“No,” she said, “I never did. Actually, Ralph had hinted that you might be able to convince the Belltown Terrace syndicate to donate the Bentley to the Rep. We’re trying something new this year, an auction. That Bentley would make a terrific auction item. I wouldn’t be calling on a Sunday morning, but tomorrow’s our deadline.”
“Give me your number,” I told her. “I’ll have to get back to you on this.”
I cut short the conversation with Big Al and went looking for Ralph Ames, who had disappeared into the kitchen, where he was totally involved in starting a new pot of coffee.
“All right, Ralph,” I said. “Tell me about Alexis Downey. We both know that if the Belltown Terrace Syndicate needs to be talked into making a charitable donation, Ralph Ames is a whole lot more qualified to do the talking than I am.”
For the first time in all the years I’d known him, Ralph Ames looked guilty as hell. And he couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, either. That hardly ever happens either.
“All right, Ralph. Out with it. Tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“She’s a nice lady,” he said lamely.
“So?”
“I thought maybe, if I set it up, the two of you would hit it off.”
“So this was all a plot to fix me up?”
Ralph sighed. “I keep telling you, Beau. It’s time you got over Anne Corley and went on with your life.”
Naturally, my first reaction was an overreaction. “Here’s her number,” I said, handing him the scrap of paper on which I’d scribbled Alexis Downey’s number. “You call her back and tell her she can have the car or not, I don’t care which, but leave me out of it.”
The next morning, Knuckles Russell returned to Ellensburg and Ralph Ames went back to Phoenix. On Tuesday Ezra called to say that with Ben Weston dead, the bank wanted him to rewrite his student loan and the other three as well. Which is how it happens that I am now the proud cosigner on four separate student loans. I told Ralph I consider it an investment in this country’s future. So far they’re all getting good grades.
While I was busy having fun, I called to find out about the Teddy Bear Patrol’s annual kick-off fund-raiser. They assured me my name will be on the invitation list. I don’t know how many teddy bears ten thousand bucks will buy, but it should be fun to find out.
Then, a week or so ago, right after Big Al came back to work on a part-time basis, the phone rang in our cubicle at work on a rare sunny Monday morning.
“I’d like you to be my guest at the Rep auction,” Alexis Downey’s unfamiliar voice said. “I’m sure the Bentley will go for a ton of money and I’d like you to be there to see it.”
I tried to stammer my way out of it, but Alexis wasn’t taking no for an answer. Finally, reluctantly, I agreed.
“At the white elephant sale last year I bought an old picnic basket,” she continued. “I was wondering if you’d like to help me break it in? I do great picnics.”
It sounded to me as though Alexis Downey should have been in sales. Come to think of it, she is in sales. Before I told her good-bye we had a date for the following Saturday afternoon.
“Who was that?” Big Al asked when I finally put down the phone.
“Trouble, I think,” I told him.
“Not bad trouble, I hope,” he said.
“No, good trouble.”
I went on the picnic with Alex Downey and it rained like hell, but we had a good time. We didn’t walk far, because my feet were killing me that day, but she’s a fun, interesting lady. For a few hours I was able to forget all about the Seattle Homicide Squad, and that’s good for me. Now, I’m even looking forward to the auction. I may rent a tux.
According to Ralph Ames, having fun is something I need to do more often. Maybe I’ll fire up the fax and tell him thanks.
