Unzipped by Lois Greiman Page B

overstating things when I say I’d kill for lobster, but I felt it necessary to maintain my cool demeanor. Although I might have drooled a little.
    The Geekster grinned. “So babe, what’d you do to the football player, huh? I heard he died of a heart attack.”
    At least news of the Viagra hadn’t gotten out. “I didn’t do anything to him,” I said. I was going for hauteur, but my mouth was still pooling with saliva and it was beginning to pose an enunciation problem.
    “Really? ’Cuz it’s said he had a hard-on of colossal proportions.”
    I considered abandoning hauteur and going for smack down. “I had nothing to do with that, either.”
    He leered at my knees.
    “I doubt that, babycakes. But don’t worry. My ticker’s good as gold,” he said and put his arm across the back of my seat.
    I didn’t really mean to pull out my Mace, but I kept it on my key chain. Handy but bulky, like a baseball bat on a ring.
    “Hey!” he said, immediately offended. But he retracted his arm. Apparently he was familiar with Mr. Mace. “What’s that for?”
    “The usual.”
    “You came to
me
.”
    Which wasn’t exactly true, but true enough to cause a little spark of guilt to nibble at my psyche.
    “Listen, Solberg, I’ve had a hard week. And I don’t want any trouble. I just need some information.”
    He stared at me. “Okay, okay, just put that away,” he said and turned off the freeway. In a matter of minutes he had pulled up beside an ancient-looking cottage. Sycamore trees shadowed the parking lot, although a shingle beside the door called it the Four Oaks.
    Elegance, from Solberg. Life was full of surprises.
    He stepped out of the Porsche and gave his keys to the valet with an exaggerated word of caution. We were ushered into the restaurant. It was cozy and charming, but the smell of culinary delights distracted me. Old architecture is all well and good, but it can’t hold a candle to a twice-baked potato.
    We were seated in moments. J.D. offered to order for me but I declined, hardly snarling at all. In a few minutes we were settled back with our drinks. I had considered abstaining, since liquor tends to make me weepy and idiotic, but there are a few occasions when alcohol is strictly called for, and I was pretty sure this was one of them.
    “So, how did you know I wanted information about Bomstad?” I asked, making my opening gambit.
    He grinned over his martini. “Tricks of the trade, gorgeous.”
    “Are they tricks I could perform?” I asked, wondering if there was any possibility I could cut out the middle man. Namely, the Geekster.
    “You got a password cracker and shh?”
    “What?”
    “How about keystroke logger?”
    “Huh?”
    He laughed. “Maybe you better not try it at home, dollface.”
    I drank and decided he couldn’t possibly be as irritating as he seemed. It was probably just my stomach talking. I hadn’t eaten since my predawn ice cream feeding. “What did you learn?” I asked.
    “What do you want to know?” he countered, propping an elbow over the back of his chair.
    I considered marching out my question: Was Bomstad impotent? Had he played threesies with hookers? And did he really flash his goodies in public? But somehow I couldn’t quite force out the words, not here where they used cloth napkins and real metal flatware.
    “The truth is . . . I’m concerned how this debacle might impact my career,” I said, wowing myself with my linguistic genius. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold in the community, and—”
    “He was banging your secretary.”
    The bottom fell out of my world. “What!”
    Fourteen pairs of well-bred eyes turned to stare at the commotion, but I hardly cared.
    Neither did Solberg. He grinned. “Three times,” he said. “Unless you don’t count the hand job in the parking lot.”
    “Elaine?”
    “Elaine? No,” he said, and made a circular motion with the bread stick he’d just pulled from its basket. “The other one. What’s her name.”
    I