Novel runner-up 2

Now the name “Falco” meant something, Carmen thought, rubbing her sore jaw. Sometimes it takes a crack in the mouth to boost a groggy, beer-lagged memory. Now she knew.

Falco had looked a little more distinguished in that newspaper photo than she remembered, when they’d met at the Vanray Motel over on Sunset, and he talked and cried his guts out. Seemed like a nice lonely man who needed to get some stuff off his chest. And Carmen just happened to be a real good listener.

This time, though, it would cost her a bundle. By the time Carmen got to Jumbo’s later, her jaw would be sporting a nice, plum-like bruise. Couldn’t do your thing at Jumbo’s with an imperfection like that. Manny would pull her out of the big-spender Eastern Exotic Pole Room and dump her on the no-tip Table & Bar shift.

But . . . she’d been chatting it up at the Vanray with a congressman? Great. No wonder half the damn city had been trying to bust down her door this morning.

Carmen blew out a harsh breath and sunk into the back-corner booth shadows at Teenie’s, a dive diner four blocks from her apartment. Her armpits and back were soaked with sweat, which plastered the white wife-beater T-shirt to her torso like wet pasta. Her hands, scratched up by her escape down the drainpipe, still shook. After all, she might have bumped a guy off this morning. Self-defense, but all the same.

The 6-foot tall waitress, Nika, spotted Carmen and sauntered over. She was Carmen’s favorite at the diner.

“Little early for you, hon,” Nika teased. “Need some coffee?”

Carmen smiled, despite the pain which shot through her jaw. “For starters,” she said. “How was your last audition?”

Nika’s nose wrinkled. “Haven’t heard yet. Listen . . . “ She faced Carmen, lowering her voice, and pretended to write an order. “Guy at the first bar stool, came in about twenty minutes ago. He asked about you.”

Carmen peered around Nika’s red-checkered apron. “Don’t know him,” she whispered. “But he’s coming this way.”

“Just let him try something up in here,” Nika tilted her head to the four hefty-sized cooks behind the counter. “They all got crushes on you! Ay, chica!”

The stranger stood behind Nika and topped her by four inches. He bowed deferentially as the waitress turned to glare at him and stalked away. Carmen’s eyes narrowed. Not bad-looking, with his bronze, chiseled features and sharp dark eyes. Maybe about fifty?

“What do you want?” Carmen blurted, shifting her gaze to the bar counter, where the head cook stared her way, twirling some kind of kitchen machete like a circus act. Cool.

“Just to chat for a minute, Ms. Ventura.” The guy smiled. Carmen quelled the impulse to ask how he knew her name, deciding to play calm for now. “Nice touch with the blond kid this morning,” he said slowly, sliding onto the seat’s edge. “He always was too eager.”

Carmen steeled herself, her nostrils flaring. “So, you send that punk to kill me and I’m supposed to sit here and have breakfast with you?”

The guy shook his head. “You got me all wrong, Ms. Ventura. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that. If you hadn’t nailed that kid, I certainly would have, for his stupidity. Where are my manners?” He shrugged. “Let me introduce myself.”

Carmen swallowed, jutting up her chin. Was this man kinda sexy or what?

“I’m Devon Palmieri. My friends call me Palmy. Tell me -- what do you know about a man named Charlie Bonner?”

Adrienne M. Byers is a writer, attorney and ’08 political enthusiast.