The Audition – Part II, Catherine Duvall auditions Jonathan Tyne to become her piano accompanist

A scene from Thomas Docheri’s novel Affirmative Action

Use these to jump around or read it all:

Michael hitting on Catherine
The Audition, Part II, from Affirmative Action begins here

Michael hitting on Catherine

This is the second installment of the scenes I am calling, The Audition. It’s important to the story because it is the beginning of the relationship between the male and female protagonists, which drives much of the their motivation in three of my four novels about Jonathan Tyne. In this installment Catherine Duvall is trying to decide whether to audition Michael Ware, the alias Jonathan Tyne is using to avoid coming to the attention of the San Francisco Bay Area-based Tosca crime family, as her piano accompanist. Appearing in a public venue in a resort city visited by two million visitors annually, many of them from California, is playing with fire. Better for him if he dropped the idea of working with her but he can’t. She is too much woman. He rationalizes away the risk thinking he’s smart enough to have his cake and eat it too, no pun intended.

Please feel free to tell me what you think, especially how I have written Catherine . . . and as always, enjoy . . . The Audition.

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The Audition, Part II, from Affirmative Action begins here

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C A T H E R I N E   A N D   M I C H A E L

A moment or two after Catherine Duvall walked away a waiter came up to his booth and introduced himself. He said his name was Antony and Catherine – he called her signora Duvall – had told him to take extra good care of Mr. Ware. The man was of medium height, maybe slightly shorter than Tyne, in his thirty’s; with black hair and a heavy, dark beard he’d shaved closely. Lean, like a dancer, with swarthy skin and incredibly handsome, Tyne was certain Antony had to beat them off with a stick. Antony handed Tyne a wine and a dinner menu, both bound in Moroccan leather. Then he deftly removed three of the place settings.

Tyne figured Antony was probably a senior waiter, chosen purposely by Catherine. It also occurred to him that if there was any possibility he might become Di Giorgio’s resident pianist, he’d better be on good terms with its staff. He did not make the usual pretense of studying the wine menu; instead, he was smart enough to ask Antony for a suggestion. Di Giorgio’s offered all its extensive selection of wines by the bottle, carafe and glass and the waiter beamed at being asked for his advice. Tyne said he was thinking about veal or possibly lamb, listened carefully and then chose a glass of Castello di Brolio Casalferro, an estate-bottled Chianti classico from Tuscany that Antony thought was especially good.

Before hurrying away Antony said he would tell Mr. Ware about tonight’s specials when he returned with his wine.

Before Antony returned Lydia Conti entered the piano bar carrying a bottle of wine. She was wearing her usual white, wrap-around apron but she also was wearing around her waist the canvas pouch in which she carried a generous supply of wine glasses. She saw Tyne, smiled, walked to his booth and as before, greeted him with a hug and a kiss. Then she slid in across from him.

She patted his hand and asked what wine he had ordered. When he told her, she looked thoughtful for a moment, and then poured a glass of 1992 Soave Bolla, a fragrant white wine she said came from Verona.

“Try this and tell me what you think. It won’t spoil your palette.”

He inhaled the aroma for a moment, then tasted the wine, holding it momentarily in his mouth before swallowing it.

He pronounced it excellent and read the label thinking he might buy a bottle or two from the local vintner before returning home. He took another sip just as Antony arrived with his Brolio. As he set the glass in front of Tyne Lydia said, “Michael, your server tonight is Antony Carbone, our senior waiter. Antony, say hello to Mr. Ware, an old and dear friend.”

Tyne offered his hand, the two men shook and Antony said, “the signora Duvall told me Mr. Ware’s name but she did not say he was a friend of yours.”

“Antony, if you don’t mind, my name is Michael.”

Antony nodded.

“The signora is very smart but she doesn’t know everything,” said Lydia.

Antony smiled, a very becoming smile and said, “She knows a lot. Well, you said you were thinking about veal. We have a very nice alla Florentine, with spinach, tomatoes, fontina – that’s a semi-soft cheese from Valle d’Aosta – and mashed potatoes in a white wine cream sauce. Also, the al Marsala is excellent with mushrooms and mashed potatoes in a glazed Marsala sauce. And this is not on the menu but our chef can prepare saltimbocca; that’s thinly sliced prosciutto laid on veal scallops, seasoned with sage and sautéed in butter and then braised in white wine. Would you like some time to think those choices over or perhaps something else appeals – the Agnello is excellent?”

“I’ve had all of those before, and they are excellent, but I’ve never had saltimbocca, so that’s what I’ll have, perhaps with some mushrooms sautéed in garlic butter?”

“Chef Richard can do the saltimbocca classico style or alla Romana. Do you have a preference?”

“What’s the difference?”

Classico uses a dry white wine while alla Romana uses Marsala.”

“The alla Romana, by all means, please.”

Eccellente.”

Tyne’s only meal today had been the Cobb salad from Thump he’d eaten at noon. He’d skipped breakfast so he could harvest the samples he given to chef Richard and as a consequence, was ravenous. So he ordered spiedini – prawn and prosciutto skewers – and brushetta from the antipasti section of the menu and a pomodora salad – fresh mozzarella, Roma tomatoes and basil in an extra virgin olive oil dressing.

Antony nodded approvingly as Tyne spoke his order and just before he left Lydia said, “Antony, were you able to hear Michael playing the piano?”

“Yes, I was working in the main dining room and the remote speakers were turned on so I heard everything.” He smiled and shook his head, obviously amused by the memory. “Those Century-21 people are really funny. Someone should have told them the microphones were live.”

“What did you think? Go ahead; speak freely . . . Michael is Irish; he doesn’t understand Italian,” which wasn’t exactly true. Having been married to a Spanish woman who had been born in Italy and spoke the language fluently, especially when they visited her parents, he could understand the gist of most conversations, if the speaker spoke slowly and enunciated his words clearly.

Antony, se si parla . . . lentamente e distintamente, posso . . . capire,” he said.

The waiter beamed and squeezed and then patted Tyne’s shoulder while Lydia looked on in amazement. “Bravo, bravo Michael, mi deve parlare lentamente. Il suo pianismo è impressionante.”

Lydia looked at Tyne and said, “Did you get that? He thinks your playing is awesome.”

Grazie Antony. Sì, ho capito quello . . . che ha . . . detto.”

The waiter smiled again and said, “Shall I begin with the spiedini?”

Per favore,” said Tyne.

When he was gone Lydia said, “I guess being married to an Italian woman taught you a few things?”

Spanish-Italian . . . and yes, she taught me a great deal.” She also saved my life, he thought.

“They are all in love with Catherine . . . except the two gays. Say, your ordering pomodora reminded me that Richard would like to know whether you can grow Cherry Romas. We would use them in the pomodora if we could get them. It’s one of our most popular salads.”

“Does that mean we have a deal?”

She rubbed her thumb and finger together, a gesture Tyne thought implied something to do with money, and said, “You still have to negotiate schedule and price with Connie but yes, we have a deal. Richard is working up a list of what he’d like you to supply.”

“Yes, I’ve grown that variety before and I have a good supply of seeds. Sixty days plus three weeks for seedlings.”

“Speaking of Connie, are you staying in Bend over the weekend?”

“Yes. I could go back tomorrow or Sunday or even Monday, depending on how my discussions with Catherine shake out.” He didn’t think she needed to know he was really going to the Bay Area when he finished his business in Bend.

“Good, then would you be willing to meet with Connie tomorrow, say at 1 P.M. here at the restaurant?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She nodded and started to slide out of the booth and Tyne said, “Lydia, I hope while you’re making your rounds you’re asking people who heard me play whether they liked what they heard?”

She stood next to him with her hip touching his shoulder, and she stroked his hair. “I am and so far the feedback has all been positive. Shall I ask Catherine what she thinks?”

“Please don’t. As far as you’re concerned I’m not available . . . because of all the travel. If she and I get together it will be because something happened that you weren’t aware of. If that happens you should act surprised.”

“So you can play hard to get?”

“Not hard to get, just . . . unconvinced. It’s up to her to convince me. Lydia, it has to be her idea, not yours and certainly not mine or this isn’t going to work. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“She has to want me to collaborate with her because my playing contributes something positive to her act and for no other reason. Just because we’re friends or I’m one of the restaurant’s important suppliers are not good reasons. Trust me Lydia, I know something about close collaboration especially since I blew it so badly with Madeleine.”

She bent down and kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Okay Jonathan, I’ll do it your way.” She then moved away from the booth and began talking to a young couple sitting at one of the tables for four. He watched her for a moment until Antony brought his spiedini.

. . .

It was a few minutes before nine when Catherine Duvall reappeared. Tyne had just finished the saltimbocca and was working on a second glass of the Brolio. Catherine didn’t sit; instead, she stood close enough to Tyne he had to look up at her. He leaned his head back on the cushion and waited patiently for the woman to speak. After a moment she said, “What did you order?”

Saltimbocca.”

“How was it?”

“I’ve never had it before so I have nothing to compare it with other than previous veal dishes I’ve eaten here. Having said that, it was superb. Please convey my compliments to chef Richard.”

“I shall. I hope you’re planning to stay for my solo?”

“I said I would.”

“Yes, so you did. I’m about to start. Is there anything you’d particularly like to hear that I might know?”

“Well, I played Yeston for you; how about playing one of his for me?”

“Which one?”

“‘New Words.’”

“What a beautiful song. Yes, I know it and I’ll be happy to play it for you. Is it one that you also know how to play?”

“One of three.”

“Oh, which is the third?”

“‘I Am Longing,’ from the song cycle. I’m trying to learn the rest of December Songs but the music is very difficult.”

“Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You mean why is the music difficult?”

“No, why are you trying to learn that music? Lydia said you are some sort of computer consultant. If you’re not a professional musician, why are you trying to do something as challenging as learning the cycle?”

“Because he wrote it specifically for Andrea Marcovicci and she’s my favorite female singer. I listen to the December Songs CD a lot and anything I enjoy listening to I want to play. It’s just for me; just something I enjoy doing. Had you not asked for a Yeston piece I probably would not have played one. Consultant sounds like I give advice; I haven’t actually done that in quite a while . . . years, in fact. I used to, when certain technologies were in their infancy, but those days, at least for me, are gone. I’m a software engineer, by the way, and mostly what I do is hire out as a contract programmer.”

She looked doubtful, as if she had not understood what he said, so he added, “I build things that people want built; things that generally take a few weeks to a few months to build. That way, when I’m done, it’s don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. Companies that hire me would rather not have an employee around after they no longer need one.”

She frowned and he thought she had more to say when Antony arrived with the dessert menu. He handed it to Tyne and then nodded at Catherine. Tyne opened it and glanced briefly at the list of pure, unadulterated decadence. He’d been thinking about cannoli all evening and was about to order it when he saw Antony wink at him. He closed the menu, leaned back and pressed both hands on the leather cover as if it was a keyboard. “Actually Antony, I was hoping you would suggest something as memorable as the veal? The saltimbocca was primo.”

“Yes, I do have something very special for you; pere ripiene. As you know I was instructed to take extra good care of you.” As he said this he glanced at Catherine, pointed at her but hid his hand so she couldn’t see the gesture and then smiled at Tyne.

Pere is pears, isn’t it?”

Corrètto Michael; pears stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese and sprinkled with crushed walnuts. And extra good care always requires at least two choices or what’s the point. We also have tonight crostata di ricotta, which is a cheese pie that is better than any cheesecake ever made. We serve it with white grapes.”

“Antony, it’s Mr. Ware, not Michael,” as Catherine rebuked him, gently but firmly.

Tyne stared at her for a moment and then said, with emphasis added, “No Catherine; it’s Michael. Antony and I have discovered we have something in common. Like my ex-wife Antony was born in Genoa. We were discussing the ten-day bicycle trip my ex and I took through Liguria and the Piedmont the year before we divorced. We started at La Speza and followed the coast road to Genoa, then on to the Italian Academy of Cooking at Savona and beyond to Imperia and then a big loop north through the lower Piedmont as far as Alessandria. The tour manager had a van to haul the luggage and a sag wagon for those who couldn’t do the 20 to 30 daily miles. My ex and I did the whole trip on two wheels and enjoyed some really superb Northern Italian food along the way. You should try that some time, with someone you really care about. Can’t think of a better way to see Italy than by bicycle.”

Antony looked back and forth between them and again he winked knowingly at Tyne. He’d picked up on something going on between them and was amused.

. . .

During the hour it took to prepare and serve Tyne’s meal he and Antony had struck up the beginnings of friendship. At first the waiter had bristled when Tyne asked about Eddie Bryce; whether he was Catherine’s – he was careful to always refer to her as Ms. Duvall – significant other and why he had left her high and dry in Bend just when her cabaret act was proving to be a success. He mellowed when Tyne explained he was only asking because Catherine had proposed a musical collaboration. He knew the wait-staff worked for Catherine and he wanted to know what it was like to work for her. And, not to put too fine a point on it, who might be offended if he made a move on her? After all, she was a real babe; that’s what he called her, a babe, and Antony did not dispute that appellation.

What he learned was that despite the wedding ring she wore, Catherine was not married. Catherine’s ex had told him this but it was interesting to hear it confirmed by the waiter. Divorced from this Duvall dude who lived back east, upstate New York he thought, and a concert pianist by profession. She wore the ring, as many waitresses do, to ward off unwanted advances. When Tyne asked for the source of this fascinating intel Antony said it was from Carla Rainey, a former 2nd runner-up Miss Oregon while at OSU, Catherine’s assistant and his current squeeze, which was why he, Antony, had no problem with Michael making a move on signora Duvall. He encouraged it, in fact.

Something else of great interest to Tyne occurred during that hour. After the pomodora Antony brought Tyne a cup of Manhattan clam chowder with a large dollop of pesto floating on the surface, Genoese style. He said chef Richard had found a new source for basil and tomatoes and he would appreciate Michael’s opinion. Tyne asked whether others were being queried and Antony said at least half the diners in the main dining room were sampling the zuppe. He ate the soup slowly, savoring the subtle flavors and was pleased to discover Richard had followed his recipe rather than Filippini’s. After he finished the soup he told Antony to tell chef Richard that he was no expert but he had enjoyed the chowder, and especially the pesto, very much.

. . .

“Yes, the cheese pie, by all means . . . and some espresso?”

“How about . . . caffè alla Borgia, which is coffee laced with apricot brandy and sprinkled with cinnamon?”

“Antony, you’re spoiling me for any other restaurant . . . and any other waiter.”

Antony gathered up the dessert menu and Tyne’s dinner plate, after first asking Catherine – he again called her signora Duvall – to scusa per favore, signora and move slightly away from the table, so he could properly clear it, and then he left.

She stared at his retreating back until he passed around the corner of the bar, then back at Tyne for a moment and then said, “I don’t care how many walks down memory lane you and he take, I don’t appreciate you undermining my authority in front of a waiter, even if he is our senior.”

“I did no such thing. I merely affirmed in front of you that I encouraged him to address me by my given name.”

“I don’t believe in having too many rules either but one thing I do insist on is absolute courtesy to our guests, which includes addressing them by their surnames. I make it my business to make sure each waiter and waitress knows the name of his or her guest, from my book.”

“Cool, you did that very well. He referred to me as Mr. Ware until I asked him to use my first name. If you doubt what I’m saying, ask Lydia. She was sitting with me when all this happened. Is this the way it’s going to be, working for you? If so, then I pass.”

She seemed to want to say something more but didn’t. Instead, it turned into a staring contest until Tyne said, “It’s getting on past nine. Shouldn’t you be doing your solo?”

“I’m not sure I want you to work for me. You seem to have a real knack for getting under my skin. If that’s the way it’s going to be, perhaps you shouldn’t wait around for me to finish?” With that she turned on her heel and walked quickly to the piano.

. . .

Catherine played for an hour and a half and before she was done Tyne knew he could learn a great deal from this woman. She played a diverse mix of popular music – Gershwin, Kern-Hammerstein, Mancini-Bricusse, Harold Arlen, Don McLean, Carole King, Carly Simon, David Foster, Bacharach-David, even one New Age piece he recognized, Naccarato’s “Stone Cottage” – and of course, near the end the Maury Yeston song he had requested. He wondered whether she deliberately kept his request almost to the very end. Her back was to him and not once did she turn to see whether he was still there.

