The Midnight Tour

She grabbed the shorts, hopped into them, pulled them up, and fastened them. The moment her belt was buckled, she snatched her shirt off the bed and raced down the hall. As she hurried along, she worked her arms into the sleeves. When she reached the door, she turned her back to it and scanned the room while she fastened her shirt buttons.

Except for the rumpled old towel on the sofa, there was no evidence of the baby.

There was evidence of Sandy’s father, though: an ashtray on the lamp table; an open pack of Camel cigarettes; copies of Field and Stream magazine, The American Rifleman and Hustler scattered about; and a nearly full bottle of Jim Beam bourbon on the kitchen counter. They were all positioned in plain sight.

Sandy fastened her last button, then tossed the towel behind the sofa.

She scanned the area once more.

That’ll do it.

She went to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Marlon Slade started to enter. She blocked his way. “That’ll be five hundred bucks,” she said, putting out her hand.

“Ah, yes. It nearly slipped my mind.” Smiling but looking miffed, he dug into the back pocket of his slacks. They were the same tan color as Sandy’s uniform, and their legs were tucked into the tops of black leather riding boots. Marlon’s shirt was black silk. Around his neck, he wore a green ascot. Sandy supposed he was trying to look the way he thought a film director ought to look.

To her, he seemed like a pudgy kid playing dress-up.

He brought out his wallet and opened it. The bill compartment was fat with money.

“You’re loaded,” Sandy said.

“I’ll be considerably less loaded after I’ve paid the extortion.”

“It was your idea,” she reminded him.

He counted out hundreds and fifties into her waiting hand.

When she had the promised amount, she said, “Thank you,” and stepped away from the door. Marlon entered. He shut the door.

Sandy folded the money. As she stuffed it into a pocket of her shorts, she saw that she’d buttoned her shirt crooked.

She met Marlon’s eyes. He’d noticed, too.

“I had to put it on in a hurry,” she muttered, blushing.

He grinned. “Sorry if I came at a bad time.”

“It’s all right.” She almost told him that she’d just finished taking a shower. But she stopped herself in time. Better to leave him wondering than to get caught in a lie.

“Could I get you a drink?” she asked.

“That would be spiffy.”

Spiffy?

“My dad drinks bourbon,” she said, and nodded toward the botde.

“Perfect. I’ll have mine straight up.” He eased himself down on the sofa.

On her way to the counter, Sandy smiled over her shoulder and asked, “Are you old enough to drink? I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”

He chortled. “I’m older than I look.”

“That’s good, because you look like you’re ten.”

“Aren’t we amusing?”

“Yep.” She took down a jelly glass and poured bourbon into it. Then she picked up the glass and started toward him.

“Won’t you be joining me?” he asked.

“I’m a minor.”

“At the very least. How old are you?”

“A lady never tells her age.”

“Fourteen, fifteen?”

“I’m older than I look.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure is.”

“I’m twenty-four,” Marlon said.

“Congratulations.”

“And how old are you?”

“None of your business.” She handed the glass to him, then stepped back, crossed her arms and shifted her weight so she was standing mainly on her left leg with her hip shoved out.

Marlon took a sip of his drink, then sighed and said, “Sit down. Please.” He patted the sofa cushion beside him.

“I’m okay right here.”

“Suit yourself.”

“How did you find my place?” she asked.

His eyes dipped, sneaking a look at her chest, then hurried up to her face. “Agnes Kutch gave me directions,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“Of course.”

“She wouldn’t do that. She doesn’t tell anyone.”

“She told me.”

“No, she didn’t. And nobody else knows where I live. What did you do, follow me?”

“Of course not. I was otherwise occupied at the time you ran off.”

She scowled at him. “You had someone else follow me?”

He tried to look innocent, but the answer showed on his face.

“Well,” Sandy said, “that stinks.”

“I needed to know where to find you.”

“Who did you sic on me?”

“One of my assistants.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It sure does! He’ll blab it around and pretty soon everybody will be coming up here.”

“She won’t blab. I promise you that. You have my word of honor.”

“Oh, well...Your word of honor. Whoop-de-doo.”

“My word is gold.”

“Sure.” Keeping her arms crossed, she shifted her weight to her other foot. “This is just dandy. Just peachy.”

“I want you in my film, Margaret.”

“I already turned you down. Didn’t you believe me? You had to send a spy after me?”

“I want you as my Janice.”

“What?”

“I want you to play Janice Crogan.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I never kid about such things.”

“I thought you wanted me as a...an extra, or something.”