The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [199]
“Oh, God—strike me with lightning!” Rogo shouts at the sky as a few fellow diners and an older woman on the sidewalk turn to stare. “You let Dreidel take that?”
“He didn’t take anything. Besides, I promised the President from day one: I’d never cash in on him.”
“His wife almost—” He turns to the man staring from the table diagonally across from us. “Sir, go back to your soup. Thank you.” Looking back at me, Rogo lowers his voice and leans in. “His wife almost had you killed, jackass. And even if you can’t prove it, he may’ve known about it all along. So while I’m sure your buddy Dreidel had that same, dumb code-of-honor thing going—and believe me, my momma taught me to appreciate loyalty—attempted murder is usually a pretty darn good sign that you can part ways guilt-free and stop sending invites to each other’s birthday parties.”
Slightly up the block, a meter maid driving in an enclosed golf cart marks tires with a piece of chalk on the end of a long metal pole. “Doesn’t matter,” I tell Rogo. “I’m not profiting off them.”
“Bet Dreidel sells the film rights too (though he’ll probably only get movie of the week).”
“No profit, Rogo. Ever.”
“And what’s Lisbeth say?”
“About the book rights or Dreidel’s radio show?”
“About everything.”
I stare up the block at the meter maid, who’s writing a ticket for a pale yellow vintage Plymouth Belvedere. Following my glance, Rogo turns and looks over his shoulder.
“I’m only gonna get him off, Richie!” Rogo yells out.
“Only if they’re dumb enough to hire you,” the meter maid calmly teases back.
“I think Lisbeth understands where I’m coming from,” I tell him.
“She understand anything else?” Rogo asks, still eyeing the yellow Plymouth.
“What’s that mean?”
“You know what it means. You two went through the grinder together—plus you let her write the story as a final gift.”
“So?”
“So I know you talk to her every night.”
“How d’you know I talk to her?”
“I pick up the phone to see who you’re chatting with.” Finally turning back to face me, he adds, “C’mon, what’s the story with our favorite redhead? You in there? You counting freckles? You trying to figure out if they make constellations?”
“Pardon me?”
“Don’t play naive. You digging for clams, or you still on the beach?”
I roll my eyes. “Can you please not be so—?”
“Clamdigger!”
“No. Stop. Of course, I haven’t.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Okay. Good.”
I pause and cock my head. “Why good?”
“Nothing,” Rogo says.
“Rogo, why good?”
“I dunno,” he says, already playing dumb. “I just figured, y’know, if you’re not swimming in that pool, I might try to dive in and—and maybe just—and maybe take my own little skinny dip.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Wait. You? You’re gonna ask Lisbeth out?”
“Why, you think I don’t have a chance?”
“Let me be honest with you.” I pick the words as carefully as possible. “You don’t have a chance.”
“What’re you talking about? I’m short and fat; she’s a little on the plus size. It’s a good match.”
“Yeah, that makes complete sense. Maybe you should just go ring shopping right now.”
He lowers his chin, and his jaw shifts off-center. “You’re not supposed to root against the rabbit getting the Trix.”
“Listen, you do what you want. I’m just warning you—I think she might be seeing someone.”
“Lisbeth is? Says who? Her? Or you just making it up?”
“I’m telling you . . . I could hear it in her voice.”
“Did she say who it—?” His face falls. “It’s not Dreidel, is it? Oh, I’ll stab needles in my eyes if he—”
“It’s not Dreidel—no way,” I tell him.
“You think it’s someone from her work?”
I glance over Rogo’s shoulder, where a brand-new lime-green Mustang cruises up the block, slowing as it approaches. “Kinda from work,” I say as it pulls into the fire lane that’s directly across from our table on the patio. The lime-green car bucks to a stop. There’s no mistaking the driver’s red hair.
“Whoa, paninis!” Lisbeth calls out as she leans out the window of her car. “Do they actually serve estrogen there, or did you take your shots before you arrived?