Nobody Does It Better by Julie Kenner Page B

sidewalk to O'Malley's Pub. A brass placard announced the establishment's hours from four in the afternoon until two in the morning.
    "Maybe they're in there doing prep work," Rachel suggested.
    Paris nodded, then grabbed the heavy door and pulled. Unlocked, it opened easily. "Here goes nothing," she said, stepping inside with Rachel at her heels.
    With three hours left until the bar officially opened, the dim lamplight of the other night had been abandoned in favor of strong, institutional fluorescents. The stale smell of old beer and cigars assaulted Paris, seeming much more pungent than it had during the pub's regular hours, when the odors of alcohol and tobacco had been tempered with music, sweat and fried foods.
    The only person in the bar was a lanky fellow squatting on the floor. Earnestly rubbing at a stain on the hardwood planks, he hadn't yet noticed Paris and Rachel. The expression on his face suggested that he'd be happier if the lights were dimmed again, so that the spot he was working so hard to remove would just blend into the shadows.
    Paris coughed lightly. The lanky fellow shifted his weight, still concentrating on the stain.
    "We ain't open 'til four," he said, without looking up.
    "I know. I need to see the owner."
    The fellow grunted, as if being interrupted from his chore was the most disruptive thing that had happened to him in ages. He looked up, and Paris saw his eyes widen as he turned from her to Rachel, and then back to Paris .
    His mouth hung open as he stared at her.
    Paris checked to make sure all her buttons and zippers were fastened. They were. Have I turned green?
    She opened her mouth to speak, just as the fellow scrambled to stand up. "Oh, it's you. I didn't know. Sorry. What can I get you? Really, anything. It's on the house."
    Paris looked at Rachel, who managed to twitch her shoulder and cock one eyebrow in a gesture that left no doubt that she, too, was clueless.
    "I'll take a margarita on the rocks," Rachel announced after only a second's hesitation.
    Or maybe not so clueless.
    "Rachel," snarled Paris , as the fellow loped toward the bar.
    "What?" Rachel asked, the picture of innocence. "He asked, and it's rude to turn down your host's invitation."
    "Two seconds ago he was kicking us out. Now we're the guests of honor?" Paris lowered her voice, even though it wasn't necessary. The fellow had started the blender, and its grating noise in the empty bar was sufficient to mask their conversation.
    Rachel smirked. "From the way he's been looking at you, I'd say you're the guest of honor. I'm just along for the tequila."
    Paris was spared having to think of a snappy retort by the sudden silence in the bar.
    "Here you go. One margarita." The fellow held up the glass, then set it on the bar.
    "It's like a carrot," Rachel mumbled. "He puts it over there, and I'm drawn to it." She headed across the room to the bar. Paris rolled her eyes and followed.
    Their de facto host nodded toward Rachel as he looked at Paris . "So, who's she? Your lawyer?"
    Odd question. "We did go to law school together, but—"
    "Aw, geez, I knew it. I freakin' knew it. I shoulda kept my big mouth shut. He's gonna be up to his armpits in lawyers and cops, and it's all cuz o' me."
    Questions ricocheted in Paris mind. Who's going to be in trouble with the lawyers? What did the police have to do with anything? What did she have to do with anything? Was the lanky fellow's "he" her Mystery Man? She had a feeling she could place a bet on that one, and have pretty good odds of winning. One question came to land on her tongue. "Who are you?"
    Suddenly all smiles, the fellow slid around the bar to shake her hand. "Jerry. Jerry Mangolini. Wow. What an honor. Meetin' you, I mean. I've read your books. Every one of 'em."
    Paris heard Rachel gasp, and considered asking for a sip of the margarita. She was beginning to think she was going to need it. Then again, this was a situation best approached with caution. And a clear head.
    "Um,