Mr Greek
Wheeling my ugly gunboat of a car around the circular drive past the main entrance to the west building was a little embarrassing. Mine was the oldest, most domestic poor cousin of all the fancy, high-performance luxury cars being loaded, unloaded and valeted there. The harshly bright lights accentuated my car’s shortcomings. I wished for a servant’s entrance but there was none.
Just as I was fixing to tuck my tail between my legs and skeedaddle away after dropping Eva off, Jennifer paged.
Crap. Now I’ve gotta park here, right under the uptilted noses of the watchful valets. When Jennifer pages, she doesn’t want you waste time driving around looking for an inconspicuous payphone. If you take more than two minutes to call her, she barks, “Where were you?”
“Be back in two minutes,” I apologized to the valet as I hopped out, racing to the payphones, “Keys are in it.” Valets hate this. They’re paid for moving cars, not watching them.
“Is Eva drinking?” Jennifer asked when I got to the payphone. I turned from the payphone to look for the hidden camera. Surely she didn’t see Eva stagger out of my car just a few minutes ago . . . did she?
“Not in my car,” I answered carefully, still looking for the camera, “I don’t know what she does inside . . .”
“Customer say her breath reeks. You smell the booze or not?” Mental note: stock the glove compartment with breath mints.
“No. . .”
“You smell the booze, you call me.” ‘Click’ The line was dead.
Eva’s stagger was worse coming out of the Hilton than it had been going in. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were glazing over. She looked like a drunken Marine on shore leave in Pusan. I sensed the same impending trouble as I had with those jarheads.
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