She took requests too, or at least that’s what he thought she was doing. Several times a waiter approached, waited patiently for her to finish, then bent close and said something to her. Each time she nodded and the waiter dropped cash into the tips jar. It occurred to him that her tips were probably commingled with the one he’d received from the woman named Gaby. He’d forgotten to tell Antony to see that any tips he received were distributed to the wait staff, his usual practice. And to Tyne’s surprise, not a single person chose to sit at the piano. Most in the piano bar dining area stayed to the end and applauded, sometimes with gusto as she finished each piece. Almost exactly at 10:30 she turned off the microphones, rose from the bench, gathered the tips and without even a glance in his direction, left the piano bar.

Both the crostata di ricotta and the caffè alla Borgia Antony served him were excellent and Tyne ordered a second caffè. After the second cup he asked Antony for the check but the waiter refused. He said he’d been signora Duvall’s guest and therefore there would not be a bill. Tyne then did a careful calculation of what his dinner cost from his memory of the menu. It came by his reckoning to sixty-six bucks; so he rounded this to seventy and when Antony returned to see whether he wanted anything else, he tipped the waiter fifteen. He said dinner was one thing the signora could be responsible for but unless she was going to serve the meal too, Antony’s service was what made the meal memorable. He thanked Tyne and smiling his most enigmatic smile said, “Good luck with the signora; you’re going to need it.”

He decided to wait to see whether the signora would return. She’d played for ninety minutes without a break; surely that meant she needed a potty break. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later his patience was rewarded when she returned to his booth carrying a bottle of Grand Marnier and two liqueur glasses. She slid in across from him and gestured with the brandy. “I adore Italian wines but I much prefer French brandies and liqueurs.”

Stravecchia Grappa and Refosco are both very good as is Strega.”

“Would you prefer one of those?”

“I’d rather it be your choice.”

She nodded and poured two glasses. He waited until she took a sip, then he did the same. “I wasn’t sure you’d stay.”

“I said I would; I generally do what I say I will do.”

“Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Very much. Thank you for comping me. By the way, I tipped Antony so you don’t have to.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

“He’s an excellent waiter and I generally get the best meals and the best service by asking for recommendations. Antony rose to the occasion.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I noticed you did ‘Stone Cottage’; one of my favorites.”

“It was a request. I would not have played it or any other New Age piece otherwise.”

“What have you got against New Age?”

“Nothing except so few people enjoy hearing it.”

He was expecting her to take the lead; she didn’t, but her gaze never left his face. The silence dragged on for several minutes and it began to annoy him. Finally, he leaned forward with his forearms on the table and tracing the rim of his glass with his index finger he said, “While you were playing, which by the way I thoroughly enjoyed, I had this fantasy running through my head that I could learn a great deal from you. But alas, then I remembered that I get under your skin. Except . . . hold on . . . please let me finish . . .” when she started to interrupt. “You left before I could comment about that . . . what I would have said is getting under your skin is a good thing, like the Cole Porter song says, isn’t it? Isn’t that right where you want me to be? If you don’t, you should.”

“If it’s such a good thing why am I so annoyed?”

“Annoyed . . . truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

“That doesn’t suggest collaboration between us is likely to be successful. So, Catherine . . . may I call you Catherine . . . or how about Cat? It suits you.”

“My name is Catherine, not Cat, Cathy or Kate. I prefer that you call me Catherine.”

“Thank you for clearing that up; so Catherine, I know why I’m here. Why are we here?” and as he said this he nodded with his head and gestured with his hands to indicate that here was the booth they were sitting in.

“I thought we could talk . . . and maybe between us we could figure out why there is this . . . tension between us. I’ve been looking for an accompanist for several months to replace the one I lost and you’re the first of seven or eight I’ve auditioned with the talent to help me do what I want to do. I can’t let that opportunity pass by simply because we’ve . . . how should I describe it . . . we’ve stepped on each others toes?”

“Well, I’ve got all night. Why don’t you start by telling me exactly what it is I do that gets under your skin? I’m a big boy; I can take criticism so don’t pull your punches.”

“Okay, everything you did tonight, from start to finish was a game. You came here tonight to use your talent to hit on women and you’re very good at it, very slick. You even came on to me in the reservations line. You never made a reservation; that was just your bullshit story to hit on the hostess, and why the hell not, she’s just a glorified waitress and probably fucks everything in pants?”

When he started to defend himself from that unfounded canard, the part about what he wanted to do to her because she was just a glorified waitress, the look she gave him froze the comment in his throat.

“Correct me if I’m wrong; you arrived at about seven for . . . if I remember correctly, an eight-thirty reservation, so you said. Now why would someone do that? I don’t think you even wanted a table. I think you just wanted access to the piano. You’re so good at it I bet you do it at every opportunity . . . as good as you play, perhaps your entire adult life? Haven’t you?”

“Years and years.”

“What an asshole you are, to use your talent that way.”

“Okay, some of what you said is true . . . some but not all, but even the parts that are true have a context. If you’re going to beat me up for what I do you should at least understand the context.”

“I can hardly wait to hear this.”

He stared at her for a moment and then he said; “I see a lot of red in your hair. Mostly it’s dark brown and black but the red is quite prominent especially in this light. Is it natural or do you have a very talented stylist?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because redheads are crazy, really nuts, some more than others depending on how much red they have. Does the carpet match the drapes?”

What? What does that mean?”

“Well, a true redhead has red in her bush . . . not necessarily all red but a mixture of red and brown or black. I hope you don’t . . . what’s the euphemism they use now . . . of yes, groom it all away . . . the hair, that is, not the red?”

If looks could really kill he’d now be quite dead. Slowly, very slowly, she seemed to get her anger under control. Her entire upper boy had tensed and it allowed him to see her upper arms were ripped. He concluded she wasn’t just slender by way of a careful diet but she worked out too, seriously.

“My hair is quite natural, even the little bit of gray I have. Andrea is a little gray too and so is Gloria. When they color theirs maybe I’ll think about coloring mine.”

He studied her face and hair again and finally said, “I’d say 15-percent red, which means only a little crazy, but enough to explain why we’re getting off to such a bad start.”

“Bullshit. We’re getting off to a bad start because you are . . . you are being quite obnoxious.”

“No, the word you are looking for and are too ladylike to use is asshole. My wife used it a lot . . . still does, as a matter of fact.” He thought for a moment and then said, “No, my mistake. I almost forgot. You just used that word too, didn’t you? So, note to self . . . self, she’s not as ladylike as she’d like me to believe.”

She looked like she wanted to respond to this but when she didn’t he said, “Catherine, you should see yourself, your face, your body language. You’ve already made up your mind I’m an asshole so why should I bother explaining to you what I know you aren’t going to believe?”

He could see she was indeed very angry and now he was sure she was trying very hard to get her anger under control. She must really think I play well enough, he thought, to put up with my shit. He wasn’t applying a full-court press but he did want to see how far he could push her. She tossed off the remainder of her liqueur, poured another glass and then said, “Try.”

He took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then shaking his head, let it out in a sigh. He took another moment to gather his thoughts and then said, “I’ve been divorced for almost four years and it wasn’t my idea. My ex and I – God how I hate that term, her name is Madeleine – Madeleine and I were married for almost nineteen years. And I know it’s not very fashionable but I never cheated on her, not once. I’ve been playing in piano bars since the divorce, and yes, to hit on women. Actually, any man can hit on women; it’s much more fun and much more satisfying to get them to hit on me. If you want to call it a game, then yes, that’s my game.”

“Are there children?”

“No, neither of us wanted them.”

“Nieces and nephews?”

“Not any of them, either.”

“So, at least you’re not setting a bad example for . . .

“What about you?”

Catherine looked away and chewed her lower lip. When she said nothing Tyne said, “If you’re thinking of a polite way to tell me to mind my own business, don’t. If you can ask personal questions, so can I.”

She finally met his steady gaze and said, “I had two miscarriages in my thirties . . . both at four weeks.”

“Sorry; that’s tough. Madeleine had two of those too.”

“I thought you said neither of you wanted children?”

“Madeleine changed her mind in her late thirties, so, we tried.”

“Did you change your mind?”

“Not really, but I wanted her to be happy.”

“She probably sensed your ambivalence.”

“Probably. Another one of my many failings.”

“So, you woke up the day after the divorce was final and headed for the nearest piano bar . . . because you wanted to get laid?”

“He smiled and said, “I wish I could say I didn’t do anything of the sort, but . . . there’s quite a lot of truth in what you said. That first year wasn’t one of my best. It wasn’t my worst . . . but I’m not all that proud of what I did . . . except, I did learn how to get what I want, and I don’t lie about what I want. A lot of women seem to want that too.

“I’d been out of the dating scene for more than two decades and that first year, when I discovered how effective playing in public was, I went a little crazy, like a kid in a candy shop. And it’s funny, even ironic how it all came about. Madeleine likes to entertain; small, intimate dinner parties for friends and her business colleagues – she’s a marketing executive – and she liked me to play for our guests. I didn’t mind a bit; I love to play and if she thought it was useful for her career, then I was more than willing to help.

“And one time, this was a few months before she told me she was divorcing me, at one of those parties I played very much like I did tonight, and I flirted with one of our guests. We both knew the woman and her husband were having a rocky time and that night she had a little too much to drink and was coming on to me, although to be fair, I initiated it. Nothing happened, it was all just in fun, just the booze talking, but Madeleine overheard what she thought was lovers’ code and after all the guests left she accused me of having an affair with one of her best friends. That’s how she described the woman, as one of her best friends. If she had a best friend other than me it was sure as hell news to me. She had business contacts she networked with to enhance and promote her career.

“It took some time but I managed to convince her that there was nothing going on with the woman, or anyone else for that matter, but after she began divorce proceedings I got the idea that playing the piano in public places, such as Di Giorgio’s was a great way to meet women, especially for someone who’d been out of the game for as long as I had. It was and for a year or maybe a little more than a year I indulged myself. But eventually it got old and do you know why?”

It was a rhetorical question so he didn’t wait for an answer. “Because almost all of the women I met were married and cheating on their husbands. That first year it didn’t matter to me and I had no regard for the men I was cuckolding. I figured if they couldn’t keep their women satisfied they got what they deserved. And perhaps I’m naïve but it came as something of a surprise that there was so much adultery going on.”

He paused for a sip of cognac and she said, “Is it possible you were getting even for what happened to you?”

He stared at her for a moment. A rather perceptive remark, he thought, and then said, “Maybe. I’ve told myself Madeleine didn’t have sex with the new guy until after she informed me of her decision but that too is pretty naïve.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted you. Please continue.”

“So, sometime early in ’97, when I had this epiphany and finally got my shit together, I stopped getting it on with married women. From that point on I mostly added names to my address book. I didn’t stop playing the game and I won’t until I find Ms. Right but I no longer behave so self-destructively. Sooner or later someone I’m attracted to who is free to choose and wants an exclusive relationship will sit down at the piano to listen and life will be good again. And don’t take this the wrong way but tonight is the third time I’ve come back to Di Giorgio’s looking for you. I saw you for the first time last December. It was before you were performing because the piano wasn’t in its usual spot and the raised stage was still under construction. You were the hostess that night too and you seated me in a booth in the front dining room. I was able to watch you throughout dinner, for almost two hours. You were wearing a white silk blouse buttoned to the throat, black slacks and black pumps. You had your hair different then. It was done in this loose braid and then coiled on the back of your head and to say I was smitten is an understatement.”

“Sorry Michael, I don’t remember you. We get so many guests that . . .

Tyne gestured with his hand, palm outward, waggling his fingers as he interrupted her. “I thought tonight, when we spoke in the reservations line you recognized me from last December . . . oh not my name but maybe my face . . . or perhaps the hair. I thought I saw something in your eyes. You know how you see someone for the first time, and your eyes meet, maybe by chance, and there’s something there, like maybe you two know something no one else knows . . . or you’ve seen each other before?”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, I quite understand,” finally feeling confident using his Ware pseudonym with this one would be okay.

“My, my, you have quite a memory . . . what I was wearing, even how I wore my hair.”

“My dear Catherine, you were . . . are, impossible to forget, especially in those slacks. You have an ass to die for. I’ve thought about your ass many times since then.”

“Do you always speak so . . . frankly?”

“Yes, pretty much; it saves a great deal of time.”

“You said this is the third time you stalked me. When were the other two times?”

“I’m not stalking you. I simply . . .

“If it’s not stalking, what the hell do you call it? I don’t know you; perhaps you’re a serial rapist or an axe murderer?”

“That’s nonsense and you know it. You think Lydia would vouch for me if I wasn’t a stand-up guy? I simply regretted not making more of an effort that first time to get to know you, at least make an attempt to see you again and I was looking for a ring and I can’t recall seeing one. I was here in March and also in June but if you were here I didn’t see you. But all that’s behind us now since you aren’t free to choose,” and to make his point unequivocal he touched her wedding ring. “Are you?”

She ignored the question and pulled her hand away. Instead she said, “So, is that your story; why someone who plays the piano as well as you do uses it in this childish way; to score piano groupies?”

“Is that what it is about me that gets under your skin? That I use the piano for sex?”

“That’s one of them, a big one.”

“What else?”

“You’re such an arrogant smart-ass and I don’t like smart-asses.”

“Well kiddo, you’re not exactly a slouch in that department yourself.”

“So if I understand you correctly, you’re just looking for the next Mrs. Ware. Is that it?”

“I’m not looking for ownership, just exclusivity . . . for whatever time I have left.”

“You look healthy enough. Is there something wrong with you?”

“No, I’m in good health but life is fragile and shit happens.”

“Do you really believe you can have exclusivity without ownership?”

“Ownership can be a strait jacket while exclusivity is a state of mind. We know ownership doesn’t guarantee exclusivity and with the right state of mind, it isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, but at your age . . . perhaps you should just settle for fun and games with your groupies.”

“What has my age to do with it?”

“Aren’t the women you’re likely to be attracted to already taken? Isn’t sharing what was really going on your first year as a single man?”

“Perhaps . . . but consider for a moment the sorry state of marriage in this country. It’s a well-known fact that half of all marriages fail. That means at any given moment half of all married women have either just shed, are contemplating shedding or are in the process of shedding their unwanted baggage. Some have already hooked up with the new guy since infidelity is a leading cause. Others are looking forward to regaining their freedom but don’t relish being alone. This latter demographic is of interest to me, specifically: childless, well-educated, self-supporting career women, if you will, say . . . thirty-eight to forty-eight with a secular humanist point of view. The sort of women who dine regularly at up-scale restaurants, such as Di Giorgio’s and enjoy listening to well-played piano whether they frequent piano bars or not. They will hear and some will investigate and voilà, new friends by the truck load.”

“Wow, no mention of what they have to look like. I’m impressed.”

“Women with those characteristics look after themselves; they’re always presentable, which is sufficient though lady jocks and fitness junkies earn bonus points. You look like one. Are you?”

“I’m a dancer, so yeah . . . I work at it.”

“Ballet or . . .

“Jazz and aerobic.”

“Splendid. Dancers have the best bodies and dancer on top is to die for.”

“On top of what?”

“The second most satisfying position in sexual intercourse. You know, fucking. It’s that marvelous hip action.”

“Pig!”

“Care to discuss which position is the most satisfying? For both participants.”

“Not with you, Ace.”

“Nevertheless, someday you’ll ask and after I demonstrate it to you, you’ll be my love slave.”

“That’ll be the day. Okay, that’s a pretty clear statement, before all this other bullshit I didn’t ask for, of what you’re looking for but it says nothing about why exclusivity is so important to you. Care to flimflam me, dazzle me with your footwork?”

Charm, not flimflam, hopefully, right out of your knickers.”

The look she gave him was lethal. “Not if you were the last man on earth, Ace.”

“I think you should revisit Buddy’s lyrics. I think if you do you’ll discover that you have the song’s intent exactly backwards. Think about it.”

“That’ll be the day it snows in hell that you’ll get into my knickers. Is that clearer?”

“I love a challenge.”

“Maybe I don’t want to hear this, after all.”

Au contraire. You’ll miss the best part.”

She studied his face for a moment and then said, “Okay, but lose the sexual innuendo. It’s boring . . . and so tiresome.”

“Whatever . . . it’s funny – not funny ha ha but funny ironic – you should ask the why question, exactly the way someone else I met recently did, in a similar context.”

“A groupie?”

“That isn’t the way I thought about her but I suppose to you anyone I meet in a piano bar is a groupie . . . that is . . . except you dear. Think whatever you like. This was in California, my most recent trip and the real point of the evening was to celebrate the birthday of a man I’ve known and loved for more than twenty-five years. She wasn’t exactly my date but my friend’s wife was trying to be helpful and included her in the guest list. She made a point of introducing us. Her name is Isabel and when she joined me at the piano I could see the rings. I played . . . oh, at least a dozen pieces, mostly for the man, including some Elton John original compositions I learned as a birthday gift for him, but I also played one she requested and I played ‘Alfie’ with harp augmentation for the first time in public.

