Pluto’s, while ignoring the solar system and animated characters, is done up with enough fifties-style kitsch on the walls that you’re supposed to think the place has been around the last forty years. The only problem with that is, in a suburban community like Oakwood, nothing’s that old. So you plaster the walls with Elvis movie posters, put in a jukebox that doesn’t actually work, and line the window ledges with antique Grape Nehi, and no one’s the wiser.

But I seemed to recall that they made a pretty decent breakfast of eggs and sausages, and a respectable turkey club at lunchtime, and by the time I arrived I was ready for something to eat.

The place wasn’t that busy, and I quickly scanned the tables. I didn’t see any sign of Trixie, but there was a guy sitting in a booth by the window who looked remotely like the logo shot that went with Martin Benson’s column in the Suburban, so I tentatively approached. He was probably in his early forties, balding, thirty or forty pounds overweight, wearing a sports jacket that was just slightly too small for him.

When I hesitated by his table, he looked at me, his face apprehensive, almost fearful.

“Martin Benson?” I said.

He nodded, attempted to stand, but he was caught under the table and could only manage to get halfway up. “Yeah,” he said, extending a hand. I shook it. It was damp.

“Zack Walker,” I said, letting go of his hand and sliding in across from him.

“Why does that name ring a bell?” he asked cautiously, settling back into the booth.

I smiled. “I, uh, I’ve written a few sci-fi books. And my byline runs occasionally in the Metropolitan. I write features, stuff like that, but not a column. I don’t get a head shot in the paper like you do.”

Benson nodded. “That’s where I’ve seen the name. In the paper. I don’t read science fiction. Mostly I read literary fiction.”

I just smiled.

“So,” he said. “Where’s Ms. Snelling?”

“I guess she’ll be here any time now,” I said. “Why don’t we get some coffee while we wait.” I signaled the waitress, asked for two coffees. “Have you had the turkey club here? It’s good, lots of real, roasted turkey, not that processed stuff.”

Benson nodded again. “I was worried you might be some sort of tough guy. You know, scare me into backing off my story.”

I laughed nervously. “If there’s anything I’m not, it’s a tough guy.”

“But you do want me to back off the story, right?” He leaned a little closer across the table. “That’s why you’re here.”

“No, no,” I protested as two porcelain mugs of coffee were placed in front of us. “Of course not.” I looked around, checking the front door of Pluto’s. “Where the hell is she?” I glanced at my watch. Trixie was seven minutes late. Why was she seven minutes late to her own meeting?

“So what’s your connection to Ms. Snelling, then?” Benson asked. “You a relative? She a friend? Or,” and he paused a moment here, “are you a client?”

I nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. “No, gosh no, we’re just, we used to be, this was a couple of years ago, we were neighbors. We-that’s me and the family-lived a couple of doors down, but we’ve moved back downtown since then. You might have heard about what happened, there was a bit of a kerfuffle.”

“No,” said Benson. “I only got to the Suburban a year ago. Came here from Buffalo.”

“Oh yeah, wings,” I said. “Love those wings.”

Martin Benson stared, thrilled that his former home was reduced to an appetizer.

He said, “You do know what she does for a living.”

I hesitated. “What is it you think she does for a living?”

“I think she runs a sex business. I think she’s a hooker, a very high-end hooker that caters to very specific tastes.”

“I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Then why did you nearly choke on your coffee when I asked whether you were one of her clients?”

“Look, I, I’m pretty sure Ms. Snelling-where the hell is she, anyway?-is not a prostitute. She does not have sexual relations with her customers.”

“Where have I heard that phrase before?” Benson asked. “When I asked whether you were a relative or a friend or a client, I forgot one. Are you her pimp?”

I guess my jaw dropped, and I stared at him in openmouthed astonishment for a moment, before I had the sense to close it. Twice I started to say something, and each time, a chuckle got in the way. “You have no idea,” I said, “how totally ridiculous that comment is.”

“Is it? Then you tell me, why are you here?”

“First of all, let’s go back to this hooker thing. Far as I know, Trixie-Ms. Snelling-does not offer sexual services. But you know what, you’d be better asking her about that yourself once she gets here.”

The waitress had reappeared, notepad at the ready. “You gentlemen ready to order?” she asked.

“We’re still waiting for someone,” I said. She nodded and withdrew.

Now Benson was looking at his own watch. “Pretty late.”

“I’m sure she’ll be along any-” The cell phone in my jacket pocket rang and vibrated. “Hang on,” I said, taking out the phone and flipping it open. “Hello?”

“How’s it going?” Trixie asked.

“Where the hell are you?” I said. Benson’s eyebrows went up. “We’re here, in Pluto’s, waiting.”

“Yeah, I know. I watched you go in. I’m parked up the street, reading your newspaper.”

I couldn’t stop myself from looking out the window, which, of course, tipped Benson off to do the same.

“How long have you been there?” I asked.

“I don’t know, half hour maybe. Have you steered him off this thing yet?”

“Trixie, we were sort of waiting for you.”

“I won’t be able to make it,” she said. “You know what that fat fucker will do, soon as I walk in or sit down, he’s going to take my picture. Why do you think he showed up? He wants a nice shot to run with his story.”

I slid out of the booth, held up an index finger to Benson to indicate I’d be back in one minute, and moved a few booths away before I continued my conversation.

“He thinks I’m your fucking pimp,” I said.

Trixie laughed. “Now that’s rich.”

“Look, I came out here for a meeting, a meeting that I thought you were going to attend. You don’t show. Trixie, you’re my friend, but you’re fucking me around.”

“Okay, go back and tell him I’ll come in if he gives you his camera phone.”

“Jesus, what if he says he hasn’t got it on him? Do you want me to frisk him?” Trixie was quiet. Finally, I said, “I’ll see what I can do. Call me back in five.”

I slid back into the booth. “That was Ms. Snelling,” I said. “She’s, she’s afraid that if she comes in here, you’re going to take her picture.”

Benson said nothing.

“So. I think she’d be willing to come in if you let me hold on to your camera phone while she joins us.”

Benson ran his tongue over his lips. “So let me see if I understand this. You, a reporter for the Metropolitan, want to take from me, a reporter for the Suburban, my camera phone, in case I want to use it to do my job. Is that what’s going on?”

I had to admit that it sounded bad when he put it that way.

“You know what?” Benson said. “You fucking reporters, you work for these big fucking dailies, you have no respect for what a guy like me does for a smaller paper like the Suburban. You think we’re some kind of joke, don’t you? That we just exist to wrap around a bunch of advertising flyers, that we don’t care about journalism, that we don’t care about what we do.”

I said nothing.

“Well, I may work for a small neighborhood rag, Mr. Walker, but when I hear that a woman is running some sort of sex dungeon in the middle of our community, I think that’s a story, and I’m not going to let some smartass hot-shit city writer try to warn me off it.”

“What have I said?” I said. “Have I threatened you? Have I tried to get you off this story?”

“Here’s what I don’t get. Why aren’t you writing about Trixie Snelling? Any reporter worth his salt would be taking a run at this.”