Free A Brush With Death by Joan Smith

suggested I see Mr. Bergma,” I lied glibly. That might make him more available.
    “It's the opening tomorrow night,” she explained. “There are so many last-minute details to attend to. Mr. Bergma's handling it."
    The little box on her desk buzzed and an accented voice said, “Will you bring in the caterers’ file, Denise?"
    I duly noticed that she was on a first-name basis with her boss. Denise tripped to the filing cabinet on spiky heels and trim nyloned legs, shapely little tush wagging, and took in the file. One glance at her and I felt like an ugly, uncouth Amazon. Before she came out, John arrived. “What's up?” he asked in a low voice.
    “Bergma is hors de combat, but wait till you see his secretary."
    “I'll try my hand with...” He looked at the nameplate on the desk. “Ms. Painchaud. What does she look like?"
    “Like the redhead Latour had a painting of."
    His eyebrows lifted an inch in surprise. I could almost hear the gears grinding inside his head. “The plot thickens,” he said. “I figured Bergma's accomplice would be a man."
    “Trust me, she's a woman. We got the sex wrong. And her name's wrong too. It should be hot buns."
    I hated the anticipatory grin that split his lips. “I'll wait downstairs,” I said.
    “Try the coffee shop. Gino should be there by now. With luck, me and Hot Buns will be along soon."
    “Hot Buns and I,” I said curtly, and strode away.
    In the coffee shop Gino sat with his elbows on the table, ripping into a prune Danish. “Hi, Cassie,” he said, with his mouth full. “Where's the boyfriend?"
    “Hello, Gino. He'll be along shortly. He's hitting on Bergma's secretary at the moment."
    His beady brown eyes lit with interest. “Do I smell trouble in loveland?” he asked, and laughed. “Is this serious with you and John? Are you two shacking up, or what?"
    “We're engaged."
    He looked at the naked third finger on my left hand. “I notice you haven't got a diamond out of him. If it doesn't pan out, give me a call.” He flashed a wicked wink at me. “I'm not dumb enough to go out with a friend's fiancée. No bang for the buck there, but if you two split, and you find yourself overcome with an irresistible urge..."
    “The only urge I feel is to wipe your nose in that prune Danish."
    “Ha ha.” He waggled his lecherous head. “I like a sense of humor. I once dated a chick called Pruin. Annabelle Pruin. With friends like that, I don't need enemas I used to tell her."
    “You old smoothie, you."
    “Ladies appreciate a sense of humor. It topped looks in the survey about what ladies look for in a man."
    “What survey was that?"
    "Playboy. I buy it for..."
    “I know, the editorials."
    “Are you nuts? I buy it for the centerfolds. Which is not to say I don't read the articles too. I read a lot."
    In a thoroughly cranky mood, I said, “Really? What do you think of the dialectical materialism controversy, Gino?"
    “I'm against it. There's too damned much materialism in society. Buy, buy, buy.” He took another bite of his Danish and said, “So do you want one of these or not?"
    “No thanks."
    “I hate ‘em, but they keep me regular. What's John up to with the secretary?'
    “Trying to find out whatever he can."
    “He won't get anywhere with that tight-assed little redhead. I already tried."
    “I can't imagine why you didn't succeed."
    He threw up his hairy little hands. “Women! Go figger. It's probably my size."
    “She's short too,” I said unthinkingly.
    “Short? I'm not short! I'm small, like Napoleon. Us Parellis are all compact."
    I told him that Hot Buns was the same lady Latour had a painting of in his apartment. We discussed that for about ten minutes, and then John led Hot Buns into the coffee shop. She smiled at me and Gino. John looked as though he'd never seen us in his life before, and seated her at the table across from us. I thought he'd take her to the farthest corner so I wouldn't hear him hitting on her. I felt hot acid burning me