LENA

Booker abruptly pushes back from the table and stands. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he mutters, “but I’m going to have to cut this short.”

“Are you okay, son?” his father inquires, looking concerned. “You’re looking a little peaked.”

No fooling. Booker’s complexion generally leans more toward olive than fair skinned. Yet, all of a sudden, he looks downright pale. I move to check him out more carefully. “Yes, are you all right?”

“I’m feeling a little...off. Don’t worry, though. I don’t think it’s anything contagious. I, uh, probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner.”

I blink, then blink again. Booker never skips meals, so that sounds like a big, fat lie. What on earth is going on with him?

“This was nice tonight, Dad.” He looks over at Mr. Orland. “Thank you, Ray, for bringing him. It was a grand surprise.” He promptly directs his attention back on his father. “Are you going to be in town for a while?”

“I’m attending a banking symposium all day tomorrow. I’ll head home Wednesday in the early afternoon. If I don’t get a chance to see you again before I go, I want you to know I’m real proud of you, son. Ray wasn’t pulling my leg. You’ve built yourself one helluva fine business here.”

Booker pulls a small gold card holder and a matching fountain pen out of his inside breast pocket. He flips the case open, pulls out a business card and scribbles something on its backside. He waves the card for a moment to dry the ink, then hands it to his father. “These are the phone numbers for the lounge and my house. Maybe we can get together and have lunch or dinner before you leave, if either fit into your schedule.”

Booker’s father takes the card and tucks it into his own breast pocket. “I’d like that.” Reaching out, he hauls Booker in for a hug and murmurs something in his ear. Then he turns him loose. “You go get something to eat before you pass out.”

Booker simply nods, grabs me by the hand and strides away, hauling me in his wake.

I trot a few steps to catch up, and neither of us say a word until we reach his office. The desk is neat and Leo isn’t there, so I’m guessing he might have gone home after he finished his work.

Booker stops in the middle of the room and just stares down at his feet.

“What the devil is going on?” He doesn’t answer and I touch his arm. “Booker?”

He blinks as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He’s looking right at me unblinkingly but I’m not convinced he actually sees me. Then his eyes focus.

“Can you call Will?” he asks. “Now, if possible—” He glances at his watch. “Shit. It’s late. First thing tomorrow, then? Could you call him then? Or give me the number so I can? It’s important I talk to him.”

“You must not remember Will is a night owl,” I say dryly. “The party he shares a line with might not be thrilled with a middle of the night call, but the heck with them. Will tells me they’re constantly listening in on his calls. I’ll get him for you.”

“Thanks, doll,” he whispers and collapses onto his desk chair. Elbows planted atop his desk, he buries his head in his hands.

Concerned, I perch a hip on the corner of Booker’s desk and pull the tall phone over to me. Holding it by its candlestick, I lift the earpiece from the cradle and dial the operator. I give her Will’s number and a moment later his line chimes. He picks up on the second ring.

“Will, it’s me. Hang on a second.” I lean over to jab Booker in the shoulder. He raises his head and I shove the phone at him.

He grabs it. “Will, it’s Booker,” he says urgently into the mouthpiece. “I know it’s late, but can I come over? I need to talk to you. It’s important. Yeah? Thank you.” He slaps the earpiece back in its cradle and pushes to his feet, clearly energized where before he appeared exhausted. I half expect him to stride out the office door without so much as a goodbye. But my heart thumps eagerly when he rounds the desk to pull me to my feet and says, “Grab your coat. Will said we can come over.”

Briskly, he makes arrangements with John the barman for closing out the till and locking down the club for the night, then ushers me out to his car. The instant both our doors are closed, he pulls away from the curb like he’s in the race of his life and continues driving hell bent for leather through deserted downtown streets and up the steep hills to to Will’s neighborhood.

In less than fifteen minutes from the moment Will first picked up my call, we screech to a halt in front of his apartment building.

He must have heard us coming up the stairs, for he’s standing in the open doorway to his apartment, a dense shadow in the midst of light pouring out into the hallway. “Hey,” he greets us quietly as we approach, then steps back to wave us in.

We enter, and Booker stops dead just inside the apartment. He draws in a deep breath. “God,” he says quietly. “I’d forgotten the smell of oil paint and turpentine.” He looks at Will’s paint splattered smock and hands and grins—the first smile I’ve seen since before whatever it was that happened to make him look so downright ill at the lounge. “That distinctive stink always reminds me of you. Of... good times with friends.”

“Yep, some things never change.” Will studies Booker through narrowed eyes. “Or do they?”

I have no doubt he’s noticed Booker’s complexion, which, while not as dead white as it appeared at the club, is still abnormally pale. Will exchanges a speaking glance with me. This strange and urgent meeting has him as concerned as I am.

He frowns at Booker. “Take a seat. Can I get the two of you something to drink?”

I decline, but Booker nods. “Thanks. I could stand something strong.”

Will disappears into the little kitchen and comes back with three water glasses, two of which contain a couple fingers of what is surely whiskey. He hands one to Booker and hands me a glass of orange juice.

I raise my eyebrows at him and he says gruffly, “Drink it. You think I don’t know you, girl? You’ve been singing in a smoky club all night. You need to keep your pipes lubed.”

It’s this very thoughtfulness that makes him such a darn fine friend. After thanking him softly, I take an appreciative sip of the cold juice.

He takes his own drink and sits on the chair facing the sofa where Booker and I made ourselves at home. “It’s not the top-drawer stuff you serve,” he says dryly to Booker, “but it ain’t half bad.”

We sip our drinks in silence for a moment. Then Will sets his glass on the table next to his chair with a quiet clink and looks at Booker.

“So,” he says. “Whataya need that’s so pressing it couldn’t wait until morning?”