Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 13, Mid-December 1992

Bartenders May Come and Go by Brenda Melton Burnham

I like ruts. I enjoy the routine of writing at the same desk, at the same time every day, about the same sleazy character. It comforts me to go to the same barber, the same dry cleaners, the same grocery store.

Which is why I was so upset when I walked down to my local bar and some strange guy stepped up to serve me.

“Where’s Eddie?” I asked, somewhat peevishly perhaps.

“Dunno,” the kid mumbled. “You want something to drink or not?”

This did not improve my attitude. If anything, it increased my frustration. “Where’s Homer?” I demanded. Homer is the owner of Homer’s Place. Right away that tells you this is a man of great imagination.

“In the back,” the jerk said, turning away.

I got up off my stool and headed for the office. All I’d wanted when I came in was a beer and a jaw, but the situation had gotten out of hand somehow. That I had forced it was not something I cared to think on, so I settled for action.

“Hey, Max.” Homer leaned back in his swivel chair and carefully readjusted his three strands of hair over his bald spot. “How’s our local celebrity?”

He liked to brag a bit that Max Wilhelm, creator of Jake Sledge, P.I., drank there. Since he also came through with a drink on the house from time to time, as well as having given me credit during my writer’s block days, I didn’t mind.

“Homer,” I greeted back. I sat down on the ugly tan sofa and came directly to the point. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Dunno. He didn’t show up for shift two days ago. Didn’t call, nothin’. After two years. I tell you, good help these days is hard to get. Why? He owe you money?”

“No.”

“You know how it is, kid. Bartenders come and go. Like women.” He grinned at his little joke. “So what’s your problem?”

“I was used to Eddie, that’s all.”

“This new guy’s not a bad sort. Name’s Blaine. I think he’s gonna work out. You’ll like him, Max, when you get used to him.”

“Blaine? You’re putting me on. Besides, he’s just a kid. Eddie was older, like us.” I was being kind here. I was in my early forties, and Homer had a good twenty years on me. “He understood things. What do you talk about with a kid named Blaine, for gosh sakes? You haven’t heard anything from Eddie? Maybe he’s sick or something.”

“Sick, dying, don’t make no never mind. You don’t show up for shift in this business, you’re out of a job. And no, I haven’t heard from the guy. How’s that for gratitude?”

We sat and contemplated Eddie’s defection.

“Hey.” Homer sat up in his chair abruptly, causing his three hairs to flutter. He reached automatically to smooth them down again. “I got an idea. You’re a mystery writer. You want Eddie back. You go find out what happened to him.”

“Homer, I’m not Jessica Fletcher.”

“Ha, ha, that’s good. You wanna beer? I’m serious, Max. This is somethin’ you can do.” He hauled his bulk up and waddled to the door. “Hey, Blaine! Bring us a coupla drafts.”

Somewhere during the second beer I began to think I could do anything a woman could do. By the fourth beer I was certain something terrible had happened to my good buddy Eddie and no one was doing anything about it. By the end of the fifth beer and a trip to the men’s room, I knew it was up to me to rescue the man from whatever calamity had befallen him.

Homer searched through his mess of files and gave me Eddie’s address. “All I got on him is his address.”

“What do you know about him?” I asked. “Is he into the ponies? Drugs? Anything?”

“I just told you, nothin’. The guy came to work, put the money in the till, locked up, and went home. We didn’t have long soul-searching conversations about life, okay? What do you know about him?”

Now that I thought about it, nothing. We’d talked about the weather, politics, sports, women. The usual stuff. But I couldn’t recall a single personal thing Eddie had ever told me about himself. Of course, I was also working on my sixth beer. Maybe tomorrow, when my head cleared...

My head wasn’t that much clearer the next morning. Still, a commitment was a commitment. After I finished my morning stint of writing, I drove over to the address Homer had given me.

The building was old and rundown, the sort of place hundreds of Eddies would live in. People earning enough money to keep them out of the cold and driving an old clunker that broke down regularly. I walked up the stairs to Apartment 3B and knocked.

