myself. The only man I want is whichever of your boys killed Laura Crawford. Just hand him over to me in the morning!” Polly turned around and started back toward the warmth of the inside deck. “Get on with your love lives! And play safe!” she said to Tim and Placenta. “I’m going to my stateroom. And don’t call me before nine, unless you’ve got someone handcuffed.”
“You mean with a signed and notarized statement of guilt in hand!” Tim said, and gave his mother a kiss on her left cheek.
Placenta gave her a tight hug. “Sleep well,” she called back to Polly as she and Tim bolted toward the glass elevator and their respective assignations.
Polly shook her head. “Who needs it? I’ve had my fair share.” She gracefully walked along the carpeted floor to the center atrium. At the railing that overlooked all the decks, she peered down ten stories to the sparkling mirrortiled grand piano on a platform stage. Soon the music stopped, and although she couldn’t see well enough from her distance, she knew it was Placenta who closed the keyboard cover and guided her boyfriend off the small stage. “I guess that’s a wrap,” she said, and started to walk away.
“Rotten timing,” said a voice from a man she hadn’t noticed leaning against the balcony beside her. Polly turned and did an imperceptible double take. He was slightly taller than she, probably in his early sixties, and wore his gray hair in youthful but not immature short spikes. “I was going to cap off the night with a drink by the piano,” he said.
Polly smiled as she instantly absorbed the bright white teeth behind the man’s own wide smile, as well as his rimless glasses, smooth facial skin, brass buttons of his navy blue sport coat, and a lapel pin that Polly assumed was from a fraternal organization. “There’s always the Carpathia Lounge,” Polly offered. “That is if you like Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, Porter, Coward and a smattering of the Beatles.”
“Toss in a bit of Dusty Springfield, a pinch of Petula Clark, and a dash of Diana Ross, and I’m a very happy man.” He held out his hand to shake. “I’m Dorian.”
Polly accepted Dorian’s hand. “I spoke at Dusty’s funeral. So sad.”
After a moment in which the two absorbed each other with their eyes, Dorian said, “Let’s hit the Carpathia.”
“The Germans already did that.”
Dorian uttered an involuntary laugh. “A quick drink and a memorial toast to dead singers we’ve loved and lost. That may take us to dawn.”
“Dawn, as in, Tony Orlando
and?”
In a fraction of an instant, a thousand thoughts about not accepting candy from strangers and never picking up hitchhikers raced through Polly’s mind. However, none of the warnings were persuasive enough to outweigh the allure of a glass of champagne with an attractive and friendly gentleman, and listening to what she called “real music.” The fact that Dorian got Polly’s joke about the Carpathia cinched the deal.
When Tim and Placenta knocked on Polly’s stateroom door the next morning, the usual call to
“Entrez vous,”
didn’t come. After a few more knuckles to the door, and a long gulp of coffee from a stainless-steel carafe on the corridor floor, Tim used the spare key card to enter Polly’s cabin. In the pitch-blackness of the stateroom, Placenta felt along the wall for the light switch by the door. When theroom was visible, she and Tim saw Polly in bed, lying in repose on her back. Her pink silk monogrammed sleep mask covered her eyes. “It’s Evita Perón in her glass coffin,” Placenta cracked. “How the heck can anyone sleep as long as she does?”
“It’s in the family genes. I’d still be in the sack, if you hadn’t barged in on me …”
“… and Dangelo!”
“You should have arrived sooner. He’s in deep doo-doo for missing his five o’clock call. I need more java.”
Placenta looked at her watch. “It’s way past breakfast time in the dining room, and
“You mean with a signed and notarized statement of guilt in hand!” Tim said, and gave his mother a kiss on her left cheek.
Placenta gave her a tight hug. “Sleep well,” she called back to Polly as she and Tim bolted toward the glass elevator and their respective assignations.
Polly shook her head. “Who needs it? I’ve had my fair share.” She gracefully walked along the carpeted floor to the center atrium. At the railing that overlooked all the decks, she peered down ten stories to the sparkling mirrortiled grand piano on a platform stage. Soon the music stopped, and although she couldn’t see well enough from her distance, she knew it was Placenta who closed the keyboard cover and guided her boyfriend off the small stage. “I guess that’s a wrap,” she said, and started to walk away.
“Rotten timing,” said a voice from a man she hadn’t noticed leaning against the balcony beside her. Polly turned and did an imperceptible double take. He was slightly taller than she, probably in his early sixties, and wore his gray hair in youthful but not immature short spikes. “I was going to cap off the night with a drink by the piano,” he said.
Polly smiled as she instantly absorbed the bright white teeth behind the man’s own wide smile, as well as his rimless glasses, smooth facial skin, brass buttons of his navy blue sport coat, and a lapel pin that Polly assumed was from a fraternal organization. “There’s always the Carpathia Lounge,” Polly offered. “That is if you like Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, Porter, Coward and a smattering of the Beatles.”
“Toss in a bit of Dusty Springfield, a pinch of Petula Clark, and a dash of Diana Ross, and I’m a very happy man.” He held out his hand to shake. “I’m Dorian.”
Polly accepted Dorian’s hand. “I spoke at Dusty’s funeral. So sad.”
After a moment in which the two absorbed each other with their eyes, Dorian said, “Let’s hit the Carpathia.”
“The Germans already did that.”
Dorian uttered an involuntary laugh. “A quick drink and a memorial toast to dead singers we’ve loved and lost. That may take us to dawn.”
“Dawn, as in, Tony Orlando
and?”
In a fraction of an instant, a thousand thoughts about not accepting candy from strangers and never picking up hitchhikers raced through Polly’s mind. However, none of the warnings were persuasive enough to outweigh the allure of a glass of champagne with an attractive and friendly gentleman, and listening to what she called “real music.” The fact that Dorian got Polly’s joke about the Carpathia cinched the deal.
When Tim and Placenta knocked on Polly’s stateroom door the next morning, the usual call to
“Entrez vous,”
didn’t come. After a few more knuckles to the door, and a long gulp of coffee from a stainless-steel carafe on the corridor floor, Tim used the spare key card to enter Polly’s cabin. In the pitch-blackness of the stateroom, Placenta felt along the wall for the light switch by the door. When theroom was visible, she and Tim saw Polly in bed, lying in repose on her back. Her pink silk monogrammed sleep mask covered her eyes. “It’s Evita Perón in her glass coffin,” Placenta cracked. “How the heck can anyone sleep as long as she does?”
“It’s in the family genes. I’d still be in the sack, if you hadn’t barged in on me …”
“… and Dangelo!”
“You should have arrived sooner. He’s in deep doo-doo for missing his five o’clock call. I need more java.”
Placenta looked at her watch. “It’s way past breakfast time in the dining room, and
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