Cynthia's list included the Dunbar number, so I gave it a try, learning that Mr. Jarmon was not in residence at the moment. No, they responded to my next question with a curt brevity, his schedule was not known. I dug out the list again and saw she had mentioned a favourite watering hole, a place called the Avocado Grotto.

It was still early but you never knew. I know I didn't. I walked back to the hotel and picked up my car. Something sounded very bad underneath, and I made a mental note to have my mechanic check it out. Rush hour traffic was past the gridlock stage and most of the delivery vehicles were gone from the curb lanes, leaving the streets to the rage of the daytime road warriors.

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I stopped at the first legal parking space I could find and dropped my collection of old parking slips on the dash; the two-block walk to the Grotto was a bargain.

Pink neon, and a multi-pieced speaker system, playing mournful jazz that reeked of sloppy drunks and broken hearts, welcomed any who dared step into the below sidewalk watering hole, and it wasn't even noon. This was straight out of Raymond Chandler country - my kind of place.

Squinting through the strange glow of the light and a screen of brown hazy smoke, interestingly the law didn't seem to apply here, I tipped my fedora back and navigated my way to the bar, hopping on a chrome-rimmed stool with a wire backrest.

In front of me, a sad bowl of peanuts sat in a small puddle next to a used swizzle stick. The Avocado obviously catered to early drinkers. The bartender was a thin imitation of Sigourney Weaver, wearing an even flatter expression. The straps of her black tank top failed to cover the white straps of her bra, and as she slid a shot glass onto the bar in front of me, and held a bottle of rye poised over the rim, one fell off her shoulder.

"Half or full?"

"Your shirt or the glass?"

Two short haired business types down the bar, enjoying some kind of morning food, snickered aloud. She managed a look that me feel like The Incredible Shrinking Man.

"Neither," I said, putting my hand on the glass, "just a beer." Sigourney sucked her teeth and took the bottle and glass away, returning with a bottle of Coors.

"I might have liked a draft." I complained with a medium smile.

"Sit in front of a window." She hauled up her errant strap and sidled down the bar to a stool, flopped down and scanned what looked like a racing form.

"Nice bit of PR, sweetheart." I raised my bottle in a toast. She raised a finger in return. Too nice.

Through the bar mirror I could pick out some of the other patrons sitting at tables scattered about the L-shaped room. They looked like regulars, and all of them must have indifferently accepted Miss Hospitality's demeanour in exchange for that status.

Most were business types in suits with ties undone, cradling laptops that glowed eerily in the dim light and drinking various concoctions. A few single women relaxed with cigarettes, bagels, and a wanton air, wearing outfits that if allowed at their place of work, I wanted a job there. Back in the toe of the ell, I could see the washroom doors and more booths.

"Can I ask you a question?" I called down the bar.

"I don't know, can you?" She leaned on her fist and waited.

I got up and made my way down to her post. "Okay, may I ask a question?"

"That's two already."

This was a real smart alec broad. "You know this guy? Does he come in here?" I saw her answer coming, and I held up a hand. "That's one question, two parts."

She actually smiled and studied the headshot Cynthia Wyatt had given me. "Yeah, he comes in a lot."

"Alone?"

"Rarely."

I watched the twinkle starting in her eye and I took a deep breath. "May I ask another?" She nodded, amused. "Someone special or different each time?"

"Lately it's been the same one." She stopped and stared at me.

My head fell to my chest. "Could you describe the lady?"

"Attractive. Younger woman with the palest skin I'd ever seen. Around twenty-seven or so. Nice hair. Shoulder-length and wavy. Lithe, well toned. Probably spends most of her free time honing her almost perfect body into a size six. I expect rabbit food, power drinks and avoiding sun are her sustenance and religion. And before you ask, no name."

I gaped at her as she flicked a finger and went back to her paper. What started out like pulling teeth wound up providing complete dentures. I dropped a ten on the counter and left, turning to see if she was watching or waving thanks - she wasn't. My big tipper ploy flopped.

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Karen Winsett didn't like the way things were working out. The fact that her job depended on what she'd been asked to do didn't help matters any. Jarmon was always a step ahead when she tried to get him out some place where they would be seen, and discussed. He also seemed to have certain times when he was just not available, and yet when she called his office he was never there.

She stared morosely at the TV, tucked her bare feet beneath her and sipped her 'Life-on' power meal. The voice on the TV droned on about traffic and weather for the coming weekend, making no impression on her thoughts.

There was too much at stake and the opportunity was just too good for her to screw up at this stage. Karen took a final rattling sip from her drink and set it down, running her hand down her white leg and sighing aloud; the weather was supposed to be good for the next few days anyway.

The telephone suddenly rang, causing her to jerk nervously. She checked her watch and answered with a tart hello while muting the TV.

"Karen, it's Lawrence. I'm so glad to catch you at home." His tone said the direct opposite.

"Uh huh?"

"I've only got a minute and I wanted to know how things are progressing. Time is getting critical, Karen." His voice frosted slightly.

Karen pouted to the empty room, watching a silent beer commercial. "Listen darling," Lawrence's voice grew colder, "We want my dear son-in-law to default his marriage, right? This must happen, Karen. There is no room for failure. I've told you how important it is. Now hurry, tell me how it's going."

"He's hooked. I mean, he tells me we're a couple. He says we're going to be rich and all. He just doesn't allow himself to be seen in public with me."

"Then use your imagination, Karen. Make him take you out. Jesus, woman, you didn't have problems inventing scenarios with me!"

"That's cheap."

"And so are you, my dear. So you'd better get your ass in gear - literally."

"I'm doing the best I can." She snapped. "It's not as easy as you figured, and he isn't always available."

"What do you mean?"

"A number of times he's made weird excuses about not getting together. It's almost like he's cheating on me!"

Lawrence placed his fist over his mouth. Could she be right? Could there be another woman? "Don't think beyond getting Jarmon, on record, somewhere public. You are not courting the man, you are seducing him!" The line fell silent, then before Karen could speak again, he finished his command. "Do not let me down, Karen, you know the consequences."

The line went dead. Karen sat staring at the phone for some time after hanging up; she was more than just a little annoyed with his attitude.