No response. I rapped again, harder. Nothing.

I went back downstairs and tapped on the door of the manager’s apartment. A young woman with a baby on one hip and another kid clinging to one leg opened the door. They all looked alike except her nose wasn’t running. She frowned at me and said, “Yes?”

“Hello. My name’s Max Wilhelm and I’m a friend of Eddie Dunne’s. He hasn’t shown up for work for three days, and we’re getting concerned.” I’m not good at playing the nicey-nice game. I tried flashing a big friendly smile. It made my lips want to go hide.

“He paid his rent last week like always. Maybe he had to go out of town.” The baby grabbed at her hair. The woman pulled its hand away without looking. “Stop that,” she said and started to close the door.

I assumed she was talking to her hairdresser and not me, so I carried on. “Ma’am, would you mind going upstairs and checking Eddie’s apartment with me? I mean, what if he’s sick of something and couldn’t get to the phone?”

She hesitated. “We aren’t supposed to...”

I was getting ready to plead when she squinted up at me with a somewhat interested look. “Are you somebody important, like on TV or something?”

Publicity does have its rewards. I’d just been on a local talk show promoting my latest book. I informed the woman, with a degree of modesty, that I was indeed a writer of some renown.

She didn’t seem overly impressed. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. I always watch that show. Sometimes they have movie stars on it, you know.”

I followed her lead. “I’ve met Tom Selleck.”

“You’re kidding! What’s he like, really? Is he as nice as he seems?”

“Why don’t I tell you while we’re walking upstairs?”

She debated my offer. “Well, all right. But you can’t touch anything, okay? Watch Lance and Zack while I get the key.” She thrust the small child into my arms.

Lance? Zack? Blaine? Where were people coming up with these silly names? Whatever happened to Homer and Eddie? And Max?

Zack smelled of sweet milk and sour diapers. He immediately grabbed my nose. Children are like cats; they can instantly spot people who don’t much like them. Eddie was going to owe me a drink or two when I found him.

I regaled my audience with Tom Selleck stories all the way to 3B. Luckily, I’m a fiction writer; the closest I’d ever been to the guy was to see him across the room.

The woman fumbled with the key, then shoved the door open. The apartment smelled stale, as if the air needed vacuuming.

Inside it looked a lot like mine: untidy. A ratty lounge chair and an old brown couch with ancient foodstains. A television set. My TV was bigger.

A large cardboard box stood open on the dinette table. The UPS label on it was addressed to Eddie Dunne. There was no return.

“Mommie, look,” Lance said before snuffling loudly.

Mommie and I ignored him. She relieved me of Zack so I could peer around the small kitchen. A dirty bowl and mug stood beside the sink; a Mr. Coffee machine nearby held a pot with a half-inch of brown liquid in it.

“Look, Mommie,” the kid said again.

“Might as well check the bedroom,” I suggested.

She shrugged. I turned to go toward the hall on the other side of the living room.

“Mommie!” Lance removed his finger from his nose and pointed. This time for some reason we both looked. Hanging half off the arm of the sofa, head down, was a snake large enough to swallow King Kong.

“Well, it may not have been quite that big,” I admitted later to Homer. “But it sure looked like it at the time.”

We were sitting in the back booth at his place. He was sucking another glass of suds, I was on my third cup of coffee. Walking three blocks home while under the influence can be too much two nights in a row; all Homer had to do was climb a few stairs.

He cackled appreciatively at my story. “What kind of snake was it?” he asked.

“A boa constrictor.”

Homer’s eyes widened, then narrowed in disbelief.

“Hey, would I kid you? That’s what the guy from the zoo said. The cops called him to come and get the damn thing.”

Something caught Homer’s eye and drew his attention away from further explanations, which was just as well. The story got tamer after that. Still, I looked around to see what had distracted him.

