Write me a Letter

dined.”
    ”And boozed,” Ron said. ”Don’t forget that.” I saw, over his shoulder, the satisfactory sight of the future Mrs. Upton scribbling away furiously in her address book.
    After a spot more badinage and a smidgen more bargaining, we amicably settled on a price for the would-be Upton wedding reception, discussed briefly the contents of the intended musical program—no polkas, no punk, no Mexican hat dances—then we headed back toward the van.
    ”One thing,” Ron said apologetically on the way. ”I of all people do not want to seem pushy, greedy, or indeed, needy. I am a musician, after all. I do have a certain reputation to uphold. But was there not some talk of, ahem, a bonus of some modest kind?”
    ”Golly,” I said, slapping my leg. ”I forgot all about that, Ron. Did you meet your host, by any chance? Nathan Lubinski?”
    ”Briefly,” he said. ”He came up to thank us all when we were packing up. It was his missus who took care of all the details, including the main one—the big payoff. Isn’t he like a jeweler?”
    ”Is he ever,” I said. ”Miss me, Precious?” Precious blew me a kiss. I pretended to catch it and tuck it away in a pocket. She simpered back at me.
    ”He’s got a lot of class, too, old Nate,” I said. ”He gave all the ushers gold cuff links with their initials on them and the usherettes gold charm bracelets and his daughter and new son-in-law a car with their initials on it, and moreover, he must be tone deaf is all I can think of, he wants to send all you musical vagabonds silver tie clips or something, with all your initials on them.”
    ”A thoughtful gesture,” said Ron.
    ”Indeedy,” said I. ”So. If you and the boys actually happen to have homes these days and aren’t still sleeping out on Manhattan Beach, let me have the addresses, please, and Nate’ll have them made up and have them hand-delivered in his own company van”—nonexistent, needless to say—”which is not a tarted-up old Volks, either, like some I could name.”
    Ron was only too happy to oblige. He retrieved his gig book from Precious, flipped to the back pages, copied out the names and addresses of his brother musicians on a pad I happened to have at the ready, then dug out one of his business cards to cover himself.
    ”Which one was the guitarist?” Evonne asked him ingenuously. ”He was cute as all get-out. I loved his riffs.”
    ”You keep your hands off his riffs,” I said sternly.
    ”That one,” said Ron, pointing to one of the names. ”D. Gresham the Third. Also known in the trade as ‘Finger-Lickin’ Good.’ ”
    Evonne let out a trill of high-pitched laughter. Ron penciled in his book what he thought was my name and what he thought was my address, plus a phone number that wasn’t mine, under the appropriate date. I said I’d get on to him within a day or two about a definite commitment and that the deposit check was practically in the safe hands of the U.S. Postal Service already.
    ‘All right already!” he said to me. We exchanged high fives. ”Adiós for ahora, sweet madam,” he said to Evonne.
    ”Adored your testimonials,” she said to him.
    Ron climbed up into the driver’s seat, started up the van, then shouted out the window, ”C’mon, Rufe, you’ll miss the bus.”
    Rufe came, Frank opened the gates, and off they drove, giving us a farewell toot-toot on the horn.
    ”’Bye!” waved Precious.
    As soon as they were out of sight, she dived into her purse, got out her address book again, and began scribbling furiously again, muttering under her sweet breath as she did so. When she finally came up for air, Frank and Annie had wandered over to join us.
    ”What was that all about?” Annie asked me.
    ”Kim,” I said. ”She was being Kim.”
    ”In what movie?” she said.
    ”Not that Kim,” I said disgustedly. ”Haven’t you ever read any higher literature?”
    ”He has,” she said, referring to her hubby. ”He gets Guns and Ammo every month.” Frank looked away sheepishly.
    ”Rudyard Kipling’s Kim,” I said. My pop loved Kipling. He had his complete works, along with those of O. Henry. Otherwise, his only other literary interests, as far as I could recall, were The Saturday Evening Post, the Police Gazette, Look, and Life, although once, in the basement, I came across a tattered copy of something called Sun ‘n ’ Sport, which surprised me because I never knew my pop was at all interested in ladies’ volleyball.
    ”Kim,” I