“The woman’s . . .

“Did the woman know it was your friend’s birthday?”

That was the third time she’d interrupted him, he thought, as he gazed at her face, her eyes so striking as to threaten to make him lose his train of thought. If he spent any amount of time with this woman he was going to have to find a way to stop her from doing that. Of course, he’d interrupted her too. Perhaps they shared that trait in common, as he and Madeleine did; perceiving they knew where the thread of a conversation was going and jumping in to the consternation of the other party. After Madeleine and he had argued about it for the umpteenth time, he’d made a concerted effort, mostly successful, to rein in his own rude behavior. This woman seemed to bring out the worst in him.

He stared at her for a full minute with the trace of a smirk on his face, thinking; might as well get in a punch of my own since she’s been wailing on me. So he said, “You have this annoying habit of interrupting me.”

“You do it too.”

“Yes, I know I do. It’s a bad habit I’m trying to control. Maybe we could both work on it, that is, if we’re going to spend any amount of time together?”

“That remains to be seen but I’ll take it under advisement.”

Tyne studied her face for a moment longer, remembering what the waiter had said: that she wore the ring to keep the hound dogs at bay – wondering whether to believe him. Perhaps it was something else Charles hadn’t told him, that she really had remarried. Of course, if Antony and his squeeze Carla had it right, it was a lie. But, it wasn’t a bad lie; not a lie he couldn’t forgive, especially if he could get her to come clean, of her own volition, because she didn’t want to keep him at bay. He decided it was worth a try.

“You know, I’ve heard it said some couples fight, deliberately, because making up is so much fun. The sex is off the charts. And of course, they have to care enough to want to go a couple of rounds, to get whatever is buggin’ them out of their systems. I’m thinking we may be like that.”

“We’re not a couple.”

“Yet.”

“Yet, what does yet mean?”

“We’re not a couple, yet.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breadth if I were you.”

“You look like you’re a fifteen-minute girl.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask but what’s a fifteen-minute girl?”

“A girl who craves sex every fifteen minutes.”

“That would take a platoon and I’m not into gangbangs.”

“Only takes one if he knows what he’s doing.”

“And you do?”

“Uh-huh. Best is when a fifteen-minute girl hooks up with an oral guy, especially one who plays the harmonica. That’s why I know we’re going to be great pals. We’ll fight a lot, come close to killing each other, probably, but making up will be so good.”

“Is your wife a fifteen minute girl?”

Ex . . . wife.”

“Whatever. Is she?”

“Ten, but she’s Spanish and Spanish women are the hottest women on the planet. Their body temperature’s even a degree or so warmer than the rest of us.”

“Hmm . . . is that so? The Delissaldes, my father’s mother’s family, were Basque. So, what does that make me?”

“Part Spanish . . . you could be a twelve-minute girl. But, not to worry. We’ll eventually get you classified correctly.”

She shook her head as if to say, not a chance. “Lydia said your wife . . . sorry, ex-wife, is Italian?”

“Her parents are Castilian Spanish. They couldn’t countenance Franco so they emigrated. The waiting list to get in here was long so they went to Italy. Madeleine was born in Genoa. She was ten when they got U.S. visas.”

“And she divorced you because you couldn’t keep up?”

“No, she divorced me because at that moment of existential crisis that all relationships eventually have, I failed her. What can I say; at times I can be pretty stupid . . . but the good news is I learned my lesson.”

Her eyes were not only striking, they flashed when she was angry. He could see she was working overtime to keep her anger in check. The danger, he knew, was that if she could control her anger she could control him. Hot and cold, fire and ice; a woman to make a man forget about all other women, he thought. “Yes, of course she knew it was Jeremy’s birthday even though she knows him only casually. They both teach at UCB. As I said, Jeremy’s wife Claire thought the party a good opportunity to introduce the two of us.”

It took her a moment to remember what she’d asked him. “So she knew something special was going on; not like what you did tonight?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Interesting. Please continue, but spare me all this fifteen-minute shit.”

“Are you sure? I mean, oral guy and . . . twelve-minute girl is one of the primal forces of nature. It’s not something to ignore.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

. . .

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The Audition – Part I, Catherine Duvall auditions Jonathan Tyne to become her piano accompanist

A scene from Thomas Docheri’s novel Affirmative Action

Use these to jump around or read it all:

Men chasing after women
Hiding from the mob
Writing women well
Read previous post for context
The Audition, Part I, from Affirmative Action begins here

Men chasing after women

Men chasing after women, a variation on cherchez la femme is the oldest motivation in the world. Thinking with the little head instead of the big head can get a man into trouble faster than a world-class cretin can say, “You’re fired,” big trouble; even get him killed. In simplest terms, that’s Jonathan Tyne’s problem. He’s on the run from a Mafia vendetta; the San Francisco Bay Area-based Tosca crime family wants him dead so he can’t testify against the heir-apparent, and as long as he keeps his head down, hunkers down at his remote ranch in Eastern Oregon and avoids the Bay Area, he stands a chance to survive. But now that he’s met Catherine Duvall, caution gets rationalized away. After all, he’s Michael Ware now; shorn of his beard and soon to ditch his ponytail, so isn’t that enough? He looks nothing like his old self, except . . . he’s kidding himself. The little head will get you every time.

A chance encounter at the restaurant where Catherine works fixed in his mind a vision of a woman to die for . . . or as he so graphically puts it in conversations with himself whenever he thinks about her, which is a goodly part of every day: self, Catherine – he calls her that woman before he knows her name – has an ass to die for. Catherine is a former professional dancer who had a modest amount of success on Broadway and she has the body to prove it. Now, a struggling chanteuse with a promising cabaret act, she’s searching for a pianist to replace her former partner who left their act just as it was gaining traction with Bend’s in-crowd.

Bend is Bend, Oregon, a sophisticated destination resort city of fifty thousand in Central Oregon that annually attracts two million visitors, mostly from California. Bend is often compared to Carmel; it has the best weather in Oregon, an overheated real estate market, expensive boutiques, five-star dining with good, sometimes exceptional local entertainment, a summer criterium road race, the Cascade Cycling Classic, which attracts elite riders from around the world, and world-class skiing at Mt. Bachelor. Indeed, the number of Lears, Citations and Gulfstreams parked on the apron at nearby Redmond Municipal Airport – Roberts Field, on any given Friday afternoon during the summer golf or winter ski season boggles the mind and signals ca-ching, ca-ching, for the local purveyors of food and entertainment.

The Mount Bachelor Ski Area, being a day-use only venue, there are only two upscale places to stay during Central Oregon’s glorious summer or during ski season; either Sunriver Resort or Bend, and since Sunriver is family oriented, the fast crowd tends to favor Bend.

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Hiding from the mob

Jonathan, using the name Michael Ware, has come to Bend looking to link up with Catherine Duvall. While playing the piano at a birthday party for his oldest and dearest friend, he met her ex-husband, a friend and colleague of the birthday boy and a man still in love with his ex-wife. When the ex learns that Jonathan lives quite near Bend he promotes Catherine to Tyne because Tyne, though not a professional musician, merely a gifted amateur pianist and harmonicist, is a master of exactly the type of music his ex-wife prefers to sing. Tyne is intrigued, because he uses his musical skills to attract what he calls piano groupies. He’s not sure that Catherine is the woman he’s been fantasizing about (let’s be honest; obsessing over) but the ex lards in on pretty thick so even if she isn’t his mystery woman, she’s well worth investigating. When Tyne discovers she is that woman there is no holding him back, despite the fact that keeping off the Toscas radar screen is the key to his survival.

I call the scenes that follow: The Audition. I will publish them in at least three parts, since the entire collective scene describing their first meeting occupies four days and spans several chapters in my novel Affirmative Action, the second in my four-novel series about Jonathan Tyne. The Audition is important because it provides the motivation for much of what Jonathan does, which almost gets him killed. Indeed, both he and Catherine nearly come to grief on several occasions. Worst of all for Catherine is when she is personally targeted by the Toscas, frustrated in their continuing search for the elusive Tyne. Getting to him through her may be the most effective thing they can do and to them she is quite expendable.

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Writing women well

The Audition is important in another sense. It represents my most ambitious attempt to date to write in a woman’s point of view. Man, don’t be fooled; this is the most dangerous thing a male novelist can do. Getting women right in fiction is fraught with perils no man can imagine, until he attempts to do it. Remember what Melvin Udall in As Good As It Gets said when asked how he writes women so well: “I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.” Well, Melvin is a world-class asshole and his response merely reflects how pissed off he is when the woman asks the question. With more than sixty best sellers to his credit, he obviously does not believe that remark, nor do I. One of my ambitions as a writer is to get women right, to be that author that women ask how I get them so right. But this is such a challenging task that I’m not above asking for help. Please, dear readers, especially you women, tell me, in words a six year old can understand, what I’m doing right and especially, what I’m doing wrong in my depiction of Catherine Duvall? I can fix it if I know what’s broken. Without her my novels are nothing but testosterone on steroids.

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Read previous post for context

It might be useful to read for context the previously published scene immediately preceding The Audition, when Catherine and Michael see each other for the first time. Michael has just arrived at Di Giorgio’s without a reservation and nevertheless, despite pushback from Catherine, requests a table. He doesn’t really care about the table; he only cares that he gets access to the restaurant’s piano. And as always, enjoy . . . The Audition.

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The Audition, Part I, from Affirmative Action begins here

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M I C H A E L

Jonathan Tyne headed for the bar and found an empty stool near one of the server’s stations close to the piano. He ordered a glass of the house Chianti and scoped the piano bar dining room. The intricately carved mahogany bar, which formed one side of the room, was U-shaped with stools on three sides. Currently there were two bartenders on duty but more than once he’d seen the restaurant so busy it took four to keep up with the drink orders. The piano sat on a raised platform easily large enough for a trio. Just beyond the piano was a row of tables for two and beyond those, tables for four. Along the sidewall were booths and Tyne knew from previous visits that the rear wall was portable. Its sections could be folded like an accordion to open the piano bar to the larger main dining room. The lighting was subdued, mostly small recessed ceiling cans with gold and red filters and lighted candles in colored glass vases on some of the tables. A quick count of the booths, tables and stools revealed that the room could seat at least sixty and at the moment it was more than three-quarters full of noisy, TGIF drinkers.

Here and there he spotted some attractive ladies, all with male companions. One thing he’d learned in the past was he could never pick them out in advance. Where they came from when they heard him play was an ongoing mystery. He was just damn glad they came, except . . . that wasn’t tonight’s mission. The idea was to get the Duvall woman to ask him to become her accompanist and go from there. Still, she’d rattled her saber and rubbed his nose in her marital status so perhaps he could do both. Nothing ventured right, and if anything developed with Duvall he’d keep it strictly business. Cool how she did it, he thought; played the game for all she was worth and waited until the very end to cut me off at the knees. Classy babe.

The piano was a black ebony Steinway. It looked like a concert grand but without putting a tape on the sound box, he couldn’t be sure. There were six upholstered stools surrounding it and with the lid closed, those sitting on them could set their drinks on it. He could see the stain rings from the many glasses from people who had done just that.
It was still early, not yet seven and there already was a good crowd. The four tables for two were all occupied as were most of the tables for four and the bar was full. The tables were all quite close together, with barely enough space to walk between them. He got the impression that during a cabaret, the atmosphere would be intimate, with a good portion of the audience up close and personal. It looked to Tyne that during such a performance the singer would stand close to the pianist’s right side and his back would be mostly to the audience. He wouldn’t have to turn very far to see her but would have to turn sharply to see the audience. He thought it would be useful, at some point, to see the woman’s act before he hooked up with her.

He donned his sunglasses, gathered up his drink and a coaster and sat down at the piano. From the scarring and fade spots it had seen lots of use and Tyne hoped like hell it was in tune. He noted the two Beyerdynamic microphones suspended from the ceiling over the piano, their red power LED’s glowing brightly. He tapped one and was surprised to hear the sound reverberate from a pair of ceiling speakers behind him near the far wall. He expected an echo and guessed the mics were cardioids with effective noise canceling filters. On impulse he looked below and saw another pointing up at the bottom of the soundboard. He knew there were remote speakers in the other dining rooms and that meant he’d have to be very careful what he said in front of them. He then laid his cased Hohner 12-hole on the lid.

He adjusted the bench to give himself a little more room and as he tested the peddles he heard from somewhere behind him, but close, a man’s voice say, “Hey, they’ve got a new piano player. It’s about time.” Tyne listened, without turning his head. He didn’t care what people said as long as they noticed.

A woman’s voice said, “Awful taste in clothes. He looks like a biker all dressed up in a cheap Joe College corduroy jacket. What a dreadful ponytail.”

“It suits his face . . . sort of. I wish my hair was as curly as his.”

“Hmm,” the woman said. “Maybe he’s got some slave in his background? You can put lipstick on a pig but it’s still a pig.” He heard the man laugh and he smiled to himself. His clothes, especially his jackets, were definitely not cheap.

To limber up and gauge the sound quality Tyne started with some right hand exercises. Starting at middle C he fingered his way doing four-note scales to the right edge, then back, twice. Next he performed the same exercise with his left hand, working again from middle C to the left edge and back. Next he repeated the right hand exercise but added some left hand chords. He then switched hands and fingered left, chorded right. Finally, he used both hands and struck a variety of chords, followed by some two handed fingering exercises. Anyone listening would have thought he was playing New Age. All this took less than five minutes and it revealed to Tyne that the instrument was in perfect tune. Someone had restored this old Steinway with loving care. The exercise also told him that his fingers were doing what they were supposed to do in a reasonably competent manner. He was just about to begin playing for real when one of the bartenders approached him and said, “Excuse me sir, but we don’t let just anyone who walks in off the street play our piano. Did you ask anyone for permission to play?”

“Yes, Catherine.”

“Catherine who?”

“She didn’t tell me her last name; the hostess, the dark haired fox with the attitude who decides who gets a table. And if she doesn’t have the authority ask Lydia if it’s okay for Michael to play.”

“Michael who?”

“Just say Michael and describe what I look like, she’ll know whom you mean.” The man didn’t look convinced but he left walking quickly in the direction of the foyer.

The moment of truth had arrived. This was the time to either get up and abandon the whole idea or get on with it and the stakes tonight were the highest they had ever been. Tyne put a finger on the radial artery in his right wrist and counted his pulse for fifteen seconds by the sweep in his Rolex. His usual resting heart rate was fifty-three beats per minute. His heart was now beating at eighty-four. His stomach was turning over the way it always did when he sensed fear. This fear was not the terror he had felt in combat, just the fear that he was about to do something really stupid and embarrassing, and he might have to slink out and never again show his face in this place. Tyne still needed one more test and that was to play something fairly complex and listen critically for any clumsiness. If he passed this test, then he would be certain that he could play others of his favorites and even accept informal requests. If he played the piece poorly he would quit and the damage to his ego would be minimal.

He had to find out so he began playing Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Something Wonderful” pianissimo. He had always found this song challenging, particularly the subtle changes in timing. Now he strained to hear any false notes. Good but not great was what came to mind; adequate but amateurish. Something was not quite right so about a third of the way through he stopped and started over in a higher key and raised the volume somewhat to hear each note over the background din. Before he finished the piece he relaxed, the tension drained away and he was sure. By the end he was lost in the music and almost no longer cared if his playing attracted any restless women. But almost is only good in horseshoes, and what flashed across his brain was an image of Catherine in her sexy red dress. Now wouldn’t that be a coup if he could attract her?

Satisfied that his fingers would not betray him he launched into Sammy Cahn and Jule Stein’s “Time After Time.” Tyne loved this piece and played it exceptionally well. He closed his eyes and was lost in time and space. He always began pianissimo with the volume growing to a soaring crescendo, and then quieting again at the end. It is a short piece, just a little more than two minutes unless the chorus is repeated, but it is almost never played that way unless a singer is being accompanied and the pianist is given a solo stint, as done by Bennett and The Ralph Sharon Trio. Tyne prefers Carly Simon’s shorter version and plays it that way. He always thought of Madeleine when he played it and usually his eyes were moist when he finished, as they were now. After the last note died away, for just a moment, he stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.

Divorced four years, he thought, and still can’t get that woman out of my mind. Well, maybe working with Duvall will let me move on. Maybe I should stop playing this song? No, I’ve got to get to the point where I can play it and not think about Madeleine. Stay focused; think about Duvall and what this is all about.

