The clerk, a studious-looking Middle Eastern guy in his twenties, greeted him politely, but without recognition. The Beav jabbed him in the ribs and cocked her head toward the bar. “Your fans,” she said, as if he hadn’t already noticed the two guys who’d detached themselves from the crowd and were heading his way. Both were middle-aged and overweight. One wore a Hawaiian shirt that bunched over his belly. The other had a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots.

“Time for me to start work,” the Beav said loftily. “I’ll take care of this.”

“No, you won’t. I’ll—”

“Hey, there,” Hawaiian shirt said. “Hope you don’t mind the interruption, but me and my buddy Bowman have a bet you’re Dean Robillard.” He stuck out his hand.

Before Dean could respond, the Beav blocked the man’s arm with her small body, and the next thing he knew, she was addressing him in a foreign accent that sounded like a cross between Serbo-Croatian and Yiddish. “Acht, this Dean Roam-a-lot, he is very famous man in America, yes? My poor husband”—she curled her fingers around Dean’s arm—“his Eeenglish is veddy, veddy bad, and he does not understand this. But my Eeenglish is veddy, veddy good, yes? And everywhere we go, these pipples—pipples like you—they come up to him and say they think he is this man, this Dean Roam-a-lot. But I say, no, my husband is not famous in America, but veddy famous in our country. He is a veddy famous—how you say?—por-nog-ra-pher.”

He just about choked on his spit.

She furrowed her brow. “Yes? Did I say this with rightness? He makes the dirty moo-vees.”

Dean was changing identities so fast even he was losing track. Still, the Beav deserved his support for all her hard work—however misguided—so he pulled in his grin and tried to look like he didn’t speak English.

She’d thrown the ol’ boys for a loss, and they didn’t know how to handle it. “We’re, uh…Well…Sorry, there. We thought…”

“Is all right,” she said firmly. “Happens all the time.”

Stumbling over their feet, they made their getaway.

The Beav regarded him smugly. “I’m awfully young to be so gifted. Now aren’t you glad I decided to tag along today?”

He gave her high marks for creativity, but since he was in the process of passing over his Visa card to the clerk, her efforts to keep his identity secret were pretty much wasted. “I’ll take your best suite,” he said. “And a small room by the elevator for my insane companion. If that’s a problem, put her next to any old ice machine.”

The Merry Time Inn had done a great job training its people, and the desk clerk barely blinked. “Unfortunately, we’re very full tonight, sir, and our suite is already occupied.”

“No suite?” the Beav drawled. “Will the horror never end?”

The clerk studied his computer screen unhappily. “I’m afraid we only have two rooms left. One, I believe you’ll find quite satisfactory, but the other is slated for renovation.”