A woman in a bright red dress approached the bar and perched on a stool. The entire action was one of extreme sensuality. Adding to the liquid movement were long ink-black hair and Marilyn Monroe curves. If the front view was only half as good as the back, I couldn’t blame Homer a bit; I’ve always preferred well-rounded women myself. Not to mention the fact that Homer’s Place was not usually adorned with such pulchritude.

“Not bad,” I said, turning back to my coffee cup in as casual a manner as possible. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Last night was the first time she’s been in.”

“Maybe she’s new in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Neither of us really believed that. This wasn’t her sort of neighborhood, nor her sort of bar. Even from the back you could tell.

“She drinks stingers,” Homer murmured, whether to himself or to me I wasn’t sure. “She was here not quite an hour last night, drank two, and rejected three advances.” He swallowed the last of his beer. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

Funny how things often come together in the middle of the night when you’re in a dead sleep. My eyelids banged open somewhere around quarter to four with the clear memory of a remark Eddie had once made to me.

Who knows what we had started out talking about. One way or another the conversation had worked around to hunting and wild animals. “There’s only one thing I’m truly scared of,” Eddie said, “and that’s snakes. Just the sight of one on TV makes my skin crawl.”

I was still trying to make two and two add up the next morning when the phone rang.

“Max? It’s me, Homer.” His voice vibrated with excitement. “You know our mystery lady? Well, right after you left, I went to tell Blaine I was going upstairs to bed when I heard her ask him a question.”

“Yeah?” I prompted when he didn’t continue.

“She said, ‘What shift does Eddie work?’ ”

Well, well, well. Add an Eve to our little garden of Eden. “I suppose Blaine, bright boy that he is, told her Eddie didn’t work here any more?” I said, not wanting Homer to get overly impressed with his detecting skills.

“I spoke up before he got the chance. Told her Eddie was off for a few days and could I help her.”

I knew he was waiting for a little praise, so I gave it to him. “Good move. What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘When do you expect him back?’ You should hear her voice, Max. It sorta tickles all the way down your backbone, you know what I mean?”

“Spare me the salacious details, Homer, and just recite the conversation, okay?”

He probably had no idea what salacious meant, but he got the idea.

“I told her he was supposed to call me today or tomorrow and could I give him a message. ‘Tell him Miranda said hello,’ she says and gives me a big smile. Then she lays a dollar on the bar and walks out. What do you think it means, Max?”

“I don’t know what it means, Homer.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

“But I intend to find out.”

“Oh.” He sounded happy again, momentarily. “Will I see you tonight? What should I tell her? I don’t know what...”

“I don’t know either, yet. I’ll get back to you.”

What did Eddie have that would make a broad like that interested in him? He was just your average guy, like me. I don’t have women like that asking about me.

Maybe he sold drugs? He didn’t look like a drug dealer, but then a smart one wouldn’t. Which brought me to my next question: was Eddie smart?

I don’t mean to belittle bartenders, but Blaine had impressed me as having the mentality of a tulip. Of course, when you come right down to it, you don’t need brains to be a writer.

I’d never wondered about Eddie’s prowess in the intellect department. He had served my beer cold, he could converse on a variety of topics, and he had the rare quality of knowing when not to talk. In short, the perfect bartender.

I veered back to my original question. No, I decided. I didn’t think he was a drug dealer. Frustrated, I went into the kitchen for another cup of liquid energy. As I stared down at my Mr. Coffee machine the realization hit me.

I never had looked closely at Eddie’s apartment. The police had come, decided they didn’t want anything more to do with the snake than we did, and called the zoo. Then, to maintain their image, they asked a few questions (mostly what the heck was I doing nosing around in somebody else’s apartment). When I suggested something serious might have happened to him, they suggested I file a missing persons report.

Throughout all this, the zoo guy oohed and ahhed over the snake, Lance kept asking if he could hold it “just for a little while,” Zack cried, and Mommie glared at me as if I was the cause of the whole thing! When it was all over the cops carefully escorted us downstairs.

There ought to have been something in Eddie’s apartment that would give me a clue to his personality. More than a snake and a beautiful woman had, that is. They might be clues, but I hadn’t the foggiest idea what they meant.

