“And you can’t go out with
Sighs.
“So,” Sam said to Serge with overt contempt. “What’s with the tape recorder?”
“Preserving the show for future historians.”
The chemicals were undergoing a tidal shift in Serge’s head. He was now a man of mystery, currently involved in some kind of high-stakes smuggling game with the Russians. And these women…well, a good female agent will use any weapon at her disposal; Serge was determined not to let any of them lure him into the classic espionage “honey trap.”
Sam snickered. “You’re a historian?”
A historian was as good a cover as any. Serge nodded.
A tipsy Rebecca leaned toward Serge, brushing her shoulder against his. “Wow, a historian. I’ll bet that takes years of study and hard work.” Rebecca looked around at the others, and she could see it in their eyes:
This Rebecca could be the Mata Hari, thought Serge. But then, so could any of them. Watch your step.
A small redheaded man took the stage. Serge pressed a button on his recorder.
The Dixieland jazz began whimsically and slow but built with reckless precision. At one point, Serge had an uncontrollable urge to ask if he could sit in on trombone. Why not? It was a chance of a lifetime. But that would risk his cover because he didn’t know how to play the trombone, and national security had to come first.
Rebecca leaned cozily into Serge again. “Can you believe what this is costing?”
“Believe it,” said Serge. “You got your sixty-dollar entertainment charge, eighteen dollars for the appetizer if you want to cheap out, drinks, cab fare, coat check, tips. It never ends! Russell Baker was right. In New York, you hemorrhage money!”
The women smiled and tapped along with the music. With the exception of Sam, they were all starting to fall for Serge, so dashing and charming and funny — no clue he was crazier than a whirligig beetle — sitting there bouncing jauntily and playing the “air clarinet.”
An hour later, the room erupted in applause as Mr. Allen packed up his instrument and left the stage. White noise of conversation filled the room. Serge asked where the women were from, and they told him.
“Really? I’m from Florida, too!” he said. “What about family?”
“Most of our kids also go to school there,” said Teresa, “but a couple are out of state.”
“You have kids?” said Serge. “Pictures!”
Teresa opened her wallet and handed it to Serge. “He’s a fine one!…Okay, the rest of you!”
The others dug out wallets except Sam, who finally got moving after an elbow from Maria. Serge carefully lined the photos up on the table like a collection. “That sure is a blue-ribbon crop. You must be mighty proud parents! What do your husbands do?”
“We don’t have any.”
“Not anymore.”
“Irresistible women like yourselves?” said Serge. “Available?”
“Please!” Sam said under her breath.
“So you’re all single moms?” asked Serge.
They nodded.
“What the heck is this, a club or something?”
They nodded again.
“Well, you got all my respect. Single moms are my heroes. No tougher or more important job in America today, that’s a fact! I was raised by a single mom. I didn’t really think about it much at the time, but looking back — what she must have gone through! You may not know it to look at me today, but I was quite a handful.”
Sam muttered again.
“Did you say something?” asked Serge.
She smiled. “Nope.”
“Anyway, hats off to you. The country can’t do enough — Congress should come up with a medal!…”
His stock with the gals was going through the roof. “…If it was up to me, you’d get hazardous-duty pay, yes sir!…”
Rebecca looked at the others. “He has to come with us!”
“Yes, you have to!”
“We’ve got a limo.”
“How can a man say no to such lovely ladies…”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” said Sam. “No offense, but we don’t know anything about him.”
“She’s right,” said Serge. “I’m a complete stranger you’ve just met in New York. God only knows what I’m capable of.”
“Who are you kidding?” said Rebecca. “You look so normal.”
“It’s the normal-looking ones you have to worry about,” said Serge. “You’re not going to end up in a sex dungeon because you went off with a
Rebecca laughed and put a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “You’re so funny!”
32
A small newsstand stood on the corner of Madison and Fifty-fifth. No business. A thin Guatemalan shivered inside the booth and rubbed his hands together in their mittens. A small battery-powered TV sat atop a stack of unsold tabloids. John Walsh walked angrily toward the camera.