He looked up with a start! A passing waitress with a tray of drinks had bumped one of the stools beside the piano. She looked back, smiling, and mouthed the word, “sorry.”

Back in the here and now, he pulled the stool closer to the piano, away from the edge of the platform. Next, he decided that Catherine, the hostess, was probably listening, since the bartender had not returned to tell him to stop playing, so he thought about which of the several Yeston pieces he knew he would play for her. Instead, what came to mind was a comment her ex-husband had said about her; that she wanted to develop a world-class cabaret act. Well, if that was true surely she would be familiar with the greatest cabaret singer of all time. If she didn’t he doubted collaborating with her would be worth his time. So he played one of his favorites, the Kern-Harbach song “Poor Pierrot” from the 1931 musical The Cat and the Fiddle, made famous by Mabel Mercer. He decided he’d play this one first and the Yeston piece later.

When he finished there was a small polite applause from a table close to the piano, which he acknowledged with a nod and a brief wave of his right hand. The applause was gratifying but he doubted anyone in the room had ever heard that song before. The melody was hauntingly beautiful and he played it well and that’s what the applause was for. Mercer had not performed since 1981 and had been dead since ‘84. None of her many LP’s had yet been released on CD although he had heard rumors Atlantic was planning to reissue a few of them in 2000, the one-hundredth anniversary of her birth. Long overdue, he thought.

He’d noted the relative youth of the crowd so he decided a little Elton John was in order. He played two of the pieces he’d learned especially for Jeremy – “Tiny Dancer” and “Bennie And The Jets,” and if the volume of applause was any gauge of his skill tonight, he was playing very well indeed.

When he finished the first of the two there was no mistaking the applause; some of the diners – or in this case, drinkers – seemed to think he was playing for their benefit and grew attentive but he ignored them – which was easy since his back was to most of them.

And before he finished playing the second Elton piece he had company. Three women and a man left the booth they’d been sitting in and joined him at the piano. One woman, Cali or Kelly – there was too much noise for Tyne to be sure – was in her early thirties and quite attractive. She sat on the stool closest to Tyne on the left side of the keyboard. An older woman, Mona, who looked to be in her forties, and the man, Jerry, turned out to be a married team of realtors and a still older woman, Jane, who had to be at least fifty, expensively dressed but thirty pounds overweight sat on that same premium stool on the right side. It turned out they were all realtors from the downtown office of Century-21 and they were Friday night cinq à sept regulars. They called it Chill-out Friday and Tyne was reminded that his colleagues at GGS called it chillaxing and those he’d met in Chicago did the same thing; only in Chicago they did it every other week and in nerd-speak called it B2H2Bi-weekly Bonding Happy Hour. Tyne learned all this from Cali or Kelly, whichever, without saying a word and only nodded to acknowledge them. They were all well lubricated and bubbled over with commentary. Tyne was pleased he’d opted to wear his shades and kept his part of the conversation to a minimum. He wondered how the folks in the other two dining rooms were reacting to hearing all about their latest real estate coup.

He was about to play a Yeston piece for Catherine when Mona asked if he knew any Burt Bacharach, Hal David tunes. When he nodded she asked, somewhat hopefully, whether he knew “Anyone Who Had A Heart” or “The Look Of Love.” They were her favorites, she said. He knew both but wanted to play neither, for them. He wanted to play something he thought would appeal more to Catherine, so instead he said, “Sorry, don’t know either but how about ‘Alfie’?” The women gushed something banal about the song while Tyne wished, for her sake, there was a way to turn off the mics during these pauses. He then played the piece and as he had done at Emilio’s the previous week, wailed the third and fourth verses on his harp.

Because he’d done it specifically for Jeremy’s birthday celebration he’d spent a considerable amount of time getting the transition from piano to harmonica just right and now that he had, successfully he believed, he intended to learn to play others of his favorites this way, especially if he entered into a collaboration with the Duvall woman. Mona and her friends fell all over themselves applauding and complimenting him on the way he played the song and most of the others in the piano bar applauded enthusiastically.

He was about to play his favorite Joni Mitchell song, “Blue,” when he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned in the direction of the perfume he was looking into the eyes of one of the three cocktail waitresses working the room. Almost as old as he, still attractive but trying too hard with makeup and hair to look younger than she was – an occupational hazard of waitresses the world over – she said, “My, you’ve got shoulders. Hi, I’m Sammy. The gal over there asked if you can play any Jimmy Webb.” Sammy held a balled bill over the ever-present tips jar.

“Which one?”

“In the second booth. The one facing us. See, she’s waving at you.”

“What’s her name?”

“Gaby, I think. Not sure. Want me to ask?”

Any other night Tyne would have said yes but he knew it would be an unnecessary complication if the Duvall woman showed any interest in his playing, so he said, “No, she’d think I was interested and tonight is neither the time nor the place . . . but I do know lots of Webb. For her I think I’ll play . . .” and he thought which of the many Jimmy Webb pieces he knew would most impress the Duvall woman, if she was listening, “. . . ‘Highwayman,’” and he nodded at the woman whose name might be Gaby. Sammy gave him a foxy look and dropped the crumpled up bill in the jar. He could not see its denomination and didn’t care but he did notice Sammy returned to Gaby’s booth and said something to her. He not only played the song but sang it in a style he called talking blues. When he finished he immediately transitioned into “Blue” but only sang the verse that mentions acid, booze and ass.

When the applause ended, to cut off Mona’s monologue, which he thought would embarrass her had she known it could be heard in the other dining rooms – he assumed the other remote speakers were enabled – he played one of his favorite New Age pieces, Brickman’s “Barcelona.” When he finished this one he glanced at his watch and noted the time – 7:48 P.M. A mental check told him he’d already played nine pieces, all from different musical genres. He decided two more would cover the range of music most likely to appeal to a cabaret singer, so he played Carly Simon’s “Better Not Tell Her.” His version was one of his better adaptations. The drum programming he mimicked with a set of left-hand chords. The intricate guitars including the Jay Berliner Spanish guitar solo he did with right-hand fingering. The effect was stunning and now he wanted to add a harmonica verse.

The piano bar dining room was now full of mostly drinking patrons. Tyne didn’t turn to look but the applause seemed to be coming from all parts of the room. He was about to play something bluesy when he remembered Catherine Duvall had challenged him to play something by Maury Yeston. He loved Yeston’s music but knew only three he could play from memory. Fortunately, he’d practiced them all in the days preceding this trip to Bend specifically so he could play them tonight. So he played Yeston’s “By The River,” and he went out of his way to play it well. He did; in fact, when he was finished he thought it was the best he had ever played that piece, as good tonight as the Bacharach-David piece but not yet augmented with the harp, something he now intended to do. Apparently the bar patrons thought so too as it garnered quite a bit of applause.

“What a splendid song, ” said Jerry, when they stopped applauding. He then ordered another round of drinks. Tyne nodded his thanks but switched to San Pellegrino. “I know I’ve heard that last piece you played but I can’t place it.”

Tyne thought of the live microphones before he answered and who might be listening. “It’s Maury Yeston’s ‘By The River’ from his song cycle, December Songs. It’s more than a splendid song; it’s a musical masterpiece and I love playing it.”

. . .

Catherine Duvall, wearing her senior hostess’ hat, still logging late arrivals without reservations, was certainly one of those listening. Ordinarily she didn’t play during happy hour except on Saturday’s but last night’s crowd had been so good, she had. Too tired after finishing her second act to deal with the sound system, she’d carelessly left it set up in happy hour mode. Her former partner, Eddie Bryce, had supervised the design of the system – two Beyerdynamic MC 834 cardioid condenser microphones mounted on adjustable booms hung from the ceiling directly over the piano, another below it and one for the vocalist. There was also an additional electrical connection, presently unused, for a mic for the keyboardist. They were wired mics because Eddie thought the wireless versions had less dynamic range and poorer noise suppression. He’d even insisted that a few of the oak floor planks on the raised stage be modified to hide the cables, so a vocalist or guitarist wouldn’t trip over them and he always did the setup. After he left Catherine had to teach herself to do the setup and had fiddled with the system until she got it exactly to her liking, with amplification when desired plus, at the flick of a switch, she could distribute the sound to remote speakers discreetly hidden in the ceiling of all three dining rooms. That’s the way she’d left it last night so now all in the restaurant could hear, whether they wanted to or not, the man Ware play the piano.

When he played several verses of “Alfie” on the harmonica pretty much the whole front dining room and the foyer stopped talking to listen. Catherine was instantly reminded of Stevie Wonder. Carla, her assistant, rushed back to tell her what was going on in the piano bar, the dining room they called the mid.

“You should see the people in there, they’re actually listening. It’s the way they react when you play.”

When she heard the man who’d dropped Lydia Conti’s name so casually play Yeston, she too stopped what she was doing to listen carefully. And while she listened she saw Lydia making her nightly happy-check of the spaces they called out front. Lydia genuinely liked people, especially regulars, but she also did it to send a subtle message to her wait staff, that she was paying attention. She always carried a bottle of wine or liqueur with her and a supply of glasses in a cloth pouch around her waist, and she offered the wine, always in omaggio – complimentary – to diners, depending on at what stage they were with their meals. She would chat briefly and always asked what they thought of whatever new wine she had discovered.

When Lydia looked in her direction Catherine beckoned her, and a moment later when the older woman joined her she said, “Do you know someone named Michael?”

“Michael? Michael who?”

“About this tall,” she held out her hand at what she estimated Tyne’s height to be, “mid forties, dark curly hair worn in a ponytail . . .

“Ware? Michael Ware?”

“Yes, Ware. That’s the name he gave me . . . for the book.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in the bar. In fact, that’s him playing the piano. He doesn’t have a reservation.”

“Couldn’t you find him a table?”

She raised her hands in a gesture of frustration, looked around and said, “You’re kidding of course. I’m about to close the book unless you’re willing to stay open past eleven.”

“No, we can’t, we’ll run out of food and tomorrow night and Sunday will be just as busy . . . and then we have Monday to deal with. You could give him Connie’s table.”

“And twenty minutes later I’d be unemployed.”

“How is it that you asked me about him?”

“He told me to. He also told me to ask you about Madeleine.”

“His former wife. She’s Italian. Is she here too?”

“No, he’s alone.”

“Too bad. I’ve been hoping those two would get back together. They are . . . were, such a lovely couple.”

“Uh-huh. Lydia, why didn’t you tell me you know someone that can play the piano as well as he?”

“Well, he doesn’t live in Bend . . . and he travels a lot . . . you know, for his work.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s some sort of consultant . . . something to do with computers.”

“Damn, this is not happening. I refuse to believe this is happening,” Catherine said, under her breath.

“So, he must have given you a reason to ask me about them?”

“He hit on me.”

“He hit on you?”

“Yes, when I told him how long he would have to wait for a table he asked me if I got a dinner break. When I said I did he asked me to have dinner with him. When I said I eat in the kitchen at a table reserved for staff he said he’d be happy to eat in the kitchen. I said the kitchen was off limits to customers and he told me to ask you if it was okay for Michael to eat in the kitchen.”

“Well good, problem solved.”

“I’m not going to eat with him, certainly not in the kitchen.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s an arrogant smart-ass and I don’t like smart-asses.”

Lydia patted the woman on the arm and said, “So are you dear; so are you, and . . . you could do a lot worse. Do what you can to find him a table.” She started to walk away and paused long enough to say, “Hey, put him in the kitchen and I’ll talk to him while he’s eating and maybe, since you don’t want him, I’ll get him to come home with me.” The older woman smiled and winked and then moved away to greet another set of her guests.

. . .

Back in the piano bar the man with the three women said, “Man, that is obvious. You play exceptionally well. Are you Catherine’s new accompanist?”

Tyne again thought about the open microphones and chose his words carefully. “No, I’m waiting for a table. Like an idiot I didn’t make a reservation. I think I would have left half an hour ago if they didn’t have this piano, or if someone told me I couldn’t use it.”

“Well, the way you play, Ms. Luraschi will be falling all over herself to get you to accompany Catherine. She is a truly lovely woman and the best thing to ever happen to this town, entertainment-wise but her regular accompanist left town and she hasn’t been able to find a replacement. You’d be perfect for her act.”

. . .

Out at the lectern Catherine Duvall, the restaurant’s hostess, had been listening with growing interest to this Ware person’s playing and was startled when she heard this exchange. She cursed herself for forgetting to turn off the mics. She had to put a stop, and quickly, to the unsuspecting broadcast of these private remarks before anyone said something they would all regret. She looked around for any new arrivals waiting for tables and for once this evening there was a lull. Everyone waiting had already been entered into her log; they would just have to be patient and wait. She signaled to her assistant to relieve her, grabbed the spare electronic remote control she kept at the lectern and headed for the piano bar to see for herself what was going on, especially why this usually cynical Friday night bar crowd was applauding after each song.

. . .

Just as their waitress was serving their drinks Tyne was surprised to see the hostess approach the piano. She came directly to his side and Tyne saw her discreetly flick what looked like a TV remote control in the general direction of the Beyerdynamics and the red LED’s went dark. Cool, he thought, they do have a way to control what goes out to the remotes. Not to would really be stupid. She greeted the Century-21 people by name, which somehow didn’t surprise him, and then she bent over, her face close to his ear, as if to speak privately to him. She was about to say something when he said, “Did you happen to hear the Yeston song I played for you? If not, I’ll play it again. Or are you here to tell me my table is ready?”

“I heard it . . .” but before she could finish what she was about to say Lydia Conti squeezed onto the piano bench beside Tyne. To make room for herself she gently but firmly pushed the hostess so she had to take a step backward. She hugged him fiercely and kissed him on the mouth. “Oh Michael, it’s so good to see you again. Give Mama Lydia a hug.”

Tyne returned the hug and said, “It’s good to see you too,” playing along even though it had been only a little more than a week since they last had talked.

“Michael . . . ooh Michael, take it easy on an old lady. You don’t know your own strength and I bruise easy. I told this one,” gesturing at Catherine, “to find a table for you . . . or else.”

“I was just about to tell the gentleman his table is ready,” said the hostess.

Lydia smacked her palm dramatically against her forehead and said, “Porca miseria! I must be getting old and senile. I forgot how well you play and this one,” again gesturing at Catherine, “is looking for someone to play for her while she sings. She sings rather well, actually . . . maybe you two could get together . . . or are you still spending all your time in California?”

“No, for the time being I’ve no such commitments.”

“Well then, you two should talk.” She kissed him again and rose from the bench. She touched him affectionately on the neck and then said, “That being the case I hope to see you more often than of late. I think the last time was in the spring.”

“Things have been pretty hectic since my last visit . . . as well you know.”

“Yes, well . . . I hope that too is behind you. Buon Appetito. Try the lamb.”

Lydia scurried away and the hostess said, “Your table is ready. Would you come with me please?”

Tyne slid the Hohner back into its velvet pouch, pocketed it, ignored the money in the tips jar and excused himself. The woman picked up his drink and he followed her to a booth along the wall. The table, covered with a white linen tablecloth and place settings for four, had a RESERVED sign, which Catherine retrieved. After he slid into the booth she did the same, facing him. She lit the candle in the Venetian glass vase with a wooden kitchen match and then she said, “Would you mind removing your sunglasses?”

He stared at her for a moment and then removed his shades. He laid them on the table in case he wanted to put them on again.

“I thought it would be nine before I got a table and when I played Yeston, I wasn’t sure you would hear.”

“The microphones feed remote speakers so I heard everything you played . . . and everything that was said. Sorry, I forgot to turn them off last night and I was too busy dealing with arriving guests to deal with them. Fortunately, none of you said anything to be ashamed of although those Century-21 people might be surprised at what tonight’s crowd now knows about them.” She showed him the remote control. “We always reserve one table in each dining room just in case some Bend VIP shows up without a reservation. I gave you one of those because I heard you play ‘By The River.’”

“Thank you. I hoped you’d hear it and would like it.”

When she failed to respond to this he said, “Well, you said you know what good sounds like; did you like it?”

“You earned a table.”

“That isn’t what I asked you. On a scale of 1 to 10, what grade would you give it?”

She thought for a moment and then said, “Seven.”

Though he tried not to show it Tyne was visibly distressed hearing the woman give what he thought was excellent a mediocre grade. Most of the women he played to impress fell all over themselves to tell him how good he was. Objectively, he knew he was no Van Cliburn and never would be but he did play popular music and Broadway show tunes exceptionally well. The feeling passed and he said, “I guess I’m not as good as thought I was.”

“It’s your fingering technique. You’re self-taught, aren’t you?”

