A Small Matter by M.M. Wilshire Page B

of seeing my dream come true
through him.”
    “Tell me about your brother,” Mary-Jo said.
“Does he have a family?”
    “He’s single,” Vickie said. “He’ll be the big
4-0 this February.”
    “Will he be working with us on this?” Mary-Jo
said.
    Vickie laughed. “No,” she said. “He’s not
practical about such matters. He’s the kind of man who’s happy
simply to have clothes on his back and a hot meal. Not that he’s a
pig. He shaves and showers every day, and he’s in incredible
physical shape. He’s got low self-esteem, though, because he’s a
little on the short side--like me--we’re both short and a little
stocky.”
    “He sounds refreshing,” Mary-Jo said. “And
you’re not stocky--voluptuous is the word.”
    “You can afford to be generous with your
compliments with that set of wheels,” Vickie said.
    “I’m thirty-five and I still haven’t met a
man in this town I could tell apart from the last one. I’d love to
have a rough-cut man like your brother to polish to suit my
tastes.”
    Vickie brought out the photo she kept of Dalk
in her wallet.
    “Ooh-la-la,” Mary-Jo said. “You didn’t tell
me he was so cute. Is he seeing anybody?”
    “He’s been unattached for the past couple of
years. He needs a house and somebody to look after him. I can’t
leave him alone to wander around friendless and homeless in this
land of barbarians. His big problem is he has no head for money.
You should see the car he drives--an old heap one of his students
traded him for some lessons.”
    “Student? Is he a teacher?” Mary-Jo said.
    “Brace yourself,” Vickie said. “He’s a
martial artist--he works for LAPD.”
    Mary-Jo drained off her White Russian. “He
sounds like he walked straight out of my dreams,” she said. With a
sharp eye, she summoned the waiter. “The White Russian didn’t cut
it,” she said. “What’ve you got with an edge?”
    “How about a Suicide,” he said. “151 rum,
light rum, dark rum, vodka, triple sec, and five fruit juices, all
slushed together--it’ll cut through anything.”
    Mary-Jo nodded at Vickie. “Do you mind?” she
said. “ I know it’s unprofessional, but I suddenly feel the need
for us to achieve some sort of state of grace here as quickly as
possible.”
    “I agree,” Vickie said.
    “It’s settled then,” Mary-Jo said. “I’ll have
a Suicide.”
    “Make it two,” Vickie said.
    “Your brother is like one of those macho,
self-imposed exiles-from-the-world that women dream about,” Mary-Jo
said. “The minute I saw his picture, I was ready to quit everything
and go with him on horseback to anyplace wild.”
    “You should be careful,” Vickie said. “One of
his dreams is to go to Alaska and do that dogsled thing they do up
there.”
    “That’d be better than what my life is now,”
Mary-Jo said. “My love life has really been reduced to foraging for
nuts and berries the past few years--nothing of substance has
graced my paths for a long time. I’ve made some money selling Real
Estate, even in this difficult market, and I guess that’s left me
vulnerable to the kind of dream guy who’s just that--all dreams and
no money--the kind of guy who’s looking for somebody to take care
of him while he goes to all the right Studio parties praying for a
miracle Producer to snap him up and make him the next Brad
Pitt.”
    “Dalk is a bit of a wild beast,” Vickie said.
“He’s your basic meat-eater--not the type to inhabit the enclosed
environs of the movie people.”
    The Suicides arrived, brightly sheathed in
mounds of multi-colored ice crystals. Each lady took a sip through
their straws.
    “Whoo,” Mary-Jo said. “One of these and it
will be with the utmost reluctance that I ever return to
reality.”
    Vickie felt a stirring in her lower back and
a whisper of fear in her heart. The pain, forgotten for a precious
few hours, was awakening from its slumber. She fumbled with her
vial of Mulroney Specials, palmed a couple of caps