“You won’t talk to her to her face? What kind of shit is that?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

She stared at me for a moment and then gave a half shrug. “We could meet you at the Brandywine. By eight, her kids will be down for the night and Hank can babysit.”

I didn’t think this was the time to correct her notion that a father has to “babysit” his children when half the responsibility is his by definition.

“Where’s the Brandywine?”

“On Ming, you moron! Check the phone book.”

We exchanged a few more pertinent details, and by the time I closed the salon door behind me, she had taken out a pack of sanitized instruments for the client who’d taken my place. At the desk, I was told the manicure was fifteen bucks and I kicked myself for not paying first and calculating the tip from that.

•   •   •

I was uneasy about meeting at the bar where Ethan’s band played on weekends, but Anna assured me the scene wouldn’t heat up until well after 10:00. In the meantime, she said the bartenders there knew her and we could talk without being hustled by a bunch of cheesy numbnuts (her words, not mine).

I left the salon and found a gas station, thinking to take advantage of the lull to top off my tank. While the attendant cleaned my windshield and checked the air in my tires, I loaded up on quarters and closed myself into a phone booth located near the ladies’ room.