Hot Ticket by Janice Weber

involved with anyone,
     darling?”
    I daubed my lips with a napkin, wondering why this did not feel like an incidental change of subject. “I’m a serious girl.”
    Fausto extended a hand as Senator Perle and her slave Wallace approached. “Good morning, ladies. You’re looking lovely today,
     Aurilla.”
    Lovely was stretching it, but the VP-in-waiting had spent the night with a grenade named Gretchen. I now understood why no
     one was invited to her home. “Thank you for listening to my daughter,” Aurilla said to me. “You must come back again. She
     has two new pieces prepared.”
    A pall asphyxiated the table. I finally caved. “How’s four this afternoon?”
    “Perfect. Thank you.”
    Wallace wrote it down then caught up with her idol across the room. Deep in thought, Fausto watched Aurilla snare a senator.
     “How is the girl? Last time we met she tried to kick me.”
    “She’s still kicking.”
    “What a waste of your time. No reason for it.” Fausto looked at me slyly. “What does Aurilla think you can do for her?”
    “I was hoping you might answer that.” No way, of course. “Maybe she’s more of a stage mother than you think.”
    “Darling, Aurilla hasn’t given that girl ten minutes since the day she was born.” He lit a cigarette. “The little monster
     has become a major political liability. If Aurilla had half a brain, she’d get her out of the country.”
    Across the room, Justine broke into that irritating, silvery laughter once too often. I stood to leave. “I’m not about to
     adopt her. Thanks for breakfast.”
    Fausto bobbed to his feet. En route to the door, he steered me within slapping distance of Duncan’s inamorata. “How is the
     water in that fountain, Justine? Warm or cold? I’ve always wondered.”
    “Warm,” she replied.
    “How unlike the president to give you the night off,” he continued. “And how unlike you to take it. However did Bobby pass
     the time without you?”
    “He watched football.” Justine pointedly resumed her conversation with the speechwriter at her side.
    “Poor thing,” Fausto muttered as we headed for the door. “Whatever she’s swallowed, it’s clouded her judgment. I hope she
     doesn’t drag your pianist to too many coke parties.”
    “You’re not serious.”
    “Afraid I am. Justine’s been high on one substance or another for the past thirty years. I was there when she discovered LSD.”
    And what had Fausto been discovering? The twenty-third Psalm? “You go back a long way.”
    “We met at one of my recitals in London.”
    “She’s a music lover?” I couldn’t picture Justine in the same room with the Waldstein sonata.
    “She attended the concert with a friend of mine. It was a night to remember.” Naturally Fausto supplied no further details.
     At the door, he kissed my hand. “I’m so glad you practice here. It’s delicious to have music in the house again.”
    We both smiled, honoring the lie. “Will you be playing Scrabble with Bendix this afternoon?”
    “No. He’s going with Aurilla to visit Jojo. They’ve got to rehearse looking sad.”
    “Fausto! There you are!” Vicky Chickering lumbered down the hall. “Paula wants to thank you for the fantastic ointment. Wherever
     did you get it?”
    “Can’t tell you, Chickie. You know it’s not FDA approved.”
    As Chickie brought Fausto up-to-date on the First Lady’s arthritis, I thumbed through his guest book. Polly Mason had signed
     in, loud and clear, the day she died and the six mornings before that. So Bobby had told the truth: Barnard had indeed connected
     with Fausto, prince of another sort.
    Chickering eventually returned to the dining room. “She didn’t even say hello to you,” Fausto remarked.
    “Why should she? I’m a lowly fiddle player.” That earned an amused silence until I hit the ignition. “Let’s play together
     sometime.”
    “Definitely.” Fausto’s mouth turned grim as he watched me drive away.
    Back at the hotel, I