The tiny apartment was over a lingerie shop in the middle of a busy block. One bedroom with a kitchen dining area and a cozy sitting room. Jeff stood awkwardly by the entry, unsure as to whether he should just find a seat or wait. Jessica shed her coat and draped it over the back of a suede-covered loveseat then went into the kitchen.

"Coffee good?" She called.

"Huh? Oh yeah, sure." He decided that a seat would be fine and so he chose a comfortable chair beside the TV, his coat still on.

"Are you cold?" She came into the room with a tray of mugs, sugar and cream and some tea wafers. She was in a sleeveless halter top and low riding jeans. Jeff sucked in his breath and shook off his jacket, folding it into a pile on the floor beside his chair.

Without asking, she shook her head, smiling, and picked it up, tossing it on top of her own, and then went back to the kitchen.

"So uh, what's this- this small enterprise you mentioned?" He gazed about the room taking in the delicate art pieces standing on shelves and furniture tops, the calming pastel prints framed and distributed in a pleasing fashion across from his seat.

Neat, he thought. Everything he really wasn't. The view through the window afforded only branches thick with oak leaves and skimpy slices of sky.

"Hang on I'm just waiting for this to drip through."

He continued his visual survey, curious that there were no personal photos or even a sign of a telephone. Jeff stood and strolled to a cabinet where some open envelopes lay on the top. A feeling of guilt overcame him as he tried to read the addressee and he jumped nervously when she popped into the room with her carafe.

"I uh, I love these pictures," he said quickly, covering his true motive.

"Yes, I find pastels quite relaxing." She cast her eyes over the cabinet and then set about pouring the coffee. "You can fix your own," she said, sitting on the loveseat across from his chair.

Jeff held his mug in two hands, elbows resting on his knees. "So . . . this job you have for me."

She took a deep breath and for the first time he felt that she was not entirely comfortable. "I have a bit of a situation where I need something done but I can't do it personally. It's nothing dangerous . . . but it would create a lot of unnecessary bother if I was to do this myself." Her eyes locked onto his and she waited.

Nothing dangerous? That remark alone should have triggered alarm bells for him but he was caught up in her presence, in the pull of some invisible aura. "So, what is it?" He tried to chuckle casually.

"There's a package at the front desk of the Carleton Hotel addressed to a Donald Carver. I need to get that package."

Jeff stared at her. "Is it yours?"

She sipped her coffee but held his eyes. "Yes."

"So who is Donald Carver?"

"I need you to be Donald Carver just to pick up the package."

Jeff sat back shaking his head lightly. "I don't know . . . " He was regretting his earlier agreement and wondered how to extricate himself without looking like a complete jerk.

Jessica set her mug down and leaned forward. "It's nothing illegal, I promise. It's just something that I have to do. Can you trust me just a little?"

"It's not that I don't trust you, even if I hardly know you. It's just an odd request." He waved a hand, but trust was exactly what he was thinking of. "How would I pass myself off as Carver?"

Jessica took something from her purse and stood slowly; she knew she had him. His last question suggested as much and he was not looking at her face as she came around the table. "I have a driver's license with his picture. It would mean substituting your photo . . . temporarily." She handed the license to him and he studied the photo carefully.

"This really doesn't sound kosher somehow." He shifted uneasily on the seat.

"So help me, Jeff it is not illegal, it's just that I need the package and I can't get it myself. It has to be picked up by a man."

"What about Carver?"

"A different man." She crouched down beside him and he felt the silly thrill of her proximity.

Jeff looked at the license again. The man appeared younger than him by several years and he wondered aloud how she expected him to overcome that part. "They won't check those details. You show the license confidently and they'll just ask for a signature. Trust me."

There it was again-trust. Jeff finished his coffee and shrugged. "What the hell, the worst that can that happen is they'll say no, right?" Wrong Jeff. They can call the cops and toss you in jail for impersonating someone . . . whoever. He grinned in spite of his doubts.

"Right, Jeff." She placed a hand on his shoulder and he literally shivered down to his toes.

"When do I do this?" He leaned over and put his cup on the tray then stood facing her.

"Right now if you feel up to it. I have a Polaroid camera here in the apartment." Her warm breath caressed his face and he could smell the faintest hint of perfume.

He coughed into his hand and blushed. "The Carleton, right?"

"Yes. Listen, Jeff. I really appreciate this and I'm sorry to be so mysterious. You've been such a gentleman . . . " She hesitated then tipped forward and kissed his cheek. Jeff thought his face would melt and he broke into an immediate sweat under his arms. "I'll get the camera."

He practiced several controlled breaths while she was gone and let his mind flash with all kinds of possibilities and prospects before ordering himself to get a grip.

Jessica returned and was suddenly very professional and focused. She set up the shot, took it, waited for it to develop and then began the process of attaching it to the driver's license. When she was done she handed it to him for approval and gathered up their coats. "Okay?"

He nodded, impressed by her obvious talent, accepting his jacket and missed helping her with her own as she breezed past and out of the door.

*****

The Carleton Hotel was a sixties addition to the city with lots of chrome, black trim and black leather appointments. The huge glass doors fronting the street allowed full view of the gaudy mural over the reception counter, a scene depicting train platforms and black porters happily carrying luggage behind bell-bottomed pant and mini-skirted clad guests as they arrived smiling giddily on the hotel's doorstep.

Blue skies with cotton clouds and the country's flag proudly flapped in the border. Jeff squared his shoulders and pushed through the doors into the lobby and headed straight for the front desk. A scent of air freshener assailed his nostrils and the sound of generic music wafted from hidden speakers. He leaned on the counter and with a neutral face asked about the package.

The desk clerk, a lean cadaverous version of Gregory Peck, canted his head and turned toward the cubbyholes behind him. In one marked for room three-seventeen, he withdrew a parcel the size of a cigarette carton and placed it on the counter.

"I'll need some identification, Mister Carver." The voice was clipped and fussy, and he dissected Jeff with rheumy eyes.

"Right here." Jeff dropped the license on the counter and looked down, concentrating on the package.

"And would you sign this please." The license was pushed back to him by a skeletal finger along with a form for receipt of the parcel.

Jeff scribbled Carver's name, thankful that the man didn't compare it to the license, picked up the package and with a polite thanks, left. Piece of cake!

The arrangement had been for Jeff to meet Jessica at the Home Brew coffee shop, several blocks from the hotel and it was there he headed, only marginally suspicious that he was being watched. The feeling probably went with the territory, he thought, trying not to appear guilty or obvious as he strode along the busy street.

Inside the coffee shop there were only three tables occupied and none by Jessica. Jeff looked around, went to the window and searched the street then went to the counter and asked if the young woman he described had been in. No luck. Jessica was either late or something happened.

He ordered a coffee and took a seat near the window, watching the street and idly plucking the string on the package. He would gave her half an hour then decided to try her apartment. His coffee grew cold, forgotten as he watched the street for any sign of the woman.

When the half hour was up, Jeff gathered up the package and headed to her apartment. Nothing. No answer to the intercom. He asked the woman working in the lingerie shop if she knew whether the occupant was home and discovered after an awkward session of broken English that she didn't know.

Jeff left for home.