Asking for Trouble by Rosalind James Page B

had instructed. “Short.
Military-short. Wear a clean shirt, one with a collar. Clean jeans. Not clean
enough. Clean. Take a shower. Be on
time. Get there half an hour early if you have to, to make sure. Talk like
you’d talk to me, like you’d have talked to your dad. Do all that and you’ll
get the job, because I know Gary Roswell, and I’ve told him about you, and he’s
ready to give you a chance. But keeping the job,” he warned, “that’s up to you.”
    “Yes, sir,” Joe said, his feet itching to get out the door
right then. He’d have a job. He’d
have money.
    But Conrad wasn’t done. “I knew your dad a long time,” he
said. “He was a good man. I never knew him to do a cheap thing. I never saw him
give less than his best. He’s gone, but you’re still here.   You’ve got his name, and you can still
know that you’d have made him proud. That’s something nobody can take away from
you. But you make the wrong choices, you can throw that away. Don’t do it.
Don’t let him down.”
    “No, sir,” Joe said over the lump in his throat. “I won’t.”

 
    “Was that the worst job you had?” Alyssa asked now, bringing
him back. She was making circles around the rim of her empty glass with a
finger. “Stocking shelves? That doesn’t sound too fun.”
    “No, that one was OK. I did that for a couple years, till I
went to college. That was fine. I never minded the physical ones that much,
washing dishes or whatever, as long as the boss wasn’t too bad. Just happy to
have the work.”
    “Washing dishes? That was at more than our house, huh?”
    “Yeah. I did lots of stuff, summers, during the school year
too. High school, first few years of college. Washing dishes, busing tables at
those Palo Alto restaurants. Working at 7-11. They like a big guy behind the
counter, just in case.”
    “Mmm,” she said, looking sleepy, or maybe just like a woman who’d
had a couple beers after a tough day of used-car shopping. “They liked that you
looked so tough.”
    “Well, you know the good thing about looking tough. You know
the secret of it.”
    “No,” she said, and the sleepy look had changed to a dreamy
smile that was kicking his pulse rate up a notch, “what’s the secret of it?”
    “You look tough enough, you know you got the stuff to back
it up, you almost never have to prove it.” He raised his beer in salute, then
drained it.
    “Can I ask you a question?” she asked.
    “Sure.”
    “Why do you shave your head? I can tell you’re not bald. So
why?”
    “How can you tell I’m not bald?”
    “Bald guys have . . .” She gestured with a finger at her own
head. “That line, where they’re losing their hair. You don’t have it.”
      “You’re right,
I’m not bald. It was always short, but you know that. Military-short. I started
cutting it that way when I started working on the base. I got one of those
electric clipper deals,” he said, running the imaginary shaver over his head.
“Cheaper than haircuts, you know? I got used to doing it that way. And I was
busy.”
    “Too busy to get your hair cut?”
    “Well . . .” He smiled. “Haircuts take time. I was busy. And
then one day, I thought, why not just shave it? Why not see if I had—” He
shrugged, looked at her, and laughed. “Any weird bumps on my head, or anything.
And I kind of liked how it looked.”
    “Tough,” she said again.
    “Yeah. I guess. So what do you think? Tough? Or just bald?
Better with hair?”
    “Tough,” she said, “definitely. But maybe . . . You really
want to know what I think?”
    “I definitely want to know what you think.”
    “Then, yes. Some hair. I remember military-short, and I
thought it looked good. If you want my opinion.”
    The server stopped by their table again. “You guys good?”
she asked. “Anything else?”
    Joe looked at Alyssa. “Another beer?”
    “No, thanks. I’d better stop.”
    “We’re good,” Joe told the woman, and she nodded and put the
check down,