another swig from her glass and peering into the song book. Her face was inches from the page. Her glasses were nowhere in sight. She was in her own little buzzed world.

“Yes, she was explaining that you two were going to do a duet next. She sure gets into karaoke,” he said agreeably and took a sip of his beer. I didn’t get the pickup vibe from him. More of the you’re-pretty-but-I-don’t-need-to-pick-women-up-in-bars vibe. Fine by me, because I don’t date men I meet in bars. “What brings you to Annapolis, Mark?” I asked.

“Hey, how do you know I’m not a local?” he teased.

“Because if you were a local, you’d either have been in here before or would have never set foot in here to begin with. McGlynn’s has two kinds of customers—the locals who work for a living and come in looking for a good deal and the tourists. Now you,” I said tilting my head and looking up at him, “are neither.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m neither. I’m here on business. I’m a commercial real estate developer. I grew up in Virginia, but I live in Atlanta now.” As he spoke I couldn’t help staring into his bright blue eyes. He smelled wonderful. I leaned in a little to get a better whiff. He was still talking, but I had no idea what he was saying.
 

I nodded in agreement. He leaned behind me and tapped Carol on her shoulder. “How about
These Boots are Made for Walking
by Nancy Sinatra? Diana likes it.”

Wait a minute! I didn’t say that. I knew the song—too well. Aunt Pearl used to make me sing it with her every time I came over to see her. But no way did I say I wanted to sing it now. Argh! He had distracted me with his hypnotic eyes and delicious smell. What was that smell? There was cologne and soap, but also a leather smell mixed with fresh cut grass maybe. It was dizzying. I finished my second martini and gave Woody the one more signal.

Carol said, “Perfect choice, Diana! Let’s go write our names down,” she said pulling on my sleeve.

“You go ahead. I’ll be over when I get my drink,” I said. Carol trotted off happily. She seemed to be sobering up a little. I guess the water was helping.

Me on the other hand . . . A fresh martini was facing me when I turned back around. And, of course, Mark with a big smile. “That was a dirty trick,” I said.

“What did I do?” he asked with mock innocence.