“My point exactly. Have you thought of enlargement?”
She spluttered for the second time that night, finally getting out the word, “No.”
“You should.”
She felt the center of attention, Witt, the Greek God, the bartender, even the twittering young women.
“Men like breasts,” Hammerhead went on as if he spoke of dinner on the table at six or the laundry folded and put away. “A fact of life. Now onto business.” His voice was unique, soft, high, cultured, surprising from that throat and body. Nor did it fit with last night’s matchbook toothpick scene. He didn’t sound like a man who picked his teeth with a matchbook, though he sure as hell looked like one.
His next words also showed him to be a man who meant risky business, or at least wanted her to think he did. “This is my Angela’s territory. I’m going to have to break your legs.” He leaned to the right and glanced under the table. “A pity. You do have nice legs.”
Not feeling particularly alarmed yet—after all, Witt was only a potted palm away—Max looked down once more. “How can you tell? I’m wearing slacks.”
“Light shines through at the top of your thighs as you walk. Means no thunder thighs. Men don’t like thunder thighs.”
It was the oddest conversation. She couldn’t quite believe he intended to break her legs. Especially since he liked them. “Perhaps we could make a deal.”
As he sat back, his chair groaned audibly even over the lilting piano, the hum of voices, and the high-pitched laughter. “What kind of deal?”
“We split the take. Fifty-fifty.”
He raised a non-existent eyebrow. That had been shaved off, too. “My dear, you didn’t look at one man. You’ve been here two hours and haven’t turned one trick, not even a quick blowjob. Fifty percent of nothing is nothing.”
“Then you don’t have to worry about my stealing your Angela’s territory, do you?”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’re new at this.”
“Very new.”
“Well, I won’t ask why, I don’t really care. But I’ll take your fifty-fifty if you let Angela give you a few pointers.”
Max almost laughed with triumph. Instead she gasped, stretching for indignation. “A minute ago you were going to break my legs for horning in on her territory?”
“That was when I couldn’t see your revenue potential.”
“Oh.” She didn’t ask what had changed his mind.
The bartender drifted by, head cocked for the slightest signal. Hammerhead flicked his wrist, and the man returned to his station. It seemed Mr. H. rated personal service. Everyone else got the waitresses. Though some might have preferred the short skirts, the attention was definitely less impressive.
Another peal of too-high laughter grated on Max’s eardrum. She turned but couldn’t make out which of the female group was the irritant. They all seemed to be swaying a bit more as the evening wore on.
Hammerhead tapped his well-manicured nails on the table top to get her attention. “When Angela gets back, you talk to her. If she thinks she can do anything with that suit and your hair, then we have a deal.” He leaned forward, his breath pleasant and yeasty with foreign-born beer. “By the way, fifty-fifty is better than any deal you’ll get on the street.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But what do I get for my fifty?”
“Use of the bar, no hassle from the management”—he tipped his head toward the bartender—“or the cops. And if some guy gives you a bad time”—raising his brow and his hands at the same time—“I break their legs for you.”
“You got a thing about legs, don’t you?”
He grinned with a perfect set of white teeth, too perfect. Obviously porcelain. “You ever see that Redskins game where Joe Theismann breaks his leg?”
She shook her head, slowly, mesmerized by those perfect teeth.
“I got that part on tape. Watch it over and over. Sounds like a chicken bone snapping, don’t you think?”
*
Hammerhead ordered her another white zinfandel. Damn, at this rate, even though fruity wine didn’t affect her the way chardonnay did, she still wouldn’t be able to drive herself home. As soon as her drink arrived, he sent her back to her own table. She’d almost expected a pat on her head from the big guy for being a good little girl.
She took her chair, still in line with Witt’s sight from his lobby seat. The muscles of his face didn’t so much as twitch. With the poor lighting and the distance between them, she couldn’t be sure he even blinked. But the hard line of his face spoke plainly; he was pissed, yet looking out for her anyway. Macho. Cop-like. Possessive. Endearing.