Zack waved his arms and cooed. Lance asked if we could go find another snake. Mommie was the only one who didn’t look all that pleased to see me. “What do you want now? Didn’t you cause enough trouble yesterday?”

“We still don’t know what’s happened to Eddie,” I explained. “He could be sick or dying somewhere,” I pointed out. “It’s up to us. The police aren’t going to do anything,” I intimated. In between all of these she argued back. I won out in the end, and the four of us set off once more for 3B.

Without the snake there wasn’t a lot to see. With the exception of his wallet and car keys we found nothing of a personal nature. I wasn’t sure which bothered me more. Not many people go for two years without leaving their mark on their surroundings somehow, and very few men go out without their wallets.

It was old, the leather falling apart. Inside there were no pictures, no business cards, no credit cards, fifty-seven dollars in bills, and a driver’s license. That was it. This guy traveled light.

“He always paid his rent on time,” the manager said, beginning to share my concern.

“Can you remember what bank the checks were on?”

“He didn’t use checks. He always paid cash.”

We stared around at the empty living room. The cardboard box still sat on the table.

“Did you see the UPS man when he delivered this?”

She thought about it. “I don’t remember seeing him,” she finally admitted.

Before I left we checked the parking area. Eddie’s car, a battered old Ford sedan, sat in its stall, patiently waiting for someone to drive it or junk it.

I drove downtown to the main UPS office. Using a cover story that I had sent a package to Mr. Dunne and wanted to make sure it was delivered, I was shuffled along to four different individuals, who each took the time to explain that I should have asked for verification at the time I sent the package before sending me to someone else.

The last woman sensed my desperation — or else was that rare thing, a truly helpful person — and told me I could speak to Jim when he came in, since that was his route.

“West 135th? Eddie Dunne. A heavy box? Yeah, I delivered it,” Jim assured me when he arrived an hour later.

“You handed it to the guy?”

“Yeah, sure. He didn’t have to sign or nothin’. If you’d wanted him to sign for it, you shoulda...”

“Yes, I know. What did the guy look like?”

“Just an average guy.”

“I mean, did he look surprised? Happy? Nervous?”

“Wet. He looked wet, like he just got outa the shower. His hair was still dripping, and all he had on was a pair of jeans.”

Leaving his wallet on the dresser, I thought. And his car keys. Then he would take the box in to the table and open it. If he was as terrified of snakes as he’d told me, he could have rushed outside, discovered he couldn’t drive anywhere... and then what?

I thanked Jim for his information and left.

Homer’s Place had a smattering of people murmuring to themselves and each other over their drinks when I arrived at eight thirty and joined Homer in the back booth.

“She ain’t come in yet,” he announced. “I been watching.”

“You or Blaine don’t remember anything more about her?”

“She’s a stunner. What else you gonna remember besides that?”

I gave him a withering glance.

“What did you come up with?” he said in an effort to pitch the ball into my court.

I was ready. “Eddie suffered from ophidiophobia...”

“Huh?”

“Fear of snakes.” I wasn’t about to tell Homer I’d looked the information up this afternoon. Who knows? I might be able to use it in a book sometime. “Where’s my beer?”

Homer hollered at Blaine. Blaine delivered my brew and departed. I took a big sip and related the rest of what I’d learned during the day.

“So you’re saying Eddie was so scared of snakes he took one look and split? No shoes, no wallet, no nothing? I mean, hell, everybody’s afraid of snakes.”

“Not everybody, Homer. And even those who aren’t crazy about them — like you and me — aren’t necessarily traumatized by them. But I think Eddie is. Like people who are terrified of flying.”

Homer mulled it over. “So where do you think he is?”

“He didn’t mention any friends, any family?”

Homer shook his head. “Nothin’. I been thinking and thinking, but I tell you I don’t know nothin’ about this guy. Except he was a good bartender.”

We drank to that, silently.

“I figure tomorrow I’ll start checking around at local hospitals, missing persons, that sort of thing.” I didn’t say the morgue. I didn’t have to. Homer wasn’t that stupid.

