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a day of battling New York traffic and United Airlines, a hot soapy tub, four ounces of my trusty Black and White splashed over an equal amount of shaved ice and some peace and quiet sounded decidedly more appealing. Besides, I needed the opportunity to review all those brilliant observations I had so cleverly poured into my little recorder. On balance, all of the above far outweighed exchanging whatever with someone called Brenda Cashman. |
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"I have a better idea," I countered, albeit a little weakly. |
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"I'm open to suggestions." |
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"There's a terrific little breakfast restaurant on High Street, two blocks down from Elmoreworld class biscuits and gravy. I'll meet you there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll be the one who looks like his beard is rusty." |
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"I know what you look like, Mr. Wages." She giggled, hung up and left me with that irritating buzz that goes hand in hand with an empty line. |
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Later, while soaking in my tub and sipping my Scotch, I paused to wonder what I had passed up. |
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Brenda Cashman was one of those wispy, moon-child-looking-females you see in perfume advertisements for fragrances with masculine names. She had soft, shoulder-length auburn hair and deep, |
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