Laura Lippman - Baltimore Blues

Still, he was uncomfortable. She knew Rock would have trouble doing nothing. This was the riskiest part of her plan-trying to keep Rock from confronting Ava until tomorrow night.

She took his left hand in both of hers. The palm thick with calluses. A rower's hand. It was like holding a huge Brillo pad.

"Trust me," she said, knowing she no longer deserved his trust. "Give it a week. If she hasn't come to you by then and told you everything, we'll go to Plan B."

"Plan B?"

"An intervention, like they do for addicts. But give it a week. Promise?"

"Well, if Dr. Hauer thinks this is the right thing… I won't say anything to her, not for a week. You have my word."

And his word, Tess knew, was actually worth something. It was as good as the check he pressed in her hand, made out for $1,080. Her first one-act play had gone off without a hitch. Now all she had to do was mount and produce the second one. Sequels were always tricky.

Tess hadn't been to The Point for months, a fact Spike lost no time reminding her of.

"Hey, Tesser, you finally come to see your old Uncle Spike? You still like mozzarella sticks? I tell you what. For you I'll have Tommy change the oil. And a Rolling Rock, right? In a bottle, no glass. See, I remember, even if you don't come see me so often."

"You've got a great memory, Uncle Spike. Who do you get that from?"

"I got nothing from nobody, Tesser. You know that." He turned up the sound on the Orioles game, then disappeared into the kitchen to personally supervise her mozzarella sticks.

Spike was a relative, but no one was sure whose, for neither side of the family would claim him. Tess's father always insisted he was a cousin from some weak branch of the Weinstein family tree. Her mother maintained she had never met him until marrying into the Monaghan clan. Spike himself was closemouthed about the connection, though his looks favored Momma Weinstein's springer spaniels. Pale, with an astonishing array of liver spots, Spike was notable primarily for his bald head, which came to a point. Hence the name of his tavern, decorated throughout with silhouettes of his bald head, cut from black construction paper by the dishwasher.

Tess adored him and his bar. When she was fifteen he had given her an open invitation to The Point, telling her it was important to learn to drink among people one could trust.

"You miscalculate here, the worst that happens maybe you wake up on my sofa, some crumbs on you," Spike said. "You drink too much out there-" He pointed with his chin to the world beyond Franklintown Road and didn't bother to explain what could happen to a drunk teenager out there. Accidents, vehicular and sexual.

Spike's plan, while unorthodox, worked well. By the time Tess went off to Washington College, she knew exactly how much she could drink. It was a prodigious amount. Her dates were far more likely to pass out than she. On occasion a few did. A lady, she never took advantage of them.

Tonight she had chosen Spike's Place because she hoped it would throw Ava off balance. She was ready for a second Rolling Rock before Ava arrived, ten minutes late and unapologetically so. She stalked in, wearing a white unitard, a turquoise thong, suede boots, and a leather jacket. Her black hair was pinned up on top of her head in a geyserlike ponytail. It was quite unlike anything ever seen at The Point. One of the older men fell off his bar stool as Ava walked by.

"Don't get too full of yourself," Tess told her, looking at George on the floor. "He does that all the time."

"I know you," Ava said, but her look told Tess she couldn't place her. They had met only a few times. Rock's life was neatly compartmentalized, and Ava had shown little interest in rowing, which only happened to be his reason for existence.

"Maybe you think you know me because I've been watching you for so long. You've probably seen me several times, yet it never registered until now. I've noticed you don't really pay much attention to the world around you."

Ava slid into the booth, arranging herself so only a tiny strip of her tiny behind made contact with the smeared and cracked vinyl. She glanced at a menu, shuddered slightly, then put it aside. Tess had planned to recommend the veal chop, eager to watch her try to cut the rubbery meat. She also hoped she would order a Chardonnay. The white wine at The Point tasted like vinegar, bad vinegar at that.

But Ava had an innate sense for the right thing, even in the wrong place. She ordered-never had the word seemed quite so apt to Tess-a Black Label draft, helped herself to one of the mozzarella sticks on Tess's plate, then sat back and raised an eyebrow. Your move , the eyebrow said.

Fine , Tess thought, I don't have time for this either .

"I have information you're having an affair with Michael Abramowitz."

Ava looked puzzled, but only for a second. Then she gave Tess one of her full-force smiles. "Information? Possibly. But do you have proof?"

"Of course."

"Really? I'd love to see it, or hear it. I hope I came out nicely in the photographs." She took a dainty sip of beer.

"My proof is for my client. I am interested, however, in any explanation you might want to offer."

Ava ate another mozzarella stick, very slowly. She appeared to be considering something, and she didn't speak again until she had swallowed the last bite of fried cheese, then patted her lips dry with a paper napkin.

"You know, I thought I knew who you were working for when you called, but the person I was thinking of would have hired someone good, someone who knew how to do things-assuming there was anything to do. So who are you working for?"

"Whom. Whom am I working for."

"Whatever. Whomever ."

"Why don't you tell me who you thought my client was, and I'll tell you if you're right."

"I'm not convinced you work for anyone. You're probably just a grubby little blackmailer, out for yourself."

"I work for Darryl Paxton. Your fiancé, I believe. Or thinks he is."

"Well, I like that," Ava said. "I thought engaged people were supposed to trust each other." She seemed offended but also a little relieved. Who was her original suspect? Tess wondered. Abramowitz, famous for his monastic devotion to his career, had been single all his life. He had no wife to check on him.

"Does a woman deserve her fiancé's trust if she's having an affair?"

"Do I deserve to endure this conversation when you don't have any proof?"

"I said I did. I've been following you. I saw you in the Renaissance Harborplace with him. I saw you at the Gallery. Do you steal the underwear to wear for your boss? Or is that an unrelated hobby?"

This was more unnerving, Tess could tell. Cheating on your fiancé was one thing, but it didn't keep one from being admitted to the bar. When Ava looked up, her eyes were filled with tears and her lips trembled. Save it for your next speeding ticket , Tess thought.

"Are you going to tell Darryl?" Her voice actually quavered.

"That's my job. He hired me to find out why you were acting so weird. I think I have an answer."

"But Michael has nothing to-" she started, then stopped abruptly, her face shifting back into its normal, haughty expression. The tone of her voice also changed, suddenly amused and airy.

"Of course you have to tell him," she agreed. "But I need to talk to him first." Tess smiled, a playwright watching happily as the curtain line approached. But she had never anticipated the actress might ad-lib.

"Yes, I'll call him and tell him how my boss has been making me sleep with him so I can keep my job. I'll tell him it's Anita Hill all over again and it freaked me out, which is why I started to shoplift. Darryl will believe me and Darryl will forgive me. It won't matter what you tell him."