“You’re surprised to hear from me,” the girl on the phone said.

“Yes,” I said, master of understatement that I am. “I didn’t think it was widely known I was in L.A., and the last time I saw you-”

“Was in Chicago. But, Nathan-you knew I was a California girl. Remember, we talked about you opening an office here? You were going out in December. Remember?”

I remembered. I only wished she hadn’t.

“Listen,” the girl on the phone said, “I’m… I’m in trouble.”

“What kind?” I asked, sitting up. “Kind you need a private detective for?”

“No… you know. I’m in trouble.”

“Trouble?” I asked numbly, knowing.

“Nathan, I’m two months late.”

Not private detective trouble, then; private dick trouble.

“I see… and it’s, uh, it’s…” I glanced at my wife, who was still paging through the movie magazine, pausing intermittently to frown curiously at me.

“It’s yours, Nathan,” the girl on the phone said. Beth said. Her low-pitched voice managed to seem worldly and youthful at the same time.

I swallowed, smiling and shrugging at my wife, saying into the phone, “Forgive me, but… there’s no doubt of that?”

“I haven’t been with anybody but you.” Dreadful certainty in the voice. “Not for over a month before we were together, and not at all since.”

Fighting dizziness, I said, “Frankly, I don’t, uh, remember even… being with you.”

Other than those incredible blow jobs. Yes, I am a classy guy.

“Oh, Nathan, please, please don’t tell me…” The husky voice caught, a sob trapped in her throat. “… don’t tell me you were too drunk… too drunk to remember…”

What I did remember was that I had indeed been drunk that last night with her. Yes, sir, class act all the way.