Hot Ticket by Janice Weber Read Free Book Online Page B

Fausto stared at my mouth, at the
     dark mole above my lip, with a lascivious disinterest that made my stomach ache. “As long as you’re coming back,” he said,
     fishing in a sideboard drawer, “take that red car outside. My knees can’t cope with stick shifts anymore.”
    He pointed to a Corvette ZR1. Six speeds driving four hundred horsepower, happiest around two miles per minute. A cannonball
     with steering wheel: my right foot began to get an erection. “That’s very kind.”
    “The thin one is the house key. My home is yours. I promise you will never be bored here.” Fausto wrapped my fingers around
     metal just as Senator Perle strode into the hallway. “Run along now. I’ll take care of her.” I slipped away as his robe billowed
     in her direction.
    * * *
    Drove the Corvette to Brandon’s Blossoms, a designer hothouse in Foggy Bottom. Inside, the slightly sour odor of carnations
     triggered memories of my dead mother. I had been a youngster when she died. Acres of these tight, frilly blooms had surrounded
     her casket; ever since, I had hated them. In the refrigerator, dainty nosegays awaited quivering nostrils. Nearby, a man stood
     wrapping a huge arrangement in cellophane. “I go all out for funeral sprays, even if they end up at the crematorium,” he confided.
     “How can I help you, sweetheart?”
    “Are you the famous Brandon?” Affirmative. “I received a gorgeous bouquet from here the other day. Thank you.”
    “Thank
you!
So few people show an
iota
of appreciation!”
    “Deep purple orchids. I’d like to return the compliment but I don’t know who sent them. Do you remember anything about this?”
    He fussed with a big bow before finally peering at the card in my hand.
A cliff-hanging performance.
“I could look it up,” Brandon said hesitantly, beginning to cough. “Deliver the flowers today.”
    “I would prefer to deliver them myself.”
    “No! No! Never! That would be violating a customer’s confidence!”
    “Could you give me a few hints, then? My curiosity is killing me.” I placed a C note on the counter. “Boy or girl?”
    “It—it’s—” Brandon threw the money back at me. “Please! I can’t tell you! It’s a matter of national security!”
    “In that case”—I sighed, tucking the bill into his apron— “please tell my admirer not to be so shy next time.”
    Brandon could only wheeze in fright. I left the shop, holding my breath as I passed the carnations. Whoever sent those orchids
     had made quite an impression on the florist. A matter of national security? Get serious. More likely the client had threatened
     to break Brandon’s neck if he didn’t keep his mouth shut. I plopped into the Corvette and roared through Georgetown. M Street
     writhed with students, tourists, panhandlers, and, occasionally, exquisite women. Everywhere, guts and butts: two across blocked
     the entire sidewalk. This was a nation of hogs, and the situation wasn’t much better in the street. Confused by the dead ends
     and one-ways preventing their escape from the main drag, drivers crawled along, braking timidly at each intersection. Why
     was Georgetown a tourist attraction? M Street was nothing but a strip mall minus the mall. The constant stop-go didn’t suit
     the Corvette. It was edging toward meltdown when I finally noticed that an old gray Chevy had been behind me for too long.
     Driver wore sunglasses opaque as my own, white baseball cap. Dressed like an aimless slob but he didn’t tailgate like one.
     The shape of his face, his nose, looked familiar, but he was out of context. As I was taking another look, he suddenly grinned
     and cut away.
    Coincidence, Smith.
Unconvinced, I took the Corvette for a spin along the canal road into Maryland. The Chevy might be gone but Fausto’s shadow
     remained. I wondered if he always conducted such intimate conversations with strangers or if I were a special case. Either
     way, aggravating. Although I hadn’t told him anything,