Keep-away is always lots offun unless you happen to be the one in the middle.
Screw this
, Mazie thought. Rummaging in her purse, she found her Stanley sure-grip three-way pliers. She always carried pliers in her purse because—as any inmate would agree—you never knew when you might need something that could cut through metal.
Labeck held out his cuffed wrists; the pliers crunched through the links and the chain broke.
“Hey! Those cuffs cost sixty bucks,” squawked Sadie.
“Love Links,” Mazie corrected.
“You aren’t leaving until you pay for them.”
“I’m not paying for them. They’re broken.”
“Listen, sister—you better pony up the cash.”
Mazie looked her coolly up and down and put on her cell block 19 look: eyes hard, mouth set, nostrils flaring. “Sadie,” she said, “you can go flog yourself.”
Then she snatched Ben’s hand, shouldered past Sadie, and together they blew out of the house.
Chapter Five
The restaurant was called Sirocco. At nine o’clock on a Saturday night it was jammed and Ben and Mazie managed to snag the last available table. The table was round, elaborately carved, and only two feet off the ground. In place of chairs there were fat, tasseled cushions. Sirocco’s color scheme was scarlet and gold, the waiters were dressed in burgundy velvet vests and fezzes, and the air-conditioning felt as though it consisted of a wet dish towel flapping in front of a nine-inch rotary fan.
Ben, who was having trouble adjusting his lanky frame to the low pillows—it wasn’t easy for him to pretzel his long legs into zazen position—frowned at the menu. “I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”
“The dishes are explained in the small print beneath the names.”
“It’s too dark to read them,” he grumped, holding the menu up close to a candle that was adding to the room’s suffocating heat. The separated Love Links, still braceleting his wrists, clinked as he moved.
“
I’m
not having any trouble reading it,” Mazie said. “Admit it, you need reading glasses.”
“I don’t need glasses. It’s just dark in here.”
Mazie had been teasing, but Ben seemed truly annoyed and she dropped it. Messing with male pride was risky. A guy admitting he needed glasses was the equivalent of being a ninety-eight-pound weakling who routinely had sand kicked in his face.
The heat and the overpowering incense were giving Mazie a headache. She wished she could take off her panty hose because the waistband was gouging an imprint into her midsection. She was wearing a narrow black skirt that made sitting on cushions difficult, black slingback heels, and a jade green top that looked way too Christmas-y against the crimson pillows. She’d spilled punch at the passion party, leaving a stain on her sleeve. Naturally, the blouse was dry clean only. People on wash-and-wear budgets shouldn’t buy
dry clean only
clothes.
“Try the zaalouk,” Mazie said. “It’s a salad made with eggs and tomatoes. Maybe with hummus dip and pita chips for an appetizer. Or a cucumber and yogurt salad.”
“Rabbit food,” Ben snorted. “I’m in the mood for a big steak.”
“They don’t offer steak. They’ve got lamb, though.”
“I don’t eat lamb.” Ben made a face.
Somehow the lack of steak was turning out to be her fault. Had he forgotten that he was the one who’d picked the place, one of the perks of being chosen as a sex symbol? A sweating waiter whose fez was tipped far back on his head materialized and they ordered, both of them deciding on zaalouk, lentil stew, baklava, and hot sweet tea—definitely not hot-weather food. Mazie would have settled for a Popsicle and an Excedrin.
“How did your hockey practice go?” Mazie asked. Ben’s league played in the summer because the professional leagues booked the ice in the cold weather months.
Ben shrugged. “Okay.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, Mazie nervously shredding her napkin and rolling the bits into tiny