Naughty or Nice?

Jerry laughed. “Mr. Quinn, don’t you know a pretty woman is ten times more dangerous than a hardened criminal?” He took a last puff on his cigar, then set it down with finality. “You’re a goner, son. Merry Christmas.”

3

“SO, WHO’S THE LUCKY GUY?” Manny asked as he rolled a section of Cindy’s hair with a fat curling iron.

Concentrating on his technique for later reference, she glanced at him in the mirror of her dressing table. “Lucky guy?”

“Amy told me you had a hot date for the party tomorrow night—who is he?”

“Is nothing sacred in this hotel?”

“I think we still have a bottle of holy water from a baptismal lying around somewhere.”

She sighed. “I don’t have a date…yet.”

“I can make a few calls.”

“He has to be straight.”

Indignant, Manny scoffed. “I know some straight guys—two, in fact.” Then he frowned. “Oh, but they’re married, and one is Joel.”

Cindy sniffed. “I smell smoke.”

Manny jumped and released the lock of hair, which fell limply back in place, perhaps straighter than before. “No harm done,” he assured her, then clucked. “Your hair is thin.”

“Thanks.” She lifted her bandaged hand. “Would you like to pour alcohol on my cuts, too?”

“What the heck did you do to your hand, anyway?”

Cindy hesitated. “I’ll tell you later. Maybe. Fix my hair—and hurry.”

“The hairdresser should have known better than to give you all these layers,” he grumbled.

“I told her to.”

“Then she should have exercised her right to a professional veto.”

“Maybe you should be our new stylist.”

“Cindy, contrary to popular belief, all gay men cannot cut hair and we don’t have track lighting in our refrigerators.”

“So tell me again why I’m submitting to your ministrations.”

Manny shrugged. “I’m simply trying to make the best of this tragedy.” He released another dark lock of hair that stubbornly refused to curl. “But I’m failing miserably—your hair won’t even bend.”

“Never mind.” She groaned and held up her hands in defeat. “I’ll borrow a nun’s habit.”

“You jest, but I think there’s one in the lost and found.”

“What am I going to do? My mother will have a stroke when I go home for Christmas.”

He scoffed. “You’ll be there for what—three days? You’ll live and so will she.”

“I’m glad you’re coming home with me,” Cindy said earnestly. “She’ll believe you if you tell her my haircut is in style.”

“Oh, no. I’m going home with you for baked ham and pecan pie, not to play referee for Joan and Christina Crawford.”

“We’re not that bad,” she retorted, laughing. “Just the normal mother-daughter, tug-of-war relationship. She’ll think you and I are sleeping together, you know.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes!” She punched him. “And thanks in advance for saving me from the usual harangue about settling down.”

“So, what’s up with that?” he asked, fluffing and spraying her hair.

“My mother?”

“No—you not settling down. Got a bad suit in the old relationship closet?”

Cindy gnawed on the inside of her cheek for a few seconds, pondering the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “I can’t recall any particularly traumatic experiences. On the other hand, I can’t recall any particularly noteworthy ones either.” She shrugged. “I’ve never met a man who appreciates the more unusual things in life. You know, a guy who uses words like ‘happenstance’ and ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’”

Manny stared.

“Okay, maybe I’m expecting too much.”

But he merely shook his head, tucked her hair behind her ears, and studied the effect. “Nope. Don’t settle, because if you’re like most of my friends—male and female—falling in love will be an agonizing event with a man who represents everything you hate.”

She laughed. “Don’t hold back.”

“I’m serious. Oh, yeah, now they’re giddy with newly-weditis, but right here is the shoulder most of them cried on during the courtship.” He tapped his collarbone. “And frankly, I’m not sure it was worth the trouble.”

Cindy held up one hand. “You’re preaching to the choir. But I am in desperate need of a day off, so I’ve got to find a date for the party even if I have to hire a man.”

He nodded. “Now that’s the ticket—retail romance.” Exhaling noisily, he shook his head at her reflection. “Sorry, Cindy, that’s the best I can do. I must say, though, without all that hair, your eyes really come alive.”

She stared at the bottom layers hanging limply around her shoulders, the top layers hugging her ears. “Thanks, but I simply can’t go around looking like this.” Cindy told herself she was not trying to look good in case she bumped into the man from room 1010 again.

“Just go back to the salon tomorrow and take the advice of the stylist. Their instincts are usually correct.” He gave her a pointed look. “They mess up by trying to satisfy the armchair experts.”

“It looks like I slept with panty hose on my head,” she mumbled.

“Control top,” he agreed.

She stood with resignation. “I have to get back to work—believe it or not, I have more pressing issues at hand than my coiffure.” Like the wad of silk at her back that she still hadn’t had time to take care of.

“Don’t forget to work in some time today for manhunting.”

“With this hair, I’ll need an Uzi to bag a date.”