“Pretty much. May I ask what your qualifications are that permit you to critique my playing?”

“Well, I have a degree in music from McGill University and I’ve been playing the piano since I was seven. Mr. Ware . . .

“Michael. Please call me Michael.”

“Okay . . . Michael . . . earlier, when you arrived . . . I think we may have got off on the wrong foot. I want to try and put that right, if I can.”

“We? How did we do that?”

“Well, I may have been rude, unintentionally, but you came on to me; now don’t deny it.”

“Why should I deny it? I did come on to you.”

“Yes, and you were very persistent . . .

“Very.”

“And you didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer . . .

“When a pretty woman says no I hear yes.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, so . . . I was rude. I’m sorry if you were offended.”

“I wasn’t and it was more my fault than yours. I didn’t see the ring. Normally it’s not something I miss. I look for it . . . whenever I meet a woman as beautiful as you. I think the reason I must have missed it was I couldn’t stop looking in your eyes. They are extraordinary. I don’t think I have ever seen eyes the color of yours. At first I thought they are blue, but no they aren’t blue at all, but violet, but not really violet either, they are darker than that but definitely not black, closer to purple. It must be the light. Of course, it’s the candlelight. They are a slightly different shade of purple with each flicker of the candle. Do you know a man could drown in your eyes? Yes, I’m sure you do. Beautiful women know they are beautiful and it would be more than extraordinary if someone like you were unattached.” She started to say something and he held up his palm to stop her.

“But not to worry. I don’t believe in having too many rules but one of mine that is absolutely unbreakable; I don’t fool around with married women.”

She smiled briefly, almost to herself, looked away for a moment and then she looked at her watch and said. “Mr. Ware . . .

“Michael.”

“Sorry, Michael, I don’t have a lot of time . . . have to get back to work . . .

“So you’re not going to dine with me?”

“I can’t; too much to do. The dinner crowd is about to start arriving and the next hour is going to be very hectic. It’s up to me to . . . to juggle all those balls. Then, I play the piano from nine until ten-thirty or so. What I would like you to do is enjoy a good meal, as my guest, and then stay for my piano solo. Afterwards we can talk, at length and without interruption. And so that you aren’t surprised by what I want to discuss, I’ll simply say that I want to talk about you becoming my accompanist. My name is Catherine Duvall and I’m the resident songbird, or at least I am when I can get someone to play for me. Please don’t say anything now. Think about it during dinner and then let’s talk. Will you do that for me?”

“Why would you hire a seven?”

She blinked several times and it took her a moment to say, “It was just that one song, and . . . and that one passage . . . the rest of what you played was . . . I think if we exclude that one song you’re not a seven.”

“What am I?”

“You’re . . . let’s not get into that now, okay? Let’s just say you are enough better than a seven that I want to discuss us working together.”

“Did you talk to Lydia about me? Is that why she said hullo?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did she say about me?”

“She said you don’t live in Bend and you travel a lot. That’s why, she said, she didn’t tell me she knows someone who plays as well as you. I’ve been looking for a new accompanist for months. She knows that and I was pissed . . . I was angry that she didn’t tell me about you.”

He shrugged, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“If you don’t live in Bend, where do you live?”

“Eastern Oregon.”

“Like Ontario or La Grande?”

“I have a ranch north of Burns.”

“A ranch? You mean cattle and horses and all that?”

“Cats and dogs and horses. No cattle.”

“And you make a living from cats and dogs and horses?”

“It’s not a working ranch . . . at least it hasn’t been, but that could change. I’m an engineer. Mostly I consult, to companies in Portland, Chicago and the Bay Area. The ranch is a retreat, a place for me to go to get away when the bullshit gets too deep.”

“And you came all the way to Bend just for some Italian food?”

“Bend . . . or Redmond actually, is something of a travel hub for me. I can connect to virtually anywhere from there. I’m actually on my way to California.”

“How long will you be there?”

“This trip, two days. I should be back at my ranch Wednesday.”

“And you’ll return through Redmond?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When you travel, to these cities where your clients are located, do you stay there over the weekends?”

“Almost never. I like to spend my weekends at the ranch although last year, in January, I did spend three straight weeks in Chicago, three weekends . . . but that was a special deal.”

Catherine looked at her watch and said, “I have to go. Would you at least think about working with me?” When he said nothing, merely stared at her, his face as neutral as he could make it, she said, “If you don’t want to discuss it or you don’t want to stay for my show, well . . . in any case, please enjoy your dinner.”

She slipped out of the booth but before she could leave he stopped her by touching her forearm gently with the tips of his fingers and said, “Catherine, I’ll be here when you finish playing.”

She smiled and nodded, and then she walked back to the lectern.

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Police question Michael Ware and Catherine Duvall regarding shooting deaths of two

Oregon State Police question Michael Ware and Catherine Duvall in the shooting deaths of two in Bend.

This next scene from Affirmative Action follows sequentially immediately after the scene (previously published in two prose versions) in which Michael Ware, formerly Jonathan Tyne, wakes after recovering from surgery for near-fatal gunshot wounds.

You may not recall how badly Ware was wounded. Here is what I wrote to describe what was done to save his life:

The cop questioned Catherine for over an hour and then, apparently satisfied; he let her dress and had her driven to the hospital. When she got there Michael was still in surgery. Corporal Dietz had radioed ahead so a team of three nurses with a gurney and a trauma surgeon were waiting at the emergency entrance. Tyne was barely conscious when they arrived; his lips cyanic, his blood pressure having dropped to 60 over 40, clearly in circulatory shock. He was transferred to the gurney and whisked directly into an operating room.
An x-ray of his torso revealed the bullet had split into three pieces. He was given a spinal to numb him from the diaphragm down and two units of whole blood. Dietz had managed to learn that Tyne’s blood type was B-positive before he became incoherent. A three-inch incision was made in his abdominal wall and the splinter was removed, the lacerated anterior branch of the renal vein was sutured, the blood suctioned from his abdominal cavity and three pieces of lead were removed from the external oblique muscle above and to the left of his navel. A small puncture the sliver made in his bladder was also repaired. His blood pressure back up to a healthy 120 over 70, he was stitched up, administered antibiotics and a tetanus shot and after several hours in a post-op recovery room, he was wheeled, still unconscious, into a semi-private two-person room. The other person in the room, separated from Tyne by a portable curtain divider, was a ten-year old boy whom the day before had had his tonsils removed.

Several of my long-term readers requested that I post this scene, so I am. That such a scene is coming is made clear, twice, in those aforementioned scenes when Catherine Duvall says:

Catherine moved her chair closer to Michael’s bed and gripped his hand, fiercely. She leaned close and whispered, “There’s a cop outside who wants me to tell him when you’re awake and can talk. Also, your nurse made the same request. Can you talk?”

And at the end of those scenes I wrote:

Catherine kissed him on the mouth, and it was not the kiss of just a friend. “To be continued,” she said, and went to the door and spoke briefly with officer Prater. Glancing on the other side of the curtain Catherine noted the boy in the next bed was paying close attention to the adult happenings on Michael’s side of the divider. The cop made a call and thirty minutes later the Hispanic cop who had shown them Nick Parma’s body arrived to question him. Before he arrived a different nurse, a candy striper, came in pushing a wheel chair and she hustled the other patient out of the room. The cop, now dressed in a well-cut dark blue suit and maroon tie, knocked on the door but entered without waiting for permission and got right down to business.

So, for your reading pleasure, here is:

Detective Araya grills Michael Ware and Catherine Duvall about the shooting deaths of the Venezuelan hit-man Jorge Humberto Argueta Otálvaro and Nicholas Parma.

–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–

He introduced himself as Detective Hector C. Araya, Oregon State Police, showed Tyne his badge and explained that he was in charge of a Deschutes County Major Crime team that had been activated to investigate the shooting. Tyne asked if the detective intended to read him his Miranda rights and if he did Tyne intended to contact his attorney. Araya said he’d already heard most of what had happened from Ms. Duvall and based on that he didn’t think Mr. Ware would be charged with a crime. He just wanted to hear what happened from Mr. Ware, but of course, if Mr. Ware preferred to have an attorney present, he had no objection.

Before he said anything about the shooting Tyne asked the cop to call Lt. Castelano of the Oakland, California PD, tell the Lieutenant what happened and ask him about Jonathan Tyne. It was Sunday, but Tyne knew that Mike’s position on an organized crime task force meant he was on-call twenty four-seven. The cop left the room to make the call. He was gone twenty minutes or so and when he returned he addressed Tyne as Mr. Ware; said he understood.

Catherine was just emerging from the bathroom where she’d gone to throw water on her face; arguing with Michael, she frequently said, was exhausting. As she poured a cup of ice water for Tyne Araya took the only chair on Tyne’s side of the room, the lightly upholstered recliner Catherine had spent the night in. As she handed Tyne the water, a noticeable tremor in her hand, she asked if she should leave the room. When Araya said she could stay if she wished Tyne patted the bed for her to sit. He elevated the back of the bed so he was sitting upright, more or less, and then rearranged the air hoses that powered the cuffs attached to his calves. He handed her one of his pillows so she could rest her back against the bed rail. Once she was settled Tyne explained exactly what had happened.

The only item he omitted was that he’d had words with Nick Parma at the Bend airport and the only reason he kept this information to himself was that Araya seemed not to know Tyne was a pilot. He could not explain this omission on the part of the authorities, either here or in California, but he saw no reason to enlighten them. Besides, no one was interested in how he traveled to and from his ranch. They probably assumed he drove.

After Tyne thought he was done, that he’d told everything that had happened at least twice, the cop said, “I’d like to get a better understanding of this motion detector that alerted you of the break-in? Could you be a little more specific; for example, where you acquired it, how it works, things like that.”

Those motion detectors… there are two; one just outside the front door and the other in the inside corner above the door.”

“Two… really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Please tell me about both of them?”

“I purchased them several weeks ago from Capitol Security Supply of Reston, Virginia… from the company’s catalog. When I knew for sure I’d be spending my weekends here in Bend, staying with Ms. Duvall, I felt I needed an early warning system… just in case Frank Tosca learned what I was doing and where I was staying…”

“Excuse me, do you know Tosca sent these men or are you assuming he did?”

“The latter, but isn’t it obvious? I mean Argueta Otálvaro was a pro. Soft armor, NV goggles, a suppressed pistol with its serial numbers ground off. If Tosca didn’t send him then Deschutes County sure has one hell of an interesting burglary problem.”

“You were saying… about these motion detectors?”

“Both devices are battery-powered 802.11b wireless sending units operating over the 2.4 GHz radio band. They work with a base station, a PCMCIA card that plugs into a Macintosh computer. The card fits into a type II slot and it has an antenna – what we call a dongle – that hangs on the lid of a laptop. To get an alert that would wake me up but not arouse the suspicions of an intruder I wrote a software longcase clock, what some folks call a grandfather clock, in AppleScript. I did it as an exercise… to learn AppleScript, but after it was done I saw how I could use it with the motion detectors.

“I own a real longcase, eight-day clock with selectable chimes. So, I recorded two chimes melodies, Westminster Quarters and St. Michaels and turned them into ringtones with some music software I own. Then, I attached the scripts to file folders as folder actions and configured them to run whenever a file arrives, in this case, the small file that the base station writes when it receives an alert. Are you with me so far detective or is this too technical?”

“I’m familiar with event models such as Apple Events. Please continue.”

“Cool. So, first the script reads the time from the computer’s hardware clock and then plays the melody that’s the closest approximation to real time. What I mean is this. The way longcase clocks work, the length of the melody is a function of which quarter-hour is being announced, with the hour strike at the top of the hour. The outside device plays the St. Michaels melody while the inside one plays Westminster. I sleep with the laptop on my bedside table and I turn the outside device on with a wireless remote when we are both in the condo for the night. I turn the inside one on when I go to bed. At home my clock isn’t anywhere near my bedroom so it never wakes me but here it’s right next to my ear and I set the Mac’s speaker volume on max. Except last night I was reading when the St. Michaels chimes began to play. Then, when I heard an attempt to force the door I knew someone was trying to break in. That’s when I woke Ms. Duvall.”

“And gave her your gun?”

“Un-huh. A nine-millimeter SIG-Sauer P225.”

“Where is this gun now? We didn’t find it when we searched your room.”

“It wasn’t in the bedside table?”

“Nope.”

“I have it,” said Catherine. “It’s locked in the trunk of my car along with most of Mr. Ware’s personal stuff.”

“Did you fire it or in any way participate in the actual shooting?”

“No, but I would have, had anyone other than Mr. Ware or the police come through my bedroom door. At first, when Michael gave me the gun and told me what I had to do I didn’t think I could. But then as I waited to see whether… to see whether anyone would try to hurt me, I knew I could. I was ready and I told the 9-1-1 operator I would shoot if I had to. Stupid woman; she kept telling me to forget the gun and go to the window and scream my head off. I only wish…”

When she didn’t finish her sentence Araya prompted her with, “You only wish what?”

“I was about to say I wish I were proficient enough to have helped.”

“Maybe, just maybe if Mr. Ware’s motion detectors had set off a burglar alarm and you had screamed your head off, shooting and killing these men might not have been necessary. Did that thought occur to either of you?”

“Ever hear of Kitty Genovese, Detective Araya?” said Tyne.

“No, should I have?”

“Probably before your time. Catherine Susan Kitty Genovese was a woman who was repeatedly stabbed near her home on a residential street, a street very much like Bend’s 8th Street, in Queens, New York City while a dozen witnesses looked on and listened and did nothing. While she lay dying, her assailant raped her. Kitty was twenty-eight at the time of her death in 1964. The New York Times incorrectly reported there were 38 witnesses who did nothing, but twelve is bad enough.

“How come it took you guys so long to respond?”

“The county has limited resources and it was a busy night.” Araya, sensing he was losing control of the interview, quickly changed the subject. “Who installed these motion detectors?”

“I did. I masked the lens and painted the inside device and its mounting bracket to match the wall and installed them while Ms. Duvall was away.”

Araya turned to Catherine and said, “Did you know these devices were present?”

“No, I know nothing about them.”

. . .

Both Tyne and the cop were looking at Catherine’s face; watching her eyes. She was staring intently at the cop, glaring actually. He’d seen that look before on several occasions, usually when she was very angry with him. She was giving a good impression of not being concerned about those wireless sending units but he was certain there was a reckoning coming.

“So, you didn’t obtain Ms. Duvall’s permission to install them?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why not, since you were, what…”

“A guest.”

“Yes, a guest, yet you installed these devices in your host’s home without her knowledge. Why?”

“Initially Ms. Duvall knew me as Michael Ware, my stage name. I knew that if I told her about the motion detectors I’d have to tell her my real name. For my own selfish reasons I didn’t want her to know who I was and that I’d been involved in a shooting earlier in the year in California.”

“Didn’t you think you had a responsibility to Ms. Duvall to warn her that she might be in danger?”

“Yes, I did, but as I said, my reasons for not telling her were selfish. I thought if she knew she would not wish to work with me and even though I installed the motion detectors, which implies I was conscious of the risk, I thought being in Oregon, away from the Bay Area and using a fictitious name that the risk was minimal. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“You need to understand something detective,” said Catherine. “Two days ago, Friday, Mr. Tyne told me his real name and the reason he uses an alias but I already knew who he is. Our relationship was and is a business one but as closely as we’ve worked, there was always the possibility it would become… personal. So, to protect myself, so to speak, I made an effort to learn as much about Michael as I could. It wasn’t particularly difficult discovering he wasn’t who he said he was. I’ve known since we started working together but for my own selfish reasons, I didn’t want him to know that I know.”

The cop had been watching Tyne’s face during the woman’s revelation. He’d managed to keep his face expressionless but not completely. Tyne thought it best to assume that Araya now knew that Catherine’s knowing his name was Tyne and not Ware came as a surprise.

What the cop didn’t know, what he couldn’t know was that it wasn’t so much that Catherine knew his name was Tyne. He’d known for several weeks that she knew his real name. What surprised him was that Catherine would come to his defense, stick her neck out, so to speak, and expose herself to suspicion of being part of a conspiracy.

Turning his attention back to the woman Araya said, “Why not, or is that too personal?”

“It is but I’ll answer. I wanted Michael to want to tell me… on his own. I believed that if and when he told me it would mean he trusted me… and if he never told me… well, then that would mean he didn’t trust me. It was important to me that at some point we’d reach that level of trust but in truth, I too believed the risk was minimal.”

“How, exactly, did you make that discovery?”

Catherine smiled, enigmatically, and said, “Come on detective, a girl has to have some secrets, even from you cops.”

