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“Fair near attacked him. I was going for a fire hose when they up and left.” He blew on his fingers as if they were singed. Ham.
“Can’t understand why you’re still a barman and don’t have your name in lights.”
“Fuck me, neither can I,” he said. And then he gave her a beer and a whiskey chaser. “Suspect you’ll be needing that.”
She drank them both. Who said she had to be a sober Marilyn? She was almost a no-show Marilyn when the bar started to fill up and Liam got too busy to talk, and the whole idea seemed absurd. But she’d virtually promised Lenny she’d do something, and this was something, and who knew if Cal Sherwood would keep his word about helping with her pitch. He didn’t keep his word about taking her to bed, so this might be everything she had.
She changed her clothes in the bathroom, put on the wig, and added to her makeup.
Liam was waiting, because in the tight slinky ankle length dress she wore she couldn’t climb on a barstool. He built her a set of steps to the bar top made from boxes of wine and helped her up.
“You look amazing, Fin. Break a leg.” Then, he jumped up beside her and called for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Blarney is proud to bring you, the one and only, the inimitable”—he winked at her—“Miss Marilyn Monroe. You show her respect now or I’ll show you me IRA credential,” he finished, taking her fake fur stole off her shoulders with a flourish.
And on that note, Fin shifted her weight to one leg, popping one hip high, touched her Marilyn hair, gave an exaggerated fake eyelash flutter, bent forward, and blew a kiss. She got a huge cheer, and it went on when she shaded her eyes and scanned the crowd like Marilyn had done at Kennedy’s birthday party, blinking shyly.
She licked her lips and sighed, letting her shoulders drop, gave a little, throaty cough and sang, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.” Like the real Marilyn, she gave an airy laugh and smiled, turned her face away and then refocused. If he was out there, she hoped he appreciated the effort that had gone into this.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Anonymous. Happy birthday, to you.”
Marilyn got applause at this point, Fin got catcalls, but she had their attention. When the noise died down, she went straight into the second verse. “Thanks, Mr. Anonymous, for all the things you’ve done,” she added her own words, “you big, powerful man. The way you promise to donate to my little charity. You really did promise.”
She put her hands to her hips then threw them open wide, “Everybody.” She conducted a rowdy rendition of the first verse of Happy Birthday, while behind her, Liam popped a champagne cork and people cheered and sang and laughed.
And then it was over, and everyone went back to what they were doing. Fin stood there looking out at the crowd feeling elated, but also ridiculous. She wasn’t in college, and this wasn’t impromptu theater; this was supposed to be her life, and she was trying to solve problems by impersonating her favorite dead Hollywood icon.
Liam helped her down. “I hope that gotcha what you wanted, Miss Monroe.”
She gave him a Marilyn quote. “Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”
She had to hope she didn’t burn out like Norma Jean.
Chapter Four
In the skin slicked dress with the stiff, blonde wig and the sly, breathless manner, Fin was unrecognizable. Seeing her this way made Cal sorry he’d left her alone last night, but he had no regrets about sending the anonymous email that had her shimmering on the bar top.
It was crowded in the pub, and there wasn’t much chance she would pick him out. All the same, he tugged his Mets cap down over his forehead and pushed the dweeb glasses he wore further up his nose, hunkered down inside his ugly puffy jacket, and kept toward the very back of the room.
He didn’t think she’d do this. She’d said it herself, she was a flake. But he’d wanted to see what her resolve was worth, and this was everything he could’ve hoped for and more. She was genuinely desperate for the money, and genuinely desperate was a grifter’s favorite state of being for a mark. She gave him a lot to work with.
Up on that bar top, she was sensational, from the way she used her body, which did not have Marilyn’s curves but made you imagine it did, to the nervous little gestures and the manner in which she articulated the word birth-day, as if it was two words with a sex act inserted in between.
Ah, he had plans for Fin Cartwright, starting with convincing her she could be a star, and could get what she wanted in life whether it was the stage or the success of her charity. It was worth keeping his hands off her.
Which was a lie.
But it helped.
“What did I just watch?” Zeke asked.
“Talent.”
“For what purpose?”
“My amusement, so far.” It wouldn’t become anything more than a direct deposit of her thousand with a bonus on top if Fin didn’t call for an appointment. He couldn’t help her if she didn’t want his help. Either way, she’d never know pranking her with Marilyn was all about testing her resolve. He needed a new One Night Wife, and Fin had potential.
Zeke handed him a beer. “I’m shaking in my boots. Are we taking on the Vegas mob? If you break out a fat Elvis suit, I’m calling an emergency board meeting.”
He gave his brother a look of disgust, “I’d be Jailhouse Rock Elvis. Obviously,” and changed the topic. “How is Rory?”
