The Axeman's Jazz

question hadn’t come up.
    “Sonny? Aren’t you Sonny?”
    He turned. Standing beside him was a woman he knew from somewhere but couldn’t quite place. “Do I know you?”
    “I’m Di. From the program. Maybe you don’t remember me.”
    “Di. Of course.” They hadn’t spoken before, but he’d noticed her, found her very attractive. “Buy you a drink?”
    “Oh.” She looked dismayed, as if he’d insulted her.
    “Hi, Di,” said the bartender.
    “Hi, Floyd. The usual.” She gave him two dollars. To Sonny, she said, “I guess you took me by surprise. I don’t drink. I live across the street.” The bartender laid a stack of quarters in front of her. “Floyd gives me change for the washer and dryer.”
    “You’re doing laundry tonight?” She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a low-cut T-shirt showing cleavage.
    “I was, but it’s so hot.” She sat down and fanned her face.
    “A Coke or something?”
    “Ice water.”
    Sonny ordered another gin and tonic for himself. “Maybe we should go out on the patio.”
    “I can only stay a minute.”
    Up close, he saw the tiny lines under her eyes, the softness of her half-exposed breasts, and realized she was probably as old as his mother. What could he possibly have to say to her? From her right ear hung a star, from her left a crescent.
    “Di for Diana? The goddess of the moon?”
    “And the Huntress. Did you know she was supposed to be immune to falling in love?”
    “Are you?”
    “I’m not even named Diana.”
    “Diane.”
    She shook her head.
    “Diamond.”
    “Diamara.”
    “Ah.” He took a sip of gin, not knowing what to say next. “Diamara.”
    “My birth name was Jacqueline.” She pronounced it Zhakleen.
    “That’s a beautiful name.”
    “It wasn’t me. I’m born again.”
    “How did you come up with Diamara?”
    “You were almost right the first time. I am partly named for Diana but, I have to admit, partly for diamonds, and Mara is a name for the goddess.”
    “Mara or Mera?”
    “I just pronounce it Diamera. It’s really spelled with an A. I had to do it that way so it would come out a master number.”
    Sonny knew there must be a way to answer her. He tried to think what it could be.
    But she said, “Do you know anything about numerology?”
    “Oh, yeah. Numerology. I had a girlfriend once who was into it. Something about names and numbers. But you aren’t supposed to change your name, are you? Isn’t that part of the deal? You have to use the one you were born with?”
    She smiled, a priestess passing on the word. “I do it my way. That’s the way a nine person is, which is what I am; meaning my reality number is nine.”
    “Uh, could you run the system by me again?”
    “Let’s do your name. Okay—Sonny: S is one, o is six, n is five, the second n is five, and y is seven. Twenty-four, right? So that makes six—two plus four. That’s your key number. S is your cornerstone, so that’s one, and o is your instinctive desire, which is the same as your key. A six has a strong sense of duty and responsibility. Is that you?”
    Sonny felt a twinge of guilt. “Usually, I guess.”
    “You could be a banker, maybe, or a musician; or a doctor or lawyer.”
    Sonny’s head was awhirl. There was something wonderfully elfish about this woman, with her tangle of black curls, full breasts, and tiny waist. She might be twice his age, but she looked like a teenager, seemed more like the sister he’d never had. He was on the verge of asking, in envy, how she could put aside her reason, simply dive in and play such charming games with herself, when it occurred to him the question might be rude. He didn’t know exactly how, but he knew there were things about her he didn’t understand. He had a feeling answers wouldn’t necessarily come from direct questions.
    He wanted to know more, but he felt like a kid around her, didn’t have a clue how to keep her with him.
    “What name do you want?”
    “Me?”
    “Besides Sonny?”
    “I don’t know. Arthur, maybe.”
    “Because of the king?”
    He nodded. How had she known that?
    “What else? You need a backup.”
    “How about Jean-Paul?”
    “Jean-Paul?” She laughed, a pixie laugh. “Arthur was easy. Why Jean-Paul?”
    “From Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
    “Ah, the movie star. You don’t look old enough to remember him.”
    He was offended—he’d hoped she wouldn’t mention age. “You don’t have to be old to see old movies.”
    “Why do you want his