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have to change that plan. She started to bite her nail, then stopped herself—that last manicure was really too expensive to bite to pieces. Well, there was no way she could just wait around Anton’s hallway till they showed up. She’d have to go on a manhunt. She’d have to check out all of Anton’s regular haunts.
    Paris went back in the dressing room and grabbed the purple dyed faux fur coat she’d arrived in and its matching hat. The sun had gone down and it had been chilly as hell out there this whole week. She relaced her purple boots and tucked her hot pink leggings back into place, then put on her hot pink leather gloves.
    She glanced in the mirror, but the great outfit didn’t even cheer her up. Where was her old swagger? Here she was dressed to the teeth, and…nothing.
    Clothes were her best friends. She could make them draw all the attention in the room by filling them out nicely and walking in a particular way. She loved the colors and fabrics and the way designers played with her body. She’d been the muse for an Italian designer named Vittorio Saladino for a while, back in her younger days. He’d loved her look, and everything he’d made had been perfectly suited to her. In turn, she’d made magic for him on the runway. It had been a perfect marriage of their particular talents. But that was when she was twenty. Now she was thirty.
    Paris picked up her Galliano slouch bag, got out of the stuffy dressing room, and attempted a little walking action. After ten steps she gave up. Maybe some lunch would help. She had an intense craving for a cream cheese Danish from Zabar’s. Or maybe six.

4
A Little Less Conversation
    “I knew you’d adore him,” Anton said to Stephen Banyan, proud owner of Dolan’s Pub.
    “A classic. The body of Adonis, the voice of Pavarotti, and nice—he’s nice, yet.”
    “Sorry, he’s straight, and taken. He accidentally married Paris James.”
    “Accidentally is right.” Stephen rolled his eyes and kept twisting his dishtowel into a bar glass.
    “I gotta tell ya, she’s one lucky woman that fate dumped him in her lap.”
    “And what does that make him? A lion tamer?”
    “Saint Turner.” Anton and Stephen collapsed in laughter, slapping the counter.
    Turner stepped offstage to the sound of applause and shouts for him to do a few encores, then he walked toward the bar. Anton and the bar owner were laughing. He hoped they hadn’t found his set too corny. Those old Irish standards were pretty quirky.
    “Turner Pruitt, you’ve got them weeping in their Guinness. You’re hired. If I were Irish I’d be cryin’ too. ‘The Fields of Athenry’ is a killer.”
    “At least they cheered up on ‘Whiskey in the Jar.’ I noticed your accent—Australia?” Turner asked.
    “New Zealand, mate. I never say mate, it just makes everyone feel like I’m more authentic.”
    “I hear that. I’ve been doing an Elvis gig for the last few years and said, ‘Thank you very much’ at every wedding I performed. The veil better be pretty thick or the customers might come down to reality, and we wouldn’t want that.”
    “Well, mate, you’re a smash on the mike. Would you come in every once in a while during your visit and give us a tune?”
    “Sure. I’d love to. I used to tend bar back in college, so I’m comfortable around a good pub. It didn’t go down too well with the seminary, but I enjoyed it.”
    “I’d say being a preacher and being a bartender are fairly similar jobs. Here, I made this for you. Welcome to Manhattan.” Stephen passed Turner a very odd looking drink.
    “What’s this?” Turner asked.
    “Red Snapper. Like your wife. Now go sing us a tune. Something about a redhead.” Stephen winked at Turner.
    “That’s my Mrs. all right. Redhead through and through.” Turner took a small sip, winked back, and headed for the small stage again. He bent over the piano player and had a brief discussion, borrowed her other songbook, then got himself behind the