Everybody Loves Evie by Beth Ciotta Read Free Book Online Page B

the label said nothing about monsoons. Then again, maybe Beckett was in the secret office, waiting.
    I stifled a sneeze and squinted at the bar on the opposite wall. A dark-skinned elderly man wearing a white shirt, black vest, skinny tie and a porkpie hat stood behind it, polishing glasses while talking with a couple of early-bird patrons. Probably he knew where Beckett was. Definitely he could point me to the ladies’ room. Even though I looked like a drenched ragamuffin, I approached with the confidence of a pageant queen. He saw me coming and moved away from his patrons, nabbing a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey along the way.
    â€œTwinkie?” he said when I reached the bar.
    I’d know that deep voice anywhere. “Samuel Vine.”
    â€œThey call me Pops.”
    I grasped the warm palm he offered and shook. “They call me Evie.”
    I’m thinking he got the hint that I wasn’t keen on the cream-puff nickname. He grinned, a flash of crooked white teeth. “Welcome.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He poured a shot of whiskey. “For the chill.”
    I patted my face dry with a cocktail napkin and tucked my drenched hair behind my ears. The black scrunchie ponytail holder was out there somewhere, blowing in the wind. “No, thank you. Too early for me.”
    â€œSoaked like that, you’re primed to catch cold. Already sounds like one settled in your throat.”
    â€œI’m fine. Just…wet.”
    He nudged the glass closer.
    It felt rude to refuse his hospitality. Plus, he was an elder, late sixties at least. Snubbing his kindness didn’t sit right with me. Call me old-fashioned. I resisted the urge to hold my nose but held my breath and threw back the whiskey in one shot, determined not to taste it.
    I choked and coughed while it burned my throat and singed my stomach. In between the hacking, I managed to thank Pops.
    He stroked his wiry silver moustache, a polite but poor attempt to hide a smile. “You okay?”
    â€œFine.” I wiped tears from my eyes, brightened when I noticed no black smudges on my fingers. Tear- and monsoon-proof. Points for Maybelline. “If you could just direct me to Mr. Beckett…”
    â€œHe isn’t available.”
    â€œWe have an appointment.”
    â€œHe had a conflict. He asked me to get you started. He’ll be down later.”
    So the offices were upstairs.
    Pops waved over one of the barflies, an Antonio Banderas look-alike sporting a slicked-back ponytail and a thousand-watt smile. “This is Tabasco. He’ll be accompanying you.”
    â€œAccompanying me where?”
    On the flight home from the islands, Beckett had mentioned key members of Chameleon, describing Jimmy Tabasco as a transportation specialist, so I was surprised when Zorro dude grinned and replied, “On the guitar.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œI’m not a professional like you, but I have a good ear and can read chord charts.”
    â€œWe don’t have a stage,” Pops said. “But we made space over there beside the jukebox. Tabasco appropriated a small speaker system and a microphone.”
    Appropriated?
    â€œI set up a Shure 58 for you, hon, but if you prefer to use your own mic—”
    â€œEvie,” I said. What was it with these guys and sweetie-pie nicknames? “And I’m sorry, but…why do I need a microphone?”
    â€œYou want to sing acoustically?” He scratched his jaw, shrugged. “Twinkie and Tabasco Unplugged. Works for me. How about you Pops?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œNot fine,” I croaked, a hint of hysteria in my voice. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Beckett didn’t hire me to sing.”
    â€œHe did,” Pops said. “Wednesdays through Sundays.”
    â€œThat gives us two days to rehearse,” Tabasco said. “Although maybe we should skip today. You don’t sound so good.”
    â€œI’m fine.”