“What’re you gonna do when she comes in?” he asked. He said “she” as it was written in the H. Rider Haggard novel.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“She” came in at ten thirty-seven. This time she wore a vivid print dress with a severe case of static cling until it dropped below her hips, where it fell in perfect drapes that eddied like river currents as she walked. Her heels made tapping sounds that echoed through the silent room. She would have stood out anytime, anywhere. In a neighborhood where baggy pants and earth shoes were the common female garb she could cause dead men to rise again.

When she settled onto her stool, a collective sigh shuddered through the building as every male in the place started to breathe again. Blaine placed a stinger on a fresh coaster in front of her.

Homer shivered. “What’re you gonna do?”

I still didn’t know. But I wasn’t about to admit it. Without answering, I got up and walked over to the bar. She smelled like wild jungle orchids. I’d never smelled wild jungle orchids. Maybe they didn’t smell at all. But that’s what I thought of. I could even feel the heat, the press of lush tropical plants, hear the sound of strange animals padding through the underbrush...

“I understand you’re looking for Eddie.” I handed Blaine a five to pay for her drink.

He glanced from me to her. She lowered long dark lashes and smiled. He took the five and left.

“I’m a friend of his,” I said, straddling the stool beside her. She turned and gazed at my too-long crewcut, down my twice-broken nose, past my blue shirt with some unidentified and unremovable stain outline to my wrinkled Dockers and scuffed deck shoes.

“Really?”

“Maybe not that close a friend. He never told me about you.”

She laughed, a breathy, husky sound. Up close you could tell she wasn’t young — mid-thirties, maybe? — but it didn’t matter. She was in her prime, and she knew it.

“My name’s Max. Max Wilhelm.”

“Miranda,” she said. “So he never told you about me.”

I ordered another beer. Blaine served it, left my change, and returned to the other end of the bar.

“You were going to tell me where I could find Eddie.”

I made circles on the varnished wood with the condensation from my glass. “No. I said I heard you were looking for him.”

“Ah,” she said. “So you did. And so I am.”

I took a shot in the dark. “I assume you’ve gone by his place?”

She gazed back at me and smiled that little smile.

“He wasn’t home?”

She didn’t answer. “Perhaps I could give him a message?”

“You haven’t already told him I was looking for him?”

I wasn’t sure who was winning this little game. I’d thought I was ahead on points, but maybe not.

“Would you like another drink?” I asked.

“No, thank you. I really must be going. Do tell Eddie, when you see him, of course, that I was here, won’t you?”

“You were great, Max,” Homer said when I returned to the back booth. “Great.”

“Great? You mean because I didn’t drool on her? I didn’t find out a thing.”

“You will, Max. You had her eating out of your hand.”

Right.

I started calling the hospitals at eight thirty the next morning. The third one responded positively. After my story of a friend who had disappeared, etcetera, the pleasant female voice said, “Just a moment, sir. I’ll let you speak to Mrs. Sawyer.”

Mrs. Sawyer had a nice, efficient-sounding voice. After I’d given my pitch, she replied, very carefully, “It is possible your friend is here, Mr. Wilhelm. Could you describe him for me?”

“Six foot, dark brown hair, slightly graying, hundred and eighty to two hundred pounds, late thirties, a small scar near his left eye...”

“A man of that description was brought here three days ago. Apparently he ran in front of an oncoming car. The driver said he did his best to swerve, but had no warning. Would you be able to come down and identify your friend for us?”

When I arrived at Mrs. Sawyer’s office, a man in a rumpled corduroy sport coat and khaki pants waited with her.

“This is Detective Johnson,” she said. “Mr. Wilhelm.”

The three of us shook hands. I told them the basic story, that Eddie had not shown up for work, that Homer and I had become concerned, that we had no idea what could have caused him to run directly into traffic. I didn’t mention the woman, or the snake. I figured I’d get around to that later.

