Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

a feeling you wouldn’t be able to resist my offer.”
    I didn’t think too many people resisted Sam, at least not in business. She was probably lucky at cards, too.
    She planned well, having me work my undercover job as speaker only when everyone else was also on stage, except for the last session, probably figuring if we got that far without an incident, we were home free.
    “Who are the other participants, and what are their topics?” I asked. I thought I could be the first kid on the block to find out. I was wrong.
    “Let’s order first,” she said. “I’m starving.”
    Over dinner, Sam didn’t mention die program at all. She had the Bambi-Thumper special, starting with roast venison with wild mushroom risotto, then die saddle of rabbit, which she attacked as if she hadn’t eaten in days. I started with chicken, foie gras, and black trumpet terrine and segued into the seared yellowfin tuna with rosemary. I couldn’t finish either dish, but I didn’t think it would go over big to put the plates down on the pristine stenciled oak floor for Dashiell to clean the way I would have were I at home.
    “Do you ever call men?” Sam asked out of the blue after the plates had been cleared. “You know, if you meet an interesting guy at a party? Do you ever call the hostess and get his number, give him a call, see if he wants to go to the museum, or lie and say you have an extra ticket to the Knicks game?”
    I shook my head. If I laid low, Sam would probably answer all her questions herself. At least, I hoped so. I didn’t relish the thought of her actually leaving an opening in the conversation during which time I would be obliged to talk about my own pathetic history and arrested social development.
    “I do,” she said. “Maybe that's my problem. What about sex on the first date?” She lifted her wineglass but waited attentively for my answer before taking a sip.
    “It depends,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t be asked to elaborate. Sam sighed. “Your standards are probably higher than mine.” She gestured toward me in a silent toast and drained her glass. Since I lied for a living, I never thought my standards were higher than anyone’s, but I refrained from saying so.
    “What about married men?” she asked, topping off my glass and refilling her own. But she didn’t wait for my answer. “It depends,” she said, “right? Well, for me, it usually depends on whether or not they ask.”
    Dashiell rolled over onto his side, using my foot as a pillow. “I’d kill to meet Mr. Right, Rachel, but so far, all I keep doing is ending up with Mr. Tonight.”
    I did a lot of nodding. It was just as Frank said. You’d be surprised at what people say if you just give them a chance to talk.
    I thought perhaps that Sam had had too much to drink, but when her dessert arrived, a tower of alternating layers of white, milk, and dark chocolate mousse sitting on a plate that had been swirled with raspberry sauce and dotted with fresh berries, she seemed perfectly sober.
    “Taste this,” she commanded. “You can still change your mind and order one.”
    It was so luscious, it might have dropped from heaven, but one bite was enough. Sam shrugged and dug in. Afterward, she finally started to tick off the names of some of the participants in the program, but she got so carried away with bits of gossip about each one that she didn’t get very far.
    When the waiter came with the bill, Sam glanced at it and handed him her credit card. While her purse was still open, she took out a check she had obviously written before I’d arrived.
    “Two more things,” she said, holding the check tantalizingly between two manicured fingers, the nails painted a classic arterial red. “The symposium starts on Monday morning. The speakers are arriving tomorrow, starting in the early afternoon, and there’s a welcoming banquet for them tomorrow night at the hotel, at eight. Is that a problem for you?”
    “Not at all.”
    “I might have to ask you to cover one more speaking slot.” She reached across the ruins of her dessert and handed me a check for considerably more than I would have asked for. “One of the trainers who agreed to be part of the program early on, someone who, in fact, was totally thrilled and enthusiastic, hasn’t confirmed.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning she didn’t send in confirmation for her room, and I haven’t been able to reach her.” She looked at her watch, as if the answer might be written on