WE DROVE over to The Blizzard Room, a coffee shop where we usually spent our Wednesday nights complaining that we didn’t have anywhere better to spend our Wednesday nights. The place had virtually nothing to recommend about it besides the fact that it wasn’t on fire, and yet we almost never missed a week.

“Why do we come here?” I asked. “The coffee isn’t any good, the table shakes when you-”

“Andrew, we go through this every time,” said Roger with a sigh. “Every single Wednesday you sit there and count off everything that sucks about this place, and every single Wednesday we come right back.”

“And don’t you find that depressingly pathetic?”

Roger shrugged. “It’s our destiny. Our path has been chosen, and there’s nothing we can do to alter it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I took a sip of coffee. “Maybe next week we’ll go bowling.”

“We could get up right now and go bowling.”

“Nah.”

“Didn’t think so.”

After a few more minutes of intellectually draining conversation, Roger got up to use the restroom. I reminded him that the restrooms were far below average, especially the air hand dryer that was about as effective as having somebody pant on your hands. He informed me that he was well aware of the inadequacies of the restroom facilities and that it would please him greatly if I would keep my opinions locked up in my brain where they belonged. I said okay.

A couple minutes after he left, the door swung open and a woman entered. She looked about sixty. She’d obviously had a facelift, which was probably supposed to make her look younger but really just made her look like a sixty year-old with her skin yanked back. Her hair was blonde, too blonde, and piled high above her head. She wore an expensive-looking blue dress and high heels, and carried a blue purse that matched the dress exactly.

She scanned the coffee shop for a moment, clearly not impressed, and then saw me and walked over to my table.

“Andrew Mayhem?” she asked. I’d expected her voice to be the ultimate in snottiness, but it was actually quite soft and pleasant.

“Yeah?”

“May I have a seat?”

“Sure. Here, let me get you a chair with all four legs.” I reached out and dragged one over from the next table. The woman took a seat and gave me a hint of a smile.

“Thank you. My name is Patricia Nesboyle. I’m a busy woman and I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I’m going to get right to the point. I’d like to pay you to accompany me to a party tomorrow night.”

“What kind of party?”

“A dinner party. A simple affair, just myself and four friends.”

“I see. May I ask why you want to pay me for this?”

She nodded. “I’ve read about you, the way you handled that awful situation with those atrocious people. You’re something of a celebrity amongst my friends. They would all be very impressed if you were there, and then you could protect me.”

“From what?”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “One of my friends plans to kill me tomorrow night.”

“Just one?”

She leaned back, offended. I immediately realized what I’d said. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I was just asking if…okay, I was asking if it was just one, but not in a way that I meant it should be more, I mean, it shouldn’t be any as far as I’m concerned, but-”

“Will you do it?”

“How do you know somebody wants to kill you?”

“It’s very complicated. Suffice it to say that I overheard something I shouldn’t have.”

Something about her tone of voice made me suspect she wasn’t telling the whole truth. Not that I would put much faith in my own instincts, being a bumbling incompetent and all.

“Okay, so, I’m not really sure what good I would do,” I admitted. “I’m not a bodyguard.”

“He’s right, he’s not,” said Roger, walking up to the table. “You should see what happened to my body.”

“I did,” said Patricia. “It was quite grotesque. Would you mind excusing us?”

“Not at all,” said Roger. “I was just about to sit by myself at that corner table anyway.”

He left. I ran a hand through my hair and took another sip of coffee. “Look, Ms. Nesboyle, I’m flattered, but I’m really gonna have to pass. How much are you offering?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“And what exactly do I have to do?”

“Nothing,” she promised. “Simply show up at the party. With you there, nobody will try anything.”

“Why not just cancel it?”

“I can’t. It’s a…special party.”

“Special parties are the best kind. But seriously, if your life is at stake, shouldn’t you hire a real bodyguard or a cop or something?”

Patricia shook her head. “That wouldn’t be as much fun, now would it?”

There was something deeply wrong with this lady. “So let me get this straight. I show up at the party. I mingle with your friends. I go home. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

Around this time, my inner voice decided to speak up. “Hey, Andrew, buddy, this lady’s completely nuts! Don’t get involved with her! Remember last time you let some strange lady pay you for a favor? Huh? Remember it? You remember it, don’t you? Wasn’t all that much fun, now was it? If I were you, which I am, I’d tell her to MMMmmmpph! ” I mentally gagged my inner voice and spoke up.

“Six hundred, plus one hundred for my friend to watch my kids.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Five hundred, plus the hundred for your friend.”

“Six hundred, plus nothing for my friend.”

“Done.”

“All right, sounds good,” I said, offering my hand. She shook it, making only the lightest contact with my fingers.

“I need to be going,” she said, digging a small card out of her purse. “Be at this address at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow night. Dress nicely.”

“I can handle that,” I told her, hoping I still had the suit jacket I’d bought six years ago during my half-week stint as a lounge singer.

“Very good. I look forward to seeing you.”

She got up, nodded politely, and walked out the door. Roger returned and took her spot.

“Who was that?”

“Patricia. Can you baby-sit tomorrow night?”

Roger’s eyes lit up. “Kyle will bring his Nintendo, right?”

“Of course.”

“Sure, yeah, I can manage that.”

“Plus I made you a hundred bucks.” Damn guilt. That was a pretty darn generous babysitting fee, but I still felt bad that Roger never got the ten grand we were each supposed to make when I talked him into accepting the graverobbing gig last year.

Roger looked suspicious. “And what exactly are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Just a party.”

“Just a party?”

“Just a party.”

“You’re not getting yourself into trouble again, are you?”

“No,” I said. “I hope not.”

“ANDREW Mayhem, gigolo,” said Roger, adjusting the radio station in my car. “Nice ring to that.”

I slapped his hand away. “I’m not a gigolo. I’m a bodyguard.”

“I dunno, I’m picking up some serious gigolo vibes from this whole setup.” He waited for me to grip the steering wheel, and then began messing with the station again.

“She’s probably sixty years old!”

“And you’re a strapping lad of thirty-three! She’s probably looking for somebody to stretch more than her face.”

“Don’t be sick,” I said, slapping his hand away. “It’s just a party.”

“It’s a naked party!”

“Gee, I wonder where my seven year-old gets his immature behavior? I need to find a new babysitter.”

“Are you going to tell Helen?”

“Of course I’m going to tell Helen!”

I WOULD have told Helen, but there weren’t any good opportunities aside from breakfast, dinner, and the hour or so we spent watching television before she left for work. After she was gone, I dug my suit out of the closet, decided against eating the chocolate bar that had survived in the pocket all these years, and drove Theresa and Kyle over to Roger’s apartment.