After twenty minutes of this, Detective Johnson nodded and Mrs. Sawyer said, “Your friend has two broken ribs, a broken arm, contusions, and a severe concussion. Dr. Troy expects him to return to consciousness within the next twenty-four hours. There is no sign of brain damage.”

They even took me in for a quick look. It’s always tough to recognize people when they’re lying in a hospital bed with bandages and machines and everything, but it was Eddie all right. I said so. Detective Johnson and Mrs. Sawyer nodded as if I had passed some kind of test.

“I’ll let you know when he’s conscious and can receive visitors,” Mrs. Sawyer told me, and that was it. I was dismissed.

I called Homer. He was glad to hear that I’d located his missing bartender (“Dumb thing to do,” he said. “Get yourself hit by a car. He deserved to be fired.”) and wanted to know if I was coming down. I told him no, which panicked him.

“What if she comes in?”

“So? She’s a customer. Serve her.”

“What if she asks about Eddie?”

“You don’t know anything more than you did before.”

“Okay, right. Right.”

He wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t press. I had no idea where she fit into the puzzle and hoped Eddie would supply some answers when he came to.

Which he did about nine thirty that night, according to the nurse on the floor when I’d called for the fifth time. I finally got to see him at ten thirty the next morning. He still looked awful, but at least he was moving.

“Max,” he croaked in greeting. “What’ll you have?”

We had a good laugh over that. At least I grinned a bit and he sort of half chuckled, half coughed, half gasped.

I never know what to say to sick people, so I shoved my vase of flowers onto a bedside table and said, “You look like hell.” With the social amenities out of the way, I went straight to business. “What’s the deal with the snake?”

His eyes got a little shifty.

“Listen, pal. Homer and I’ve been worried sick. I’ve gone to a bit of trouble to find you. Now, we don’t have a lot of time before they throw me out of here, and I need some answers. Who’s Miranda?”

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “You’ve seen her?”

I nodded.

“How does she look?”

“Terrific.”

He nodded. “I knew she would. Does she know I’m here?”

“Not yet. You want to tell me about her?”

He didn’t answer right away. It seemed to take forever, but gradually the story came out. Eddie had been a systems engineer for a large manufacturing company, working on an electronic chip that would translate written material into audio. Miranda had been a secretary for the same company. He was dazzled when she showed interest in him; they began a torrid affair that had him alternately high and low. (I said, “Any woman can do that to you if you let her,” and he said, “Not like Miranda.”) It didn’t seem strange to him when she asked about his work, even though it was secret.

When a competitor came out with the same product two months before his company, suspicions were raised. “It wasn’t as good as ours was,” he said, “but they had it first. And their design was enough like ours to be a twin.”

Eddie was called on the carpet and forced to admit he had discussed the project. He and Miranda were both fired and his reputation was ruined. “I couldn’t get a job anywhere in the industry.”

Still he couldn’t break off his affair with the woman. “I hung around her like a sick pup. Spent all the money I had in reserve — she does love money — and borrowed more. It was like a disease.” Finally, in a frenzy of shame and disgust, he left the city and fled to the West Coast. He changed his name, did a bit of creative lying, and managed to get work as a bartender in a small local bar.

“It took her nearly three years to find me and another six months for me to leave her. She had ideas how we could ‘work together. Make some big bucks.’ ” He turned his head away. “Now she’s found me again.”

“And the snake?”

“She sent it. She knows how terrified I am of them. It’s her idea of fun, keeping me on the roller coaster. It’s always like that with her. Excitement, life on the edge. She thinks ‘routine’ and ‘calm’ are bad words. What’s scary is that when you’re with her you begin thinking that way, too.”

The nurse came along just then, gave us both a lecture for wearing him out, and escorted me from the room. Eddie’s story depressed me. I dropped in at Homer’s Place and took my beer back into Homer’s office.

He listened to the whole thing and tsk-tsked in the right places. “What’re you going to do now?” he asked when I finished.

“How do I know? What do you do with a guy like that? He knew she’s bad news. It doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

“Getting hit by a car didn’t knock it outa him, for gosh sakes?”

