“I’d be delighted,” Jasmine said, picking up the program. She nodded slightly in the direction of the lady three tables away, who gave her a tiny, self-conscious wave.
The waiter handed Jasmine a pen. She thumbed through the program until she found her picture. Then, instead of signing it, she got up, walked over to the table, and chatted with her embarrassed but delighted fan. Jasmine signed her name with an expansive flourish and returned the program to its owner.
Meanwhile, watching the transaction, I took a long pull on my MacNaughton’s and wondered what the hell I was doing there.
Jasmine returned to the table smiling. “It’s always nicer if you can sign it to them personally,” she said.
The waiter was obviously conscious of Jasmine’s attention as he created our salads. There was an almost electric sensuality about the lady, and the waiter was no more immune to it than I was.
“So how did Mary Lou Gibbon become Jasmine Day?” I asked, once the waiter had served our individual salads and walked away.
“On my back.”
It was a no-nonsense reply, and it left no room for misinterpretation. It caught me off guard, with a mouthful of salad. A large piece of romaine lettuce went down the wrong way and stuck crosswise in my throat. I choked and coughed, trying to jar it loose.
“I take it that’s not a career path you approve of,” she said mockingly.
I didn’t say anything in return because I still couldn’t talk.
“I slept my way to the top once,” she said quietly and added in a determined tone, “This time, I’m doing it right.”
That statement was open to interpretation, but I didn’t have nerve enough to ask.
CHAPTER 11
TIRED AS I WAS, WITH THE LENGTH OF time I’d gone without sleep, drinking even one MacNaughton’s was a big mistake. Drinking two was downright stupid. Halfway through the meal, the drinks hit me. Hard.
My mind wandered. It was all I could do to hold up my head, to say nothing of my end of the conversation.
Jasmine didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I don’t think she even noticed. I did my best to listen while she talked.
It was as though someone had pulled a plug and her life’s story came tumbling out. She told me anecdotes about growing up in the conservative confines of Jasper, Texas. There were tales of some of her wilder exploits from the heavy-metal rock days. She also told me about her six-week stay at Rancho Mirage.
I was doing my best to listen, concentrating on every word, but eventually my eyes must have glazed over.
She stopped abruptly. “Am I boring you?” she demanded.
“No, not at all. I didn’t sleep last night. I just hit the wall.”
She started to push back her chair. The waiter, hovering solicitiously nearby, hurried to pull it out for her and help her to her feet. “Let’s go then,” she said.
I guess there’s a certain similarity between being drunk and being uncoordinated. If the truth be known, I was probably a little of both. As we walked toward the door, I misjudged the height of a carpeted step, tripped, and almost fell. Eventually I righted myself and went on with as much dignity as I could muster, but I was aware of the questioning glance Jasmine Day cast over her shoulder in my direction.
Outside the almost deserted restaurant, my Porsche sat waiting by the door, its powerful engine purring contentedly under the hood. As I handed the attendant my parking ticket and a tip, Jasmine walked to the driver’s door and got in. She was sitting there with both hands resting easily on the steering wheel when I turned to get in.
“Hey, what’s this?”
She leaned out the window and smiled up at me. “I make it a point never to ride with someone who’s had too much to drink.”
The trio of parking attendants were observing this small drama with undisguised amusement. Rather than make it worse, I clamped my mouth shut, walked around to the other side of the car, and got in. If Jasmine Day really did have a brown belt hanging in her closet, there was no sense arguing with her about it. I had no intention of fighting her for the keys.
I slammed the passenger’s door shut just as she finished readjusting the seat. Considered in retrospect, maybe Jasmine was right and I was drunk, because that capable action on her part plucked me good. It had taken me months to master all eight of those goddamned complex seat controls.
Instantly I wasn’t the least bit sleepy anymore. Or drunk either, for that matter. I sat there doing a slow burn while blood pounded angrily in my temples. Who the hell did she think she was, assuming that I was drunk! Where did she get off, taking away my car keys! Driving my car!
“Which way do we go?” she asked.
Tersely, I directed her out of the parking lot, around the winding underpass that goes under the south end of the Aurora Bridge, and back up the hill to southbound Aurora Avenue.