She took a breath, decided to be honest. “I’m sorry—there are just a lot of things about you that remind me so much of Matt.”
He didn’t seem offended. “Granny Rose,” he said seriously.
“Who?”
He laughed. “Our grandmother. She was four foot eleven, in a stretch. A good eighty pounds. She was the toughest—and sweetest—old bird I ever knew. She landed here, married Granddad, had her kids. Her respect for America was enormous, but her tales of the old country were full of her love for the place. She was as Catholic as the day was long, but in her own way. She loathed people who went to church every Sunday, then turned around and behaved badly. The true measure of a man, she’d always say, was the way he dealt with his fellow man. Of course, she was also fond of saying, ‘Don’t pee on me head and tell me it’s raining.’ She was quite an influence on us when we were boys. Our parents all worked, so we were with her a lot during our formative years.”
“Matt mentioned her a few times. I wish I’d gotten to meet her.”
The bartender came at last, staring at them with a superior look. Joe glanced at her, arched a brow, then asked the man, “Any beer?”
The bartender looked at them as if they were utterly lacking in taste, but he shrugged and said that they carried one bottled beer. It was a new European brand, but Joe shrugged in return and ordered two. They arrived promptly.
Joe took a swallow, studying her. She looked back at him. “Could you meet her—if you wanted to?”
“Meet who?”
“My grandmother.”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes, I know.”
She didn’t get a chance to answer, didn’t even know if he’d been mocking her or if his question had been serious, because just then Brad spotted them.
“Leslie!” he called, walking over. “Uh…Joe,” he added, with noticeably less enthusiasm.
“Hey, Brad,” she said. Joe acknowledged him with a nod that matched Brad’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Cool. You decided to check the place out,” Brad said, then frowned at her. “Leslie, did you see a doctor? Are you all right? Should you be drinking?”
“I’m fine—I’m only having the one beer—but thanks for asking. And I can see why you like this place,” she told him, smiling and indicating the bevy of very attractive women around the spot at the bar where Ken Dryer was still chatting. “It’s a good pickup spot. You and Ken should do well. You’re both gorgeous,” she assured him.
Brad winked at Joe. “You can almost believe she thinks so.” He grinned. “Dryer has been at the site a lot, and I thought he deserved a break. You know Laymon. He thinks the world lives to steal whatever it is he’s looking for. He’s bugging the cops constantly. He wants them to put out regular announcements that the police presence at the site is heavy.”
“I don’t think we’re going to find buried treasure. It was a very poor area,” Leslie said. She couldn’t help glancing over toward Dryer. The guy was perfect at his job. Suddenly, though, noticing one of the girls, a tall redhead in a very short skirt, sporting a white fur mini-stole, she had an uncomfortable feeling. High-priced call girl? If so, did she know she was flirting with a police officer? Silly, she told herself, thinking anyone dressed that way had to be hooking. Half the women in town dressed like hookers and weren’t. Since this one had it, she was certainly entitled to flaunt it.
Joe leaned in, resting an elbow on the bar. “Collectibles are big these days,” he said, drawing Leslie’s attention back to the conversation. “That includes artifacts that might not have been worth much when they were new but are antiques now,” he pointed out.
Brad grimaced. “I still don’t see the criminals of New York suddenly deciding to loot an archaeological dig. But, hey, Laymon lives for nothing but his work and probably thinks everyone else lives for it, too. Scary. If I ever start turning into him, hit me, Leslie.”
“I don’t see it happening,” she assured him. Then she frowned as a flash suddenly went off in her face and turned to see what was going on.
“Hey!” Brad protested.
“Sorry,” the offending photographer said with complete insincerity. He looked young, maybe twenty-two, with slightly shaggy brown hair, a clean-shaven face and brown eyes. He was dressed attractively enough in casual slacks and a tweed jacket, but he wasn’t quite up to the designer labels most people in the room were sporting. He grinned and turned to hurry out—only to be met by a couple of burly doormen.
“Hey, buddy, no hassling the customers,” one of them said firmly.
“But the world wants to know,” the photographer protested.
“Out!”
“The world wants to know,” Joe repeated. To Leslie’s surprise, he pushed away from the bar, heading after the receding bouncers and the photographer.
Brad stared at her blankly. “What the hell is he doing? What was that all about?”
“I guess we’re the most important noncelebrities in the place, and he’s from one of the tabloids,” Leslie said.