“You do realize, Ms. Duvall, that you just made yourself a potential suspect to the crime of conspiracy to commit murder?”

“I knew you would eventually come to that, as soon as you figured out who he is… or was, since he went to court and made that name change legal. Go ahead and check me out. You will in any case. You won’t find any connection between me and this Tosca crowd.”

When the cop said nothing but stared, intently, at her she said, “One other thing detective, the fire at Di Giorgio’s effectively ended my performance contract. It was Mr. Ware’s intent to return to John Day after dinner Friday night. Because of the storm he decided to wait until the weather cleared. Those devices he installed only work if he’s here, with the laptop. Had he not been here those men would have made me tell them where he was, everything I know about him. I wouldn’t have wanted to tell them… but I would have. I think it’s reasonable to assume they would have killed me, afterwards… don’t you?”

Never taking his eyes away from Catherine’s, the cop said to Tyne. “Mr. Ware, when did you know about the fire?”

“Friday morning, when I arrived at the condo. Ms. Duvall left a note asking me to come to the restaurant.”

“He works for you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Didn’t she call you to say there was no need to come to Bend?”

“She did, Thursday, but my cell phone wasn’t working. I listened to that message when I got to the restaurant.”

Araya looked doubtful so Catherine fetched Tyne’s cell phone from the pocket of his sweatpants hanging on a wall hook. She found the voicemail function and played the time stamped entry for the cop to hear.

Araya continued to stare at her for almost a minute and then turned back to Tyne and said, “And then you blinded him with that combat light.”

Temporarily blinded him.”

“Of course, temporarily, except he was dead before he recovered his eyesight.”

“I sincerely hope so. I hope the last thing he saw through his NV goggles was a sun so bright it fried his eyeballs.”

“Did you issue a warning before you fired?”

“A warning?  And give up the only advantage I had?  No, I gave no warning other than the light.  You can certainly think of it as a warning of sorts.”

“How so?”

“Because the proper response to a light like that is to fire a volley at it.”

“Why not a verbal warning?  If he’d seen the shotgun, seen that you had the drop on him, he might have fled.  It might not have been necessary to shoot him.”

“Two reasons. My only advantage in an otherwise one-sided confrontation was surprise and I wasn’t about to relinquish it. I was inside a dwelling, not my own but nevertheless, a dwelling, one in which I was a resident. We’d called 9-1-1 and had retreated as far as it was possible to retreat without jumping from a third story window. I decided if they got to the top of the stairs before you people arrived I had the right to shoot, without giving a warning and I was going to shoot. And I feared that if I challenged him, he’d turn when he heard my voice and shoot the instant he saw me. He was just as ready as I, possibly high on something other than adrenaline. Had I waited, even long enough to say freeze or something really stupid like drop your gun or I’ll shoot, it might have been me lying dead on the stairs instead of him… and then he would have tried to kill Catherine.”

“You seem rather well informed?”

“I should be; I completed the training to obtain a permit to carry concealed. Some of the legal issues discussed in that class were confusing so I followed up with my attorney.”

“And the second reason?”

“Unlike you cops I’m under no obligation to observe any sort of escalation of force doctrine. They came into my home – I regard it as such, based on my business relationship with Ms. Duvall – to kill me… and by association to kill her too, so I was determined to use every means available to defeat them, including shooting without warning. And when the night-light was turned off I knew they were coming and I was damn well going to shoot if they came up those stairs. And just for the fuckin’ record, I don’t have to give no stinkin’ warning.”

The two men stared at each other, the cop frowning, disbelief written all over his face. He looked doubtful, as if he actually believed Tyne should have issued some sort of verbal warning and threatened to shoot if the man refused to lay down his weapon. Suddenly it occurred to Tyne why, so he said, “The look on your face makes me think you’ve never been in a gunfight, never been at the sharp end?”

The cop said nothing but Tyne saw something in his eyes, so he continued. “A verbal warning is like a bluff, as it were, and may work with an amateur but sends the wrong message to a pro. It tells the pro you are more scared of shooting than not shooting. He knows he can take you. If he’s close enough he can take your weapon and if not he can shoot you before you can shoot him. In either case you’ve lost the fight. Bluffing with a gun in your hands is a form of vacillation and vacillation can get you killed.”

Without ever looking away Araya said, “Tell me about this night-light?”

“It’s a small red light that’s plugged into an outlet near the breakfast bar,” said Catherine.

“Ms. Duvall turns it on just before she goes to bed,” said Tyne.

Araya turned to Catherine and said, “Do you remember turning the light on last night?”

She thought for a minute and then said, “I think I did but I can’t swear that I did. We were up late last night, talking, and I was very tired when I went to bed.”

“How do you turn it on?”

“It has an on-off switch, just like a wall switch.”

“Do you ever turn it off by unscrewing the bulb?”

“I never have.”

He turned to Tyne and said, “How about you Mr. Ware? Do you ever turn it off by unscrewing the bulb?”

“I never turn it on or off, by any means. It’s not my home… except last night I turned it on when I went downstairs to fetch my computer.”

“You just got through saying it was.”

“Only with respect to the legal theory of self defense within a dwelling.”

“If the night-light was off how did you see to shoot?”

“There’s a skylight over the stairs. Enough moonlight was coming through it that I could see a silhouette against the wall.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment and then Tyne said, “So detective, are you going to tell us whether the bulb was unscrewed or not?”

When the cop said nothing Tyne said, “I’ll take that as a yes. Were there fingerprints on the bulb?”

“Someone wiped the bulb clean.”

“Well it sure wasn’t one of us. What would be the point?”

Changing the subject again Araya said, “We found both Winchester and Federal empty shotgun shells, 3-inch magnums, on the landing and in the second bedroom. Why the mix of loads? Was that accidental or deliberate?”

“The first was the Winchester, a 2 ¾ inch 328-grain rifled slug. The rest were 3 inch Federal #2 buck, and yes, that mix was deliberate. I figured anyone that came might be wearing Kevlar… so; I aimed the first shot at his armhole. Only Winchester offers that particular load in 20-gauge but for buckshot I prefer Federal loads, because they contain a superior wad and by their markings can easily be distinguished from slugs.”

“Why a twenty and not a twelve?”

“I’m allergic to recoil and I wanted something a small woman could shoot, comfortably, without the punishing kick of a light twelve.”

“A neat little ambush, wasn’t it?”

“Where were you guys when Ms. Duvall called 9-1-1?”

Instead of answering Araya said, “One last question… you shot Mr. Argueta Otálvaro three times but Mr. Parma only once; yet there was an unfired round in the chamber of your shotgun. Why didn’t you shoot Parma a second time?”

“He dropped his gun and turned to flee. Once he did that I no longer had the right to shoot… so I didn’t.”

Detective Araya stared at Tyne for a long time and then said, “I think that’s it. I have all the information I need. Thank you both for being so forthright.”

“What happens next?” said Tyne.

“I’ll write up a report and make a recommendation to the district attorney. He may want to talk to you or Ms. Duvall himself.”

“And you’re going to recommend exactly what?”

“That the shooting was justified. That it would be inappropriate to prosecute you. It’s his decision, not mine, but the circumstances here are pretty clear.”

“What name are you going to put in your report?”

The cop stared at Tyne for a long time and then he said, “Ware, of course. What other name would I use? I asked to see your ID and you showed it to me, so I’ll check the box… to note that for the record.”

“When will I be able to return to my condo?” said Catherine.

“It won’t be long, certainly before the end of the week… Technically it’s still a crime scene… until I finish my report and the coroner submits his.”

Jonathan Tyne survives near-fatal shooting – redux

Jonathan Tyne regains consciousness after emergency surgery – revised

Several of my long-term readers complained in private e-mails that the scene from my novel Affirmative Action, previously published herein, in which Jonathan Tyne wakes in the hospital after surviving a near-fatal gunshot wound, is not believable. Not that I got the medical stuff wrong… I didn’t, except for the type of catheter installed in Tyne. No, what was unbelievable to those readers was that Tyne could wake and after seeing the enchanting Catherine Duvall, be alert enough and horny enough to encourage her to remove his catheter and give him a handjob. Good writing, perhaps, but a bad idea.

Of course, I adhere to the Fiction Writers Bill of Rights, which states unequivocally that I can make up whatever I want as I go. If I need a building in a certain place and it’s not there I can put a fictional building there and no one can say I can’t. For example, I needed a floating restaurant in the Oakland Estuary that isn’t there so I picked one up on the Sacramento River and transported it ninety miles south. In the process I added a floating ramp I’d seen on a similar building near Sidney on Vancouver Island in British Columbia. Whatever is needed to make the story work is part of the fiction writer’s craft and sanctioned by that aforementioned Bill of Rights.

Well, I thought about those critiques and decided they were right. I wrote that scene precisely because I wanted to depict adult sex between two mature people very much taken with each other. Alas, what I got was a great deal of attention from the wrong crowd. It seems that many, many surfers are fascinated with handjobs. Those looking for porn videos visit my site, so say my web analysis tools. Not that there is anything wrong with Internet porn or handjobs per se; it’s just that folks looking for such fare will be unimpressed by my telling of Catherine getting Jonathan off, without the benefit of accompanying video. Furthermore, it no longer works in the context of the story since I have changed the facts between Catherine and Jonathan. They have yet to become lovers; it is not until early in Rogue Elephants, the second book in the series, that they do. In point of fact, a day prior to the shooting at her condominium she rejected his proposal of either marriage or an exclusive commitment and informed him she was returning to her ex-husband.

So, no handjob in his hospital room after removing a Robinson catheter. They would not have used a Robinson; they would have used a Foley, which contains a balloon inflated with saline to keep it locked in place. I chose to use a Robinson precisely so that she could remove it. And he would have been so groggy from all the drugs with which they have been infusing him to make an erection impossible, other than in my imagination.

So, I rewrote that scene and several others, for reasons of continuity. I could take the earlier version down but it serves a purpose, to show my editing skills… that I can accept constructive criticism and rework a scene or scenes to make them better. Editors and agents please take note. Here then is:

Jonathan Tyne survives near-fatal shooting and receives a splendid reward – redux.

Feel free to say which you prefer.

–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–)|(–

It was mid-afternoon when Tyne woke. His first awareness of his surroundings was the steady, reassuring pinging of his own heartbeat coming from the monitor on the left side of his bed. A thick cable snaked down from it to somewhere under the sheet and blanket that covered him to his chest. He raised his right hand and saw the electrode attached to his wrist. Glancing down he saw another on his left wrist. He followed the cable to a concentrator on his chest and counted ten thin leads in and one thick one out. One by one he touched the six electrodes attached to his chest. They had him hooked up for electrocardiography, he concluded. He touched the bandage on his stomach, tentatively at first. He was tender but the pain was bearable. They must have doped me up with painkillers, he thought. Then he saw the IV needle embedded in the back of his left hand and he was sure. He pushed the blanket down and the sudden chill told him he was naked under the sheet. They had not gowned him. He drew the blanket back up to his chin.

His nose itched and when he brushed his hand across his face dislodged the nasal cannula; felt the cool air on his upper lip coming from the prongs. He twisted his head around and followed the clear tube to where it was connected to a port on the wall behind him. Glancing down at his hands he saw the device clamped to his right index finger. He could not remember the name of the finger clamp but knew it measured blood oxygen saturation. He guessed that while he was asleep his breathing had become shallow and they supplemented with oxygen to avoid hypoxemia. He pushed the prongs back into his nostrils and made a conscious effort to breath deeply.

Another glance at the monitor told him it was 2:47 P.M., but was it Sunday or some other day? And where was he? The blinking time-display had caught his eye. He scanned the display and found the date. It was Sunday, which meant he’d been unconscious for almost twelve hours. He wondered why he didn’t have an urge to pee. He reached for his willy and found the catheter protruding from its tip. With his fingers he counted the ports. There were three, which meant it was an indwelling Foley. He was very familiar with these; as part of his military medical training he’d been taught how to insert and inflate them in the field and after he was wounded he’d worn them for weeks when he was non‑ambulatory. He hated them with a passion.

Why do I need one, he thought? He could not see the collection bag. When he tried to sit up the pain was sharp, almost excrutiating, so he raised himself up on his elbows. His eyes followed the clear PVC tube to the bag hanging on the bedframe near his feet. It looked like it held about 400 ml of urine, the color of red wine. So, just what I need, blood in my urine. Well, kidneys or bladder, but which is it?

He again pushed himself up on his elbows, one at a time, and used the other hand to probe his lower back. He doubted he would find a bandage or a wound since the bullet fragments had all been under the skin of his abdomen and the wood splinter was too short to penetrate to his kidneys, but he checked just the same. So, whatever is causing the bleeding must be to my bladder.

A barely audible hissing sound now caught his attention. It sounded like a pump running, on and off, on and off, every thirty seconds or so. He listened through several cycles and then it came to him; his calves were wrapped from ankles to knees with some type of cuff that were being inflated, first the left, then the right. Something to do with clot prevention, he mused.

The first reassuring thing he saw was Catherine Duvall wearing sweats and partially covered by a blanket, sitting in a chair next to his bed, apparently asleep, her legs drawn up under her, her chin resting on her fist, an open book in her lap. He couldn’t resist reaching out and touching her thigh, the cable just long enough. She immediately opened her eyes and smiling, said, “Well, copping a feel are we? That’s surely a good sign. Quick, how much is 9 times 37?”

Tyne took only a second or two and then said, “Three hundred thirty-three. Why?”

“How about 179 divided by 14?”

Doing division in his head took a little longer but Tyne said, “Twelve and 11/14ths.”

“The surgeon who worked on you said your blood pressure had dropped so low there was a remote chance you suffered brain damage. I was doing my own quick and dirty test.”

“I wasn’t copping a feel. Under better circumstances I might… but you belong to someone else now… or am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re not mistaken.”

“It hurts to swallow… and to speak. I have no idea why… so I was trying to get your attention.”

“After they brought you here from the recovery room the surgeon who worked on you came to see how you are. She asked if I was your wife and I said I was, to get her to answer my questions. They had some trouble inserting an airway down your throat and since you were unconscious they opted for speed rather than gentleness. They split your lip too. You’ve got a couple of stitches in it, the kind that are absorbed.”

“She?”

“Dr. Conejo, very attractive Hispanic woman. I sure wouldn’t want to be on that one’s bad side. Doctors… they think they run the world.”

“Did she tell you why I’m pissing blood?”

“The wood splinter punctured your bladder. Not the initial stick but more likely, when you were moving around, or when they were transporting you.”

“Where am I?”

“In a semi-private room at St. Charles Medical Center. You’re sharing the room with a young gentleman of exactly ten and a half years named Zachary. Zachary has just had his tonsils removed and is simply amazed, his words, that they are giving him ice cream three times a day.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Well, you were still in surgery when I arrived.”

“Were you able to sleep?”

“After a fashion.”

“Did my heart stop?”

“Dr. Conejo said not.”

“The last thing I remember is being helped into a car.”

“No ambulance ever came. They brought you here in a patrol car. I guess that training you had in the Navy wasn’t all that good, huh? Or maybe it was too long ago?”

“I guess. Did they give me blood?”

“Un-huh.”

“Shit. Now I have to worry about HIV.”

“I asked. They assured me they have the risk of contaminated blood under control.”

“Famous last words.”

“You didn’t tell me you speak French?”

“Didn’t I?”

“Vietnamese and Spanish, but not French.”

“Sorry, I thought I had.”

“You said the Navy taught you Vietnamese. Is that where you learned French?”

“No, high school and college.”

“Figures. Your accent is awful.”

“That’s because it’s the accent of Cochin China… Nam Kỳ, southern French Indochina. Sister Linh, my French teacher at St. Ignatius was from a Dominican order near Can Tho. It served me well when I was over there but I know it sounds strange anywhere else. If I lived in France or French Canada… heard it spoken every day, it’d get better. In a year I’d be fluent again but with a more traditional accent. My Spanish is much better… because I have Mexican friends in John Day.”

He paused for a couple of beats and was about to say, “If you come with me we could go to France instead of Spain?” but thought better of it and didn’t.

“Why did you want me to hide your backpack from the police?”

“Did you?”

“Of course, but why?”

“I’d prefer they not know my birth name. Were you asked to show ID?”

“Not yet.” Catherine moved her chair closer to Michael’s bed and gripped his hand, fiercely. She leaned close and whispered, “There’s a cop outside who wants me to tell him when you’re awake and can talk. Also, your nurse made the same request. Can you talk?”

“Un-huh.”

She laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart. “Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub… sounds pretty strong now but we almost lost you. Oh Michael, life with you is such a challenge but life without you would be unspeakable.” Tyne saw her squeeze her eyelids tightly closed but not before a tear escaped and trickled down her cheek.

He wanted to tangle his fingers in her hair and pull her face close enough to be kissed, but didn’t. Instead, he said, “Are you forgetting Michael’s rule number one; I don’t fool around with married women?”

“I’m not married.”

“A di-vorced woman who returns to her ex-husband amounts to the same thing.”

“I’ll never marry again.”

“A distinction without a difference.”

“You once tried to explain to me why you claim you won’t fool around with a married woman… but I didn’t buy what you were selling. Care to try again?”

He stared at her for a moment without speaking.  I wonder, he thought, if she has any idea how offensive that question is in the current context?  She’s wearing her smug, self-righteous face, which means what’s coming is either patronizing or a put-down.  Well babe, two can play at that game.

Despite his anger he admitted to himself he was glad she was there with him, wanted her to stay but wanted her to go, too. He could not shake the notion of how vulnerable they both were, him flat on his back, defenseless, without any kind of weapon. So he said, “I don’t like sloppy seconds. I don’t mind swallowing my own spunk but I especially object to eating someone else’s.”

He thought he heard her gasp. She blinked several times and sucked her lower lip between her teeth and then she sat back stiffly in her chair. “Is there any limit to how crude you can be?”

“No, there isn’t… since you didn’t get it the first time. I’ve found if I want someone to remember something I said they’ve apparently forgotten, when I say it again I’m deliberately offensive, crude, tasteless and vulgar. It seems to work.”

“It does… but I don’t deserve that.”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“Aren’t you the di-vorced man who said you’d go back to Madeleine in a heartbeat if she’d take you back? Smart girl… that she won’t.”

“True… but only until I fell for you… since Kah-Nee-Ta, to be exact. And there’s one big difference between us.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“You’ve been divorced from him twice as long as I’ve been divorced from her. I guess it’s like the Christine Lavin song says… ‘the kind of love you never recover from.’”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Before he could answer the door opened and a nurse with a business-like look on her face and a brisk manner entered the room. “Hello Mrs. Ware. I need to check your husband’s vitals. It will only take a moment.”

The nurse, a woman of about Catherine’s age – her nametag said she was Marjorie – moved to the side of the bed and pressed a stethoscope to her patient’s chest. Next she took his temperature with a digital thermometer. She then lowered the blanket and sheet exposing the bandage covering his incision.

“She’s not Mrs. Ware. There is no Mrs. Ware. This lady is my friend. You have my permission to speak freely in her presence and answer any of her questions.”

The nurse momentarily looked up from what she was doing, then looking daggers at Catherine she said, “It was inappropriate to tell Dr. Conejo you were the patient’s wife. A lie like that can get you banned from the hospital.”

Before Catherine could answer Tyne said, “She knew the doc would not answer her questions if she said she was just a friend. She has a right to know whatever I know and I approve.”

“It’s still wrong whether you approve or not. I’ll have to report this to Dr. Conejo. You both have probably not heard the last of this.”

While she was inspecting his incision he complained about the catheter. Said he’d prefer it be removed. If he needed to pee, even bloody urine, he wanted to get out of bed and pee standing up. And what’s more, gesturing at Catherine, how the hell could he get an erection with that tube stuck up his penis, he said. Also, he told her, he wanted to be up off his ass and able to walk around the halls and corridors so that he was less likely to throw an embolism.

“I can rig it so you can walk and still wear the collection bag?” No, he insisted; unless you’re continuously analyzing the stuff he didn’t need it. She listened to this tirade but chose not to respond. Instead, she loosened the adhesive and checked his stitches. When she finished redressing the wound she dumped the urine bag’s content into a bedpan and then said, “Please remember, you’re not in a private room. There’s another patient present.”

“What’s in that drip?” said Tyne.

“An antibiotic, a mild sedative, apparently not strong enough, pain killers and an anticoagulant, warfarin. Your blood has a very high clotting factor. You also need twice-daily injections of enoxaparin, another blood thinner that works in consort with warfarin. Either I or one of the other nurses will teach you and your…” looking sideways at Catherine, “a responsible adult… how to give those shots. Your vitals are good but with surgery like you had, there’s always a possibility of pulmonary thrombosis. We don’t want that,” glaring at Catherine, “now do we?”

“Please go easy on the pain killers. I have a pretty high pain threshold and I’d just as lief not have to deal with any hospital-induced dependency.”

“I’ll let the doctor know.”

She started to leave and Tyne said, “nurse, how much blood was I given?”

“One unit of packed red blood cells and one unit of fresh frozen plasma.”

“From the same donor?”

She examined his chart and said, “Yes.”

“What are the chances it was infected with the HIV virus?”

“About one in one-and-a-half million. We don’t use blood that hasn’t been tested for both the HIV virus and Hepatitis-C.”

“But isn’t it true that blood products from a donor infected immediately prior to giving that donation could contain the virus at a concentration level too small to be detected?”

“You’re very well informed? Yes, it’s possible… but very unlikely.”

“Does my chart show the date of that donation?”

The nurse again checked his chart and said, “Yes, it does; August 4th in Seattle.”

“So, that means if it was infected a blood test today would reveal the presence of the HIV virus that might have been undetectable in August; isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Would you mind drawing blood and this woman has a right to know the results… don’t you agree?”

“And would you bring him some water? He has a sore throat made, as I understand it, by you people forcing an airway down his throat,” said Catherine.

“I’ll just be a moment.” She left, muttering under her breadth but loud enough to be heard: “The arrogant nerve of some…”

. . .

Tyne had been trying to keep a straight face through the nurse’s inspection. Now he broke out laughing and Catherine did too. Then, in all seriousness again he said, “Yes, I want you to leave and no, I hope you don’t.”

It seemed to take her a moment to recall what they had been talking about when the nurse walked in. “I don’t understand. Is there an English translation available?”

“Every moment you’re with me you’re in danger. I want you to leave… to get as far away from me as you can, as quickly as you can. Go back to Canada or go back to your ex. He’s rich enough to be able to provide security for you. I certainly can’t. But if you leave, and I really want you to leave, I’ll miss you, desperately, more than I can say.”

She paused a beat and then changed the subject. “You’re not really worried about the blood, are you?”

“We have to be sure… don’t you agree?”

She sighed and finally said, “You’re right… we have to be sure.”

The same nurse returned with a pitcher of ice water and some foam cups and quickly and efficiently drew a sample of Tyne’s blood. As she left she winked at Catherine and said, “don’t worry dear, he’s not infected.”

Catherine kissed him on the mouth, and it was not the kiss of just a friend. “To be continued,” she said, and went to the door and spoke briefly with officer Prater. Glancing on the other side of the curtain Catherine noted the boy in the next bed was paying close attention to the adult happenings on Michael’s side of the divider. The cop made a call and thirty minutes later the Hispanic cop who had shown them Nick Parma’s body arrived to question him. Before he arrived a different nurse, a candy striper, came in pushing a wheel chair and she hustled the other patient out of the room. The cop, now dressed in a well-cut dark blue suit and maroon tie, knocked on the door but entered without waiting for permission and got right down to business.

Jonathan Tyne survives near-fatal shooting and receives a splendid reward

Jonathan Tyne regains consciousness after emergency surgery

In this scene from Act III of Affirmative Action Jonathan Tyne, whose legal name is now Michael Ware, is recovering from a near-fatal gunshot wound. He was shot in the stomach by a would-be assassin named Sergey Ivanovich Pechora, a Russian mobster sent to kill Tyne by Francesco Tosca. During the exchange of gunfire at Catherine Duvall’s condominium in Bend, Oregon Tyne fatally wounded Pechora with a 20-gauge shotgun. Pechora fled the scene and made it as far as his automobile before dying. The bullet, fired from a .22 Magnum splintered the upper-landing oak-banister handrail before striking Tyne; luckily most of its energy dissipated. Far worse than the superficial bullet wound, a 4-inch by 1-inch wood splinter was driven into Tyne’s abdomen, pierced the peritoneum and lacerated the anterior branch of the renal vein.  Tyne was bleeding internally and almost bled to death.

Tyne also killed another man that night, a far more dangerous man than Pechora; a professional assassin from Venezuela named Jorge Humberto Argueta Otálvaro. Tyne shot Argueta Otálvaro three times before the man knew he’d lost the element of surprise. While all this was going on Catherine Duvall was barricaded in her bedroom with Tyne’s pistol talking to a 9-1-1 emergency operator. Unfortunately, the hit team had reported four false diversionary emergencies at far distant parts of Deschutes County making it impossible for help to arrive in time. Jonathan and Catherine were left to fend for themselves.

I could publish the chapter containing the shooting but to do so would give away too much of the story. However, if at least five of my regular readers request me to do so, I will publish that scene in a forthcoming post. Enjoy.

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It was mid-afternoon when Tyne woke. His first awareness of his surroundings was the steady, reassuring pinging of his own heartbeat coming from the monitor on the left side of his bed. A thick cable snaked down from it to somewhere under the sheet and blanket that covered him to his chest. He raised his right hand and saw the electrode attached to his wrist. Glancing down he saw another on his left wrist. He followed the cable to a concentrator on his chest and counted ten thin leads in and one thick one out. One by one he touched the six electrodes attached to his chest. They had him hooked up for electrocardiography, he concluded. He touched the bandage on his stomach, tentatively at first. He was tender but the pain was bearable. They must have doped me up with painkillers, he thought. Then he saw the IV needle embedded in the back of his left hand and he was sure. He pushed the blanket down and the sudden chill told him he was naked under the sheet. They had not gowned him. He drew the blanket back up to his chin.

Another glance at the monitor told him it was 2:47 P.M., but was it Sunday or some other day? The blinking time-display had caught his eye. He scanned the display and found the date. It was Sunday, which meant he’d been unconscious for almost twelve hours. He wondered why he didn’t have an urge to pee. He reached for his willy and found the Robinson catheter protruding from its tip. He was very familiar with these; as part of his military medical training he’d been taught how to insert them in the field and after he was wounded he’d worn them for weeks when he was non‑ambulatory. He hated them with a passion. His eyes followed the orange latex tube to the bag hanging on the monitor stand. It looked like it held about 400 ml of urine. He kneaded the bag looking for any traces of pink – any sign of bleeding – and found none he could see.

The first reassuring thing he saw was Catherine wearing sweats, sitting in a chair next to his bed, apparently asleep, her legs drawn up under her, her chin resting on her fist, an open book in her lap. He couldn’t resist reaching out and touching her thigh, the cable just long enough. She immediately opened her eyes and smiling, said, “Well, copping a feel are we? That’s surely a good sign. Quick, how much is 9 times 37?”

Tyne took only a second or two and then said, “Three hundred thirty-three. Why?”

“How about 179 divided by 14?”

Doing division in his head took a little longer but Tyne said, “Twelve and 11/14ths.”

“The surgeon who worked on you said your blood pressure had dropped so low there was a remote chance you suffered brain damage. I was doing my own quick and dirty test.”

“Did my heart stop?”

“She said not.”

“She?”

“Dr. Conejo, very attractive Hispanic woman. I sure wouldn’t want to be on that one’s bad side. Doctors… they think they run the world.”

“The last thing I remember is being helped into a car.”

“No ambulance ever came. They brought you here in a patrol car. I guess that training you had in the Navy wasn’t all that good, huh? Or maybe it was too long ago?”

“I guess. Did they give me blood?”

“Un-huh.”

“Shit. Now I have to worry about HIV.”

“I asked. They assured me they have the risk of contaminated blood under control.”

“Famous last words.”

“You didn’t tell me you speak French?”

“Didn’t I?”

“Vietnamese and Spanish, but not French.”

“Sorry, I thought I had.”

“You said the Navy taught you Vietnamese. Is that where you learned French?”

“No, high school and college.”

“Figures. Your accent is awful.”

“That’s because it’s the accent of Cochin China… Nam Kỳ, southern French Indochina. Sister Linh, my French teacher at St. Ignatius was from a Dominican order near Can Tho. It served me well when I was over there but I know it sounds strange anywhere else. If I lived in France or French Canada… heard it spoken every day, it’d get better. In a year I’d be fluent again but with a more traditional accent. My Spanish is much better… because I have Mexican friends in John Day.”

He paused for a couple of beats and then said, “If you come with me we could go to France instead of Spain?”

“Why did you want me to hide your backpack from the police?”

She was still ducking that question. “Did you?”

“Of course, but why?”

“I’d prefer they not know my birth name. Were you asked to show ID?”

“Not yet.” Catherine moved her chair closer to Michael’s bed and gripped his hand, fiercely. She leaned close and whispered, “There’s a cop outside who wants me to tell him when you’re awake and can talk. Also, your nurse made the same request. Can you talk?”

“Un-huh.”

She laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart. “Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub… sounds pretty strong now but we almost lost you. Oh Michael, life with you is such a challenge but life without you would be unspeakable.” Tyne saw her squeeze her eyelids tightly closed but not before a tear escaped and trickled down her cheek.

He tangled the fingers of his free hand in her hair and said, “How about a kiss, to show me just how much you would miss me?”

She kissed him passionately on the mouth, her tears wet on his face, her tongue in his mouth, nothing at all like the exuberant but passionless public kisses they’d occasionally exchanged during cabaret performances, more like the way she had kissed him the previous night, before the shooting started. For a fleeting instant, and only for an instant he wondered whether they really had made love… or whether he had imagined they had. The smell of lavender in her hair and the feel of her warm breadth on his face told him they had. He felt himself responding in the old familiar way, the tightening in his groin and the involuntary reflexive movements, two to be exact; a not-so-subtle flutter that raised the blanket just enough to be noticed. He knew Catherine had noticed it too as she moved her head at exactly the same time. She pressed her hand to the spot and said, “Why you horny little devil. I do believe you’ve got an erection. Amazing… with all that dope they pumped into you… and a catheter as well. All I did was give you a little peck. Is that all it takes?”

“That wasn’t just a little peck but your being in the room is sufficient… all by itself.”

She reached under the blanket and grasped his penis. “You are erect, and not just a little. You’re ready… but there’s not much I can do for you with that tube stuck in it. Sorry bucko, you’ll just have to wait.”

“Pull it out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I said… pull it out.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I should call the nurse?”

“Just pull the goddamn thing out.”

She began pulling on the tube, tentatively at first but when it moved easily and he didn’t complain or even wince she moved with more assurance. She draped it over the collection bag and began fondling his penis.

“With all the shit I’ve been through the last thirty-six hours I need some TLC. So, woman of my dreams, show me what you can do.”

“What about me? What about all the shit I’ve been through?”

“Catherine dear, I’m wetting my pants to respond to your needs; any and all succor, aid and comfort that another human can provide, but as you can see, I’m plugged into the electrical grid. So, unless you can climb into this bed without dislodging all this circuitry, you’re the one who will have to wait. No… on second thought, better not. If I do to you what I want to do we could short out the hospital’s power… make the whole town go dark? So, stop whining and show me how good you can be.”

She screwed up her face in a smirk, and he thought she was going to say something, but then she began kneading his balls with one hand and his penis with the other. In a moment he was erect again. “Tell me if I’m hurting you?”

She withdrew her hands and moistened her fingers with saliva. Then she kneaded and squeezed and stroked his willy until she felt several strong contractions. Tyne kept his eyes closed and said nothing through the encounter until the very end when he blurted out something unintelligible, but his breathing and the way he arched his back surely told Catherine she was giving him a great deal of pleasure. The sheet absorbed most of his ejaculate, but not all. “No permanent damage that I can see… and you’ll be pleased to know, no blood in it,” she said. She was licking the remainder from her fingers when the door opened and a nurse with an anxious look on her face entered the room.

“What’s going on? Oh… I see.” Catherine, blushing from ear to ear, quickly covered Michael but not fast enough to escape the nurse’s eagle eye.

The nurse, a woman of about Catherine’s age – her nametag said she was Marjorie – moved to the side of the bed and pressed a stethoscope to her patient’s chest. She then lowered the blanket and sheet exposing the bandage covering his incision.

Looking daggers at Catherine she said, “Who gave you permission to withdraw the catheter?” Before Catherine could answer Tyne said he’d taken it out. In fact, he did not want the goddamn thing put back in. If he needed to pee he wanted to get out of bed and pee standing up. Also, he told her, he wanted to be up off his ass and able to walk around the halls and corridors so that he was less likely to throw an embolism.

