The Chosen

She scurried up the stairs as fast as her bare feet would carry her. Down the hall. To her bedroom.

Where the fantasy of The Hands awaited her.

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER EIGHTEEN}

Ah, Christ, Paul thought. What’s her name?

The hostess looked up, lissome and trim in the tight pink-sequined dress. Paul knew he’d met her—he’d met all of Vera’s friends and employees at one time—but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. Cement-head!

“Hi, you may remember me. I’m—”

Her expression hardened very quickly, the pretty face going cold. “Paul,” she acknowledged. “I know you.”

The look said it all. My name’s not Paul, Paul realized. It’s mud.

“You don’t have a reservation,” the hostess curtly pointed out. “So why don’t you just leave?”

“Look,” Paul said, and stepped forward. “I need help.”

“You sure do. You need to have your head examined. How could you do something like that to Vera?”

“I—” But what could he say? Should he lie? Deny it? That would be useless. Women could always tell when a guy was lying about something like that. “There are always things you don’t understand,” he said instead. “I just want to know where she is. Please, give me her address, her new number, anything.”

“I hope you’re happy. Vera’s a great girl, and you really hurt her. And this restaurant’s gone downhill since she left. Last week two waitresses were laid off, and I’m getting my hours cut back. Thanks. Now why don’t you get out of here before I call the police.”

Paul felt forged in flint. He groped for something to say. “It’s a misunderstanding. I just need to talk to her, to clear things up. Look—” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a one hundred dollar bill. “I’ll pay you to tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” the hostess said.

“All right, then. Tell me who does.”

She contemplated this, her big bright blue eyes fluttering. She picked up the phone, turned her back to him, and began whispering. Paul couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Then she hung up, refaced him, and snapped the bill out of his hand.

Money always talks, Paul thought, relieved. Women are so corruptible.

“Go back into the kitchen,” she said, not even looking at him. “Ask for Georgie. He’ll tell you where Vera is.”

“Thank you,” Paul said.

“And don’t ever come back here again.”

Don’t worry, I won’t. Paul skirted the reservation desk. A quick glance at the book showed him it was barely a third full. Then another glance around the subdued dining room showed only a trickle of the turnout The Emerald Room was used to. Had Vera’s mystic departure crimped business this bad?

He pushed through the swingdoors to the kitchen, into blazing fluorescent light. Dead