she’s going to open her set with a tribute to her. Some audience members appear less annoyed at the intrusion than I am, and applaud politely. She asks someone named Claude to cue her music. He does, and she starts singing. I bet the audience wishes they could get a refund on their previous applause. While Karen Carpenter’s velvety voice speaks to my heart, this bleached bimbo’s over-the-top karaoke impersonation makes my teeth itch.
Willow notices the look on my face.
“Which do you hate, the song or the singer?”
I point at the stage slut, who notices me and reacts as if I just volunteered to be her shill.
She tells Claude to stop the music and says, “Well, hello, handsome!”
I look around to see if she might be speaking to someone behind me.
She’s not.
She walks over to Willow and says, “Please dear, introduce me to your father.”
The crowd cracks up.
“He’s not my father,” Willow says, “He’s my boyfriend.”
“ Really? What a shock!” the lady says, and the audience laughs again.
She sticks the mike in my face and says, “Aren’t you afraid she’ll give you a heart attack?”
“Fuck off,” I say, before realizing everyone in the place can hear me.
She says, “Ooh, I love it when cute guys talk dirty to me! How about a kiss, doll?”
“How about I rip your lips off?”
“OOH!” she says. “Daddy likes it rough, does he?”
Willow gives me an urgent look and whispers, “Please. Play nice!”
To the audience, the singer says, “Hey everyone, did you hear? Daddy likes rough sex!” They reward her with a smattering of nervous laughter.
“Do you like Karen, sweetie?” she says.
I look at Willow, who’s trying not to look embarrassed. I nod. I’ll play nice.
“Karen Carpenter?” I say. “Absolutely.”
“Quick,” she says. “Favorite Carpenter song!”
“Rainy Days and Mondays.”
She sings, “Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.” Then says, “You like that, sugar?”
“Not anymore.”
This time the audience laughs for me.
“You know what I like?” she says.
“Apart from annoying me?”
More laughter
She laughs. “Funny and cute! Girls, hands off this one. He’s mine!” She looks at Willow and says, “After you max out his credit cards, of course.”
The crowd murmurs their disapproval of her picking on Willow.
Undaunted, she says, “My favorite is Close to You. Am I right everyone? Who doesn’t like Close to You?”
“Me,” I say.
“What? Daddy doesn’t like Close to You?”
“That’s right.”
She shows me her shocked expression and I suddenly realize this isn’t just a Karen Carpenter impersonator, she’s a female impersonator! She says, “ Close to You? Are you kidding me? Burt Bacharach? Hal David? Be careful, doll, those are local boys.”
“The song makes no sense,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Birds suddenly appear every time you are near.”
“It’s romantic,” she says.
“It’s insane. Would you want to date someone who, every time he approaches, is surrounded by a flock of birds?”
Audience laughter.
“Just like me,” she sings, “they long to be…close to you!”
The audience laughs louder. A number of diners clap their hands, enjoying the show, convinced I’ve been planted to enhance the show.
“See? It’s romantic,” she says.
She puts the mike in my face and I say, “What about the stars falling from the sky every time you walk by? That’d be pretty damn dangerous, don’t you think?”
The audience laughs.
She frowns, thinking about it, then looks at Willow and says, “You can keep him, sweetie, he’s a jerk!”
She abruptly turns and walks back to the stage to continue her set.
I lean over to Willow and say, “That’s a man!”
“Ya think?” she says, sarcastically. “What tipped you off? His Adam’s apple, his voice, or his hard-on?”
“He had a hard-on?”
She sighs. “So much for not calling attention to us.”
“Sorry.”
46
The singer finishes her set, the lights come back on, we order soft drinks and drink them, then order our dinners and eat them.
“Can I ask you a question?” Willow says.
“Please do.”
“What did you do with the garage door opener?”
“Cleaned it, stepped on it, threw it in the trash. Why?”
“If I had blackmailed you, how much would you have paid?”
“Seriously?”
“Uh huh.”
“A quarter million.”
“You answered quickly.”
“That’s my number.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I used to gamble to relieve stress I’d play till I won or lost two-fifty. That’s my threshold. If you had blackmailed me and asked for anything above that, I’d take my chances with the police.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“I’ll probably spend that much on your cancer treatment anyway,” I say.
She laughs. “You’re a good sport, Gideon.”
“You too,” I say, and mean it.
Willow says, “You keep looking at your phone.”
“I’m sorry. That’s rude.”
“You should check your messages. I know you’re worried about the little girl.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods.
“Thanks.”
I power up my phone and check for new text messages.
And see this:
REMEMBER WHAT I SAID ABOUT BEST FRIENDS? THE NURSE CAME THROUGH! MEDICAL RECORDS SHOW CAMERON WAS DYING OF HODGKIN’S DISEASE, NOT WILLOW!