“I can rig it so you can walk and still wear the collection bag?” No, he insisted; unless you’re continuously analyzing the stuff he didn’t need it. She listened to this tirade but chose not to respond. Instead, she loosened the adhesive and checked his stitches. When she finished redressing the wound she said, as she wiped a small glob of semen from his belly, “The patient’s heart rate was a nice, steady fifty-eight per minute and suddenly it spiked to over ninety. His BP spiked up twenty points as well and those stitches could have come loose. I’d refrain from certain… ahem, activities… for a few days if I were you two. Please also remember, you’re not in a private room. There’s another patient present.”

“What’s in that drip?” said Tyne.

“An antibiotic, a mild sedative, apparently not strong enough, pain killers and an anticoagulant, warfarin. Your blood has a very high clotting factor. You also need twice-daily injections of enoxaparin, another blood thinner that works in consort with warfarin. Either I or one of the other nurses will teach you and your…” looking sideways at Catherine, “a responsible adult… how to give those shots. Your vitals are good but with surgery like you had, there’s always a possibility of pulmonary thrombosis. We don’t want that,” glaring at Catherine, “now do we?”

“Please go easy on the pain killers. I have a pretty high pain threshold and I’d just as lief not have to deal with any hospital-induced dependency.”

“I’ll let the doctor know.”

She started to leave and Tyne said, “nurse, how much blood was I given?”

“One unit of packed red blood cells and one unit of fresh frozen plasma.”

“From the same donor?”

She examined his chart and said, “Yes.”

“What are the chances it was infected with the HIV virus?”

“About one in one-and-a-half million. We don’t use blood that hasn’t been tested for both the HIV virus and Hepatitis-C.”

“But isn’t it true that blood products from a donor infected immediately prior to giving that donation could contain the virus at a concentration level too small to be detected?”

“You’re very well informed? Yes, it’s possible… but very unlikely.”

“Does my chart show the date of that donation?”

The nurse again checked his chart and said, “Yes, it does; August 4th in Seattle.”

“So, that means if it was infected a blood test today would reveal the presence of the HIV virus that might have been undetectable in August; isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Would you mind drawing blood and this woman has a right to know the results… don’t you agree?”

“I’ll just be a moment.” She left, muttering under her breadth but loud enough to be heard: “The arrogant nerve of some…”

Tyne had been trying to keep a straight face through the nurse’s inspection. Now he broke out laughing and Catherine did too. “So, did my technique meet with your approval?” Catherine’s ever-present sarcasm was alive and well.

“You were wonderful.”

“I thought you might feel the need to instruct me… you know, like you did with that knuckle thing.”

“I never said or even implied you don’t know how to give a BJ. I merely said you weren’t doing it the way I prefer. If it wasn’t just a one-time thing… if we’re going to be together from here on, isn’t it appropriate I give you feedback… so it can be as good for me as it’s possible to be? I expect you to tell me when I’m not doing what you want… or not doing it as good as I could. Isn’t that the way it should be?”

“Un-huh… if you say so.”

“You damn well do too. You told me none of your other lovers ever told you what they wanted.”

She paused a beat and then changed the subject. “You’re not really worried about the blood, are you?”

“We have to be sure… don’t you agree?”

She sighed and finally said, “You’re right… we have to be sure.”

The same nurse returned and quickly and efficiently drew a sample of Tyne’s blood. As she left she winked at Catherine and said, “don’t worry dear, he’s not infected.”

Catherine kissed him one last time. “To be continued,” she said, and went to the door and spoke briefly with officer Prater. Glancing on the other side of the curtain Catherine noted the boy in the next bed was paying close attention to the adult happenings on Michael’s side of the divider. The cop made a call and thirty minutes later the Hispanic cop who had shown them Nick Parma’s body arrived to question him. Before he arrived a different nurse, a candy striper, came in pushing a wheel chair and she hustled the other patient out of the room. The cop, now dressed in a well-cut dark blue suit and maroon tie, knocked on the door but entered without waiting for permission and got right down to business.

Inaugural Post: Scene from a Novel, Affirmative Action

Every blog has to have a first post, other than ‘Hello World!’ so, here’s mine. Affirmative Action is not and is not meant to be a funny book. It’s about serious men doing serious things. ‘Serious men,’ by the way, is organized crime-speak for members in good standing meant to be taken seriously by other members: our friend rather than a friend. Jonathan Tyne is running from some serious men but along the way he meets Catherine Duvall, the novel’s female protagonist. I could write an entire novel about Catherine. Maybe I will. Extraordinary is an understatement.

The scene I’m posting is when they meet. First meetings between lovers (of course, they become lovers, what would be the point of including her if they didn’t) are world-changing events. Remember one of yours? Remember several of yours? For Jonathan, staying close to Catherine increases his risk of being killed by several orders of magnitude. So what does he do? What would you do? He knows who she is, from a mutual friend, but he doesn’t want her to know he knows. That’s backstory for you and you don’t need to know, at least not right now. I’ve tried to make the scene funny even if the book isn’t. Pretend you just ordered your café latte at B&N, you’re sitting in your favorite chair, the one where you can watch the wildlife come and go, and you’ve opened Affirmative Action randomly and begin reading. I hope you become so engrossed you ignore the passing parade. After you read the scene, join the discussion and tell me what you think. Enjoy… Catherine and Jonathan meet.

 * * *

Finally it was his turn and he stepped to the lectern.  He was embarrassed that he did not have a reservation, which would reveal to the woman that he was stupid and that was the last thing he wished to appear to this one.  His mission now took on something of the hint of urgency; he knew he had to get permission to play and beyond doubt, he had to play well to overcome the bad impression not having a reservation was going to make on this woman.  During the more than twenty minutes he’d spent in line he’d thought up a plausible story he would use on her and hope for the best.  He intended to hold eye contact with her through the entire conversation.  Those eyes… she had extraordinary eyes: close up he could see they weren’t really black but the deepest blue, violet actually, no, almost purple; so striking were they that there was nowhere else he could look.

“Good evening sir.  Welcome to Di Giorgio’s.”

Their eyes met and held and he looked for any sign of recognition.  There was something… some flicker… something other than the respectful look of a professional gatekeeper, but whether she recognized him or not he could not say.  “Hullo, one for dinner, please.  I think I have a reservation.”

“If you have a reservation you could have saved yourself a twenty minute wait.  You could have been in the other line.”

“Thank you, I do know what con means in Italian… but… well, it’s like this; I’m not sure if I actually have a reservation.”

“Not sure?  Either you made one or you didn’t.  Which is it?”

“I meant to make one, for eight-thirty, and I may have but I was juggling so many balls… Have you ever been so busy that you just forgot to do something?”

Hello!  Earth calling space cadet… that’s what lists are for.  Don’t you make them?”

“So what would I put in it, juggle better?”

“Make reservation for dinner… and check it off when you do it.”

“I just knew when I saw you, you were going to be helpful.”

“Would you like me to check my list… to see whether you made a reservation?  I do so want to be helpful.”

“Yes, please.  That’s exactly why I stood in the senza line.  I figured you’ve heard every excuse imaginable and I didn’t want to piss you off, seeing as how I’d like a table even if I forgot… you know, to make a reservation.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What name do I check for?”

“Oh sorry, Ware… Michael Ware.”

W-a-r-e?”

“You found it; great.”

“I haven’t started looking yet.”

“Oh, well you spelled it correctly; that’s progress, isn’t it?”

She stared at him for so long Tyne thought he would give the game away by laughing.  Finally she lowered her eyes to her list and searched for his name.  He bit his lower lip to keep from making a sound and managed to compose his face before she looked up.

“Sorry, I can’t find your name in my log.”

“Rats.  Well, I’d still like a table.”

“I can put you down for a table but you’re going to have a very long wait, at least two hours, possibly longer.”

“Di Giorgio’s has a very nice bar.  You put me down on your list and I’ll amuse myself rapping with the bartender until my table is ready.”

“If you spend two hours in the bar you won’t even be able to taste the food.  Why don’t you settle for a pizza… just down the street and I’ll make a reservation for you for tomorrow night?”

“No, I’ll hang out in the bar and drink mostly Pellegrino.”

“Okay but I should warn you; you’re alone so if I seat you at a table for two you’re going to get stuck for a second meal you didn’t order.  We do have a few tables for one but I can’t guarantee you’ll get one.  This is the height of the summer season, the weather’s glorious, there’s a pro-am golf tournament this weekend at Eagle Crest and tonight and the next two are going to be three of our busiest.”

A golf tournament; so that’s why they are so busy, he thought.  “I don’t understand why you’re so determined to send me out into the cold without any sustenance.  I’ll risk it.”

“Mr. Ware, within walking distance of Di Giorgio’s there are three or four really good restaurants where I’m sure you would be seated a lot faster than you will be here.”

“But Di Giorgio’s is my favorite.  I didn’t come 150 miles to eat down the street.  If you can’t seat me tonight then you can’t but if it’s just a little wait in the bar, please put me down in your list.”

She smiled and started to write his name in her log.  He casually leaned against the lectern, as if he was watching her make the entry, and with his mouth close to her ear and barely above a whisper said, “Say, I have an idea.  You get a dinner break, don’t you?”

She stopped writing and turned to look at him and he saw in her eyes he’d made a mistake.  This gambit wasn’t going to work but now that he’d crossed the Rubicon, he had no choice but to continue.  She said, “Yes, if I want one.”

“Well, tonight I think you should want one… and when you take your break, please come and get me in the bar and we’ll have dinner together.”

“My break isn’t long enough for the kitchen to prepare a meal for you.”

“In that case, tell the kitchen what you want to eat and tell them to prepare enough for two.  When it’s ready, come and get me in the bar.  I’ll eat whatever you eat.  I’m sure it will be excellent since who better than you would know what on tonight’s menu is particularly good.”

“I don’t order from the menu.  I eat whatever the kitchen prepares in bulk; lasagne or ravioli, the zuppe of the day or sometimes just a hearty salad.”

“That doesn’t surprise me but it doesn’t mean it won’t be good.”

“Mr. Ware, I eat in the kitchen at a table reserved for staff.”

“Terrific.  I’ve always wanted to eat in the kitchen.  The sights and smells will add something special to my dining experience… as will dining with you.”

“Sorry, the kitchen is off limits to guests.”

He paused for several beats and then said, “I have a suggestion that I think will solve our dilemma.  Do you want to hear it?”

“The answer is no.”

“You haven’t heard my suggestion yet.”

“The answer is still no.”

“I was about to suggest…”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“If I say please?”

“No, and you’re starting to annoy me.”

“Ask Lydia.”

The woman stared at him for several seconds and then said, “What did you say?”

“I thought that might get your attention.  I was about to suggest that you ask Lydia if it would be okay for Michael to dine with you in the kitchen.  Ask her.”

“Are you just dropping her name or do you really know her?”

“Ask her… and no last names.  Just ask her about Michael.  Or, don’t ask her; that’s okay too because I’m going to ask her to introduce us.”

“Even if you do know her… even if she’s a relative, why should I eat with you?”

“’Cause we’re going to be friends, you and I.”

“We are?”

“Uh-huh.  I used to come in here a lot, when I lived in the county, sometimes as often as once a week.  My wife… ex-wife that is… doesn’t like to cook so we ate out a lot.  The last few years, not so often… but now that I know you’re here I’m going to become a regular again, so you’re going to be seeing a lot of me.  That’s why I know we’re going to become friends.”

“Couldn’t you do any of the cooking?  Does the woman always have to be the chief cook and bottle washer?”

“Actually I cooked more often than she.  I like to cook and I’m good at it, I think better now than she… but even if you enjoy cooking you don’t like to do it every night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We liked this place, the food and especially the woman who owns it… so we ate here a lot.  Ask Lydia about Madeleine too; they’re particularly close.  Oh, and ask her if she agrees with me, that you and I are going to be friends.”

She pointed at her log and said, “See, I’m writing your name on the list, at the bottom of the list.  When a table becomes available, if you’re still here, someone will come and get you in the bar.”

Tyne deftly and unobtrusively slipped a twenty-dollar bill under the logbook and thanked the woman.  He then started for the bar but stopped and said, “Do you mind if I play your piano?  That would certainly make the time pass more agreeably.”

She stopped writing and studied him over her glasses – Ware?  Black Irish, not quite six feet, sturdy looking, black really curly hair, gray eyes with something else, maybe a little yellow, no, more green than yellow; neat ponytail held with a pretentious silver barrette, no less, not a déclassé rubber band.  A little puffy under the eyes, as if he is allergic to something; interesting face, not handsome but not exactly ugly; prominent cheekbones, no fat, no jowls, hard-bitten was the phrase that came to mind.  Straight nose with a little bump near the bridge, as if it had been broken long ago.  Lots of wrinkles around the eyes, and at the corners of the mouth too, like hers.  Where do those goddamn little mouth wrinkles she hated come from, she thought; certainly not from smiling, probably from clenching his teeth, something she did and had tried very hard but unsuccessfully to stop doing?  No gray; she wondered whether he colored his hair, decided he didn’t as it wasn’t uniform enough, with some brown, even a little red.  A vain, forty-something ex-jock with an attitude about women and a glib line; what he needs, she thought, is a swift kick in the ass.

“Are you any good?”

“I know my way around a keyboard.”

“Knock yourself out.  Can you find your way to the bar by yourself Mr. Ware?” with just a trace of a smirk.

“I think so ma’am, but if I get lost I’ll send up a flare, or I’ll do something else equally outrageous.”  At no time did he leer, look at her tits or let his gaze leave her eyes except when she looked down.  Now he held her eyes until she looked away, only then did he step around the lectern and head for the bar.  He’d gone only a step when she stopped him by poking him in the arm with her pen, the non-pointy end.

If you’re any good, they’re might be a table available at nine… but you’ll have to be really good.  Trust me, I know what good sounds like.  But if you stink… well, you could order a tray of antipasti – the spiedini di gamberoni and the assorti are particularly good – share it with the others in the bar not smart enough to make a reservation.”

“Do you have a favorite song I might know?”

She thought for a moment and then said, “How about… something by Maury Yeston; your choice?  Do you know anything by Yeston?  Have you even heard of Yeston?”

“I think I can manage a Yeston… for you… if you tell me your name?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t need to know my name.”

“Are you ashamed of your name?  Is that why you won’t tell me?”

“My name is for my friends… and you aren’t one.”

“But I will be and I’ve been so good… well, most of the year.  I think I deserve to know your name, especially if I’m going to play Yeston for you.”

“You can really play Yeston?  You’re not just shitting me?”

“Yes I can and I’m not.”

“Well, if you do and it’s any good you’ll get your table.  My name is Catherine, by the way, but… there’s something you should know.”

They were looking directly in each other’s eyes and she had just the trace of a smile on her lips, and he said, “What’s that?”

Tyne had thought when he stepped to the lectern that he was facing the woman directly but the lectern was asymmetrical so his view of her was slightly oblique.  He was actually looking at the left side of her face and when she smiled it was strikingly similar to his smile, more with her eyes than her mouth and he could see the intricate network of wrinkles at the corner of her eye and below her lower lid.  She’d smiled with her lips closed but the smile pulled the skin at the side of her mouth back just a little revealing another network of fine wrinkles at the corner of her mouth her makeup couldn’t quite conceal.  She was older than she looked but that impressed him all the more because the body appeared so supple.  The crinkling of the crow’s feet more than her words convinced him that he’d made contact; that his attempt at repartee had not been in vain.

Without any change in her expression she raised her left hand in front of his face and waggled her fingers.  She was wearing a wedding ring, a thin gold band with an intricate filigree pattern.  He hadn’t noticed it or maybe he hadn’t been looking for it.  Then, it was as if she could no longer keep a straight face.  She smiled broadly, shook her head as if she were dealing with the village idiot and then stuck her tongue out at him.  She dropped her eyes to the log and finished writing his name in it, all the while laughing at him.  Tyne made a valiant effort to maintain a poker face but the ring and the way she’d showed it to him floored him, as if she’d punched him very hard in the stomach.

To cover his discomfort he said, “Does that mean we aren’t going to be dining together in the kitchen?”

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

“I understand perfectly, but I thought you might change your mind… you know, because you want to be helpful.”

“Nice try Slick but not a chance.”

“Okay, and just to show there are no hard feelings, listen up for an absolutely awesome Yeston.  Just for you… and don’t forget to ask Lydia about me.”

Neither Charles nor Lydia had said anything about her being married and Tyne assumed, based on the way she’d come to Bend that she wasn’t.  Now, if she asked him to collaborate with her, a notion he had already been thinking was a foregone conclusion, he might just pass.  But, never let it be said he wasn’t up to a challenge; if Catherine liked Yeston she was in for a pleasant surprise.