I shrugged. Eddie didn’t seem too confident about it. Why should I be? We sat and stared at each other until Homer’s phone buzzed.

“Yeah?” he growled. He listened for a few minutes, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand and stage-whispered, “She’s here. She’s out front asking to see you.”

Before I could think of what to say, the door opened and Miranda the Marvelous came in with a grand entrance that outdid anything Loretta Young might’ve thought of all those years ago. Today she wore purple. Rich, regal, elegant purple.

“Gentlemen,” she said in that husky voice.

We sat and stared.

“You can hang up the phone, Mr. Quigley,” she said to Homer. All these years and I’d had no idea what his last name was. He hung up like a good little boy.

She turned to me. “I understand you’ve located Jim.” She waited until I figured out she was talking about Eddie before continuing. “I’d really like to see him. Would you take me there?”

“You obviously know where he is. You don’t need me.” I decided I sounded pretty good. Tough yet nonchalant. “What did you do, follow me?”

She smiled. Her lips were perfectly shaped. I imagined what it must be like to kiss them...

“Hospital regulations can be so silly.” She smiled, waiting for my decision.

Homer leaned back in his chair as if he’d been hit by an ice storm and was frozen in that position forever.

What’s a guy to do? You can’t protect people from themselves. If Eddie was going to fall into her grasp again, the only thing I could achieve would be to delay the inevitable.

The hell with it. “Okay by me,” I said.

Homer still hadn’t thawed. Miranda smiled and waited for me to open the door for her.

I did at least try to have her wait in the hall while I went in and spoke to Eddie first.

“Darling, I’ve known him far longer than you have. I don’t need you to announce my arrival.”

No. Only to get her past the nurse’s station. Which I’d done. She smiled that glorious smile — triumph now adding to its glow — and breezed through the door as I opened it.

“Jimmie, sweetheart, you poor thing. You look terrible.” She flowed across the room and leaned over to kiss him.

Wild jungle orchids mingled with hospital smells and made my teeth clench. Eddie looked — sick? Stunned? Transfixed? I couldn’t decide. Miranda continued to coo over him.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’m here now, and I’ll take care of everything. It’ll be all right. Your Miranda’s here.”

Eddie’s eyes shifted to me. I shrugged helplessly. Miranda continued to chatter.

That’s when I got the idea. From her. The minute she paused, I opened my mouth and let the words fall out of it.

“Hey, man, when do you think you’re gonna get out of here? We miss you down at Homer’s. He’s got a kid there, name of Blaine, can you believe it? Anyway, this kid is pulling your shift while you’re gone, and he’s awful. Homer needs you back, man. I need you back. Say, did you hear about the game the other night? L.A. was ahead by one point, there was only twenty-eight seconds left...”

I have no idea what dribbled off my lips after that. Miranda turned and glared, and I just kept on talking. She began stroking his face and arms and murmuring softly, and I just kept on talking.

When the nurse came in, she startled all three of us.

“What do you think you’re doing? Young woman, get off that bed. You,” she snapped at me, “stop yelling. I have to give this man a shot. You can both wait outside. I’ll let you know when, and if, you can return.”

I shut up and headed for the door. To my amazement, even Miranda obeyed without demur. We walked down the hall to the waiting area silently. Miranda took a chair on the far side and refused to look at me. I slouched against the opposite wall and tried not to pout.

Ten minutes went by before the nurse appeared. “Mr. Dunne would like for you to come in,” she said.

I straightened up. Miranda rose elegantly.

The nurse turned to her. “He wants to see the gentleman alone.”

I was careful to keep the grin off my face until I was headed down the hall the other way.

“Yeah, Eddie?” I said as I approached his bed.

“Do you really think Homer’d have me back?” he croaked.

“Are you kidding? In a hot flash.”

He closed his eyes.

“I kinda miss ole Homer,” he whispered. “It’s not a bad place to work, you know?” He paused. “Routine. Calm. It’s calm.”

“Ruts are nice,” I said.