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“Exactly.”

“Okay, sure. Would it be seemly to pick her up in my VW bug?”

“I left Star Shield’s top-of-the-line brand-new Lincoln limo in the garage under your name. She expects me at seven, but I’ll give you the proper ID and call her beforehand.”

Like any good limo driver, I showed up at the hotel’s valet station at six thirty. They took my cell number and told me where I could sit and wait.

And wait I did. My daughter sent me a text asking me to reply every six hours or so, so that she would know that nobody had killed me. I called Leaf but she didn’t answer. I left her a message and hoped that she would reply, just as my daughter hoped I would. I tried to read. Failed. Time dragged by in little six-minute hops. Seven o’clock came and went. Then it was 8:14, but the client still hadn’t showed. She hadn’t called or texted; this told me that she thought of me the way she should have—like some lower-class servant.

At 8:49 the hotel valet called me and said that the client would be at the entrance in three minutes.

I was there in two.

Hopping out of the car, I was at the back door of the Lincoln just as the client, Clarice Bowe, came out of the double doors of the hotel.

I was dressed for the job, wearing a black suit and a pale blue dress shirt, with a maroon, silver, and gold tie that had been made from an antique kimono.

She was dressed in a chiffon and silk number that was hot pink. Ms. Bowe simmered in the tight embrace of the garment, which subtly revealed hints of her charm. She was five foot five, but the heels lifted her up to five-nine. She had the kind of body that had made men into satyrs in old Greece. The right amount of heft, in just the right places, with a face that at least looked innocent.

I opened her door and offered a hand to pretend like I was helping her. She stopped for a moment to lock eyes.

“I like the tie,” she complimented.

“Thanks. I do too.”

“The lady driver said I would like you,” she uttered with certainty.

“I hope to live up to those expectations.”

Her mouth smiled in response, but her eyes questioned something about me.

It was an interesting job. Our first talk was on the way to the first stop.

“Where to?” I asked as we exited the circular drive of the valet station.

“You ever hear of the Viceroy Club?” her voice was husky, a strong and clear whisper.

“The private place on Canon over Helmut’s bakery.”

“They don’t advertise. Have you taken other people there?”

“Yes.” That was the truth. My Grandma B’s boyfriend, Roger Ferris, took me there when we first brought her to the hospital.

“Is it nice?”

“A little stuffy for a woman like yourself.”

“And what am I like?”

“Somebody up on the top floor where all the walls are windows.”

I could see her smiling in the rearview mirror.

“Not a lot of windows at the Viceroy?” she asked.

“Not a one.”

I pulled up to the curb and asked, “Do you want me to go in with you?”