Intuition advised Joe to guard his own name. “Wally Blick.”
“Excuse me. Who?”
“Wallace Blick.”
The man at the other end of the line was silent. Then: “What is this in regard to?” His voice had barely changed, but a new alertness coloured it, a shade of wariness.
Sensing that he had been too clever for his own good, Joe put down the phone.
He blotted his palms on his jeans again.
A reporter, passing behind Joe, reviewing the scribblings on a note pad as he went, greeted him without looking up: “Yo, Randy.”
Consulting the typewritten message from Rose, Joe called the Los Angeles number that she had provided.
On the fifth ring, a woman answered. “Hello?”
“Could I speak to Rose Tucker, please?”
“Nobody here by that name,” she said in an accent out of the deep South. “You got yourself a wrong number.”
In spite of what she’d said, she didn’t hang up.
“She gave me this number herself,” Joe persisted.
“Sugar, let me guess—this was a lady you met at a party. She was just makin’ nice to get you out of her hair.”
“I don’t think she’d do that.”
“Oh, don’t mean you’re ugly, honey,” she said in a voice that brought to mind magnolia blossoms and mint juleps and humid nights heavy with the scent of jasmine. “Just means you weren’t the lady’s type. Happens to the best.”
“My name’s Joe Carpenter.”
“Nice name. Good solid name.”
“What’s your name?”
Teasingly, she said, “What kind of name do I sound like?”
“Sound like?”
“Maybe an Octavia or a Juliette?”
“More like a Demi.”
“Like in Demi Moore the movie star?” she said disbelievingly.
“You have that sexy, smoky quality in your voice.”
“Honey, my voice is pure grits and collard greens.”
“Under the grits and collard greens, there’s smoke.”
She had a wonderful fulsome laugh. “Mister Joe Carpenter, middle name ‘Slick.’ Okay, I like Demi.”
“Listen, Demi, I’d sure like to talk to Rose.”
“Forget this old Rose person. Don’t you pine away for her, Joe, not after she gives you a fake number. Big sea, lots of fish.”
Joe was certain that this woman knew Rose and that she had been expecting him to call. Considering the viciousness of the enemies pursuing the enigmatic Dr. Tucker, however, Demi’s circumspection was understandable.
She said, “What do you look like when you’re bein’ honest with yourself, Sugar?”
“Six foot tall, brown hair, grey eyes.”
“Handsome?”
“Just presentable.”
“How old are you, Presentable Joe?”
“Older than you. Thirty-seven.”
“You have a sweet voice. You ever go on blind dates?”
Demi was going to set up a meeting after all.
He said, “Blind dates? Nothing against them.”
“So how about with sexy-smoky little me,” she suggested with a laugh.
“Sure. When?”
“You free tomorrow evenin’?”
“I was hoping sooner.”
“Don’t be so eager, Presentable Joe. Takes time to set these things up right, so there’s a chance it’ll work, so no one gets hurt, so there’s no broken hearts.”
By Joe’s interpretation, Demi was telling him that she was going to make damned sure the meeting was put together carefully, that the site needed to be scouted and secured in order for Rose’s safety to be guaranteed. And maybe she couldn’t get in touch with Rose with less than a twenty-four-hour notice.
“Besides, Sugar, a girl starts to wonder why you’re so pitiful desperate if you’re really presentable.”
“All right. Where tomorrow evening?”
“I’m goin’ to give you the address of a gourmet coffee shop in Westwood. We’ll meet out front at six, go in and have a cup, see do we like each other. If I think you really are presentable and you think I’m as sexy-smoky as my voice… why, then it could be a shinin’ night of golden memories. You have a pen and paper?”
“Yes,” he said, and he wrote down the name and address of the coffee shop as she gave it to him.
“Now do me one favour, sugar. You have a paper there with this phone number on. Tear it to bitty pieces and flush it down a john.” When Joe hesitated, Demi said, “Won’t be no good ever again, anyway,” and she hung up.