Leah bit her tongue and tried to smile at Howard, but couldn’t make herself do it.
“Next question: What is the capital city of Canada’s Yukon territory?”
Squawk!
“Whitehorse.” The guy from Menace grinned at Leah. “I’m Canadian.”
She stared at him blankly. “Congratulations.”
Howard cleared his throat. “Last question of this section: Which sea separates the East African coast and the Saudi Arabian peninsula?”
Whistle!
“The Red Sea.” Leah was totally confident on this one and returned to the table in triumph: Book ’Em, six points; Menace, four.
“After a short break for refreshments, we will return with a little category I like to call . . . Books.” Howard grinned around, but no one was really listening. “And remember, folks, it’s two-for-one shots tonight, so get yourselves to the bar and become inebriated.” Don counted down, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1, on his fingers and then indicated he’d stopped filming. Howard dropped his smile and leaped forward to look at the footage.
Nina looked at Howard thoughtfully. “It’s his gift for witty repartee that sets Howard apart as a host.”
“He’s a poet, really,” agreed Leah.
“Let’s do these shots,” said Carter. “There are sober children in Africa who’d kill for these. We can’t waste them.”
So they did.
Nina stood at the podium—not touching it—and faced a different guy from Menace. He was good looking and cocky, and Nina could hardly wait to hand him his hat, metaphorically speaking.
Don had started filming, and Howard was channeling his quiz show host. “OK, folks, time for Books, or Literature as some people like to call it.”
“Stuck-up people,” said the guy from Menace.
“Literate people,” replied Nina.
“No bickering, please. Let’s keep it civilized.” Howard looked reprovingly at them. “ ‘Call me Ishmael’ is the opening line from . . .”
Nina whistled. “Moby-Dick.”
Howard nodded, but said, “Please wait for the complete question before answering.”
“Sorry.”
He frowned at her. “Who wrote Don Quixote?”
She whistled. “Cervantes.”
“Full name?”
Nina narrowed her eyes at him. Such a dick. “Miguel de Cervantes.”
“In the children’s books about a twenty-five-foot-tall red dog, what is the name of the dog?”
Squawk!
“Clifford!” Handsome was 100 percent confident on this one.
Howard snapped out, “Bonus question: Why did he grow so much?”
The guy suddenly looked sappy. “Because Emily loved him.” He paused. “Her love made Clifford grow so big that the Howards had to leave their home.”
Howard nodded, very serious. “Yes. Yes, it did.”
Nina was vexed. “That’s from the TV show theme song, not the books.”
“Are you sure it isn’t in the books?” Howard tutted at her. “No, you aren’t, so keep your opinions to yourself. Next question: Being and Time is an ontological treatise written by which German philosopher?”
There was a long silence.
“Wait, we went from Clifford the Big Red Dog to that? Does philosophy even count as Literature?” asked Nina. She was feeling a little punchy. She really shouldn’t drink at these things.
Howard shrugged. “Well, a) that’s a very philosophical question, and b) the category is books. Nice try, Book ’Em.” He looked at them both. “No?” They shook their heads. “Anyone from either team?” Silence. “Anyone in the bar?” Deeper silence. Howard sighed patronizingly, because of course he had the answer in his hand. “It was Martin Heidegger.”
“Good to know,” said Nina. “Do you think Emily’s love would have done anything for him?”
Howard ignored her. “What are the four houses at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”
Whistle! Squawk!
Nina and the guy from Menace glared at each other. Whistle! Squawk! Whistle! Squawk!
Howard held up his hand. “Rock–Paper–Scissors.”
Nina threw rock. Menace threw paper. Crowing, he yelled: “Hufflepuff! Slytherin! Ravenclaw! Gryffindor!”
“Keep your hair on,” muttered Nina, annoyed at herself for throwing rock. Scissors is always the better choice.
“OK, the scores are Menace, five; Book ’Em, four. Last question: Who wrote The Metamorphosis, first published in 1915?”
Nina confidently blew the whistle. “Kafka.” Howard hesitated. “Franz Kafka,” she said, irritated at him. He hesitated again. “Franz Ferdinand Kafka.” She was totally winging the middle name, but she was willing to bet Howard knew even less about Kafka than she did.
He nodded, then said, “And for a bonus point, name the creepy movie where Jeff Goldblum turns into a fly.”
“The Fly,” shouted the Menace guy.
“That’s correct. The teams stand level at six each.”
There was an uproar. “Wait!” said Nina. “That’s totally unfair! That film isn’t even based on Kafka’s book. The guy turns into a cockroach, not a fly; it’s a movie, not a book; and besides . . .”
“Sorry, my decision is final.” Howard was firm, although he was backing away slightly from Nina’s pointing finger. Then, as Leah and Lauren turned up to join the fray, he took another step back and suddenly sat in the lap of a woman who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. Drinks were spilled. Shells were split as pistachios skittered across the floor. People leaped to their feet and skidded on the nuts. There was falling. There was cursing. Menace to Sobriety showed up in force, and, twenty seconds later, so did security.
Half a minute later, standing outside the bar, Carter sighed. “Nina, why is it always you that gets us banned?”
She looked at him, still mad. “It wasn’t even a book question!” She shook beer from her sleeve and several pistachios flew out. “It’s the principle! If you don’t stand for something . . .”
“You’ll fall for anything?”
She turned around. Tom was standing there, shrugging on his jacket. “I thought you might need a ride home.” He grinned. “You seemed a little . . . heated.”
“Well,” said Nina, “I’m supposed to be getting a ride with Leah . . .” She looked around. Down the street, she could see Leah and the others disappearing around a corner. “Oh.”
Thirteen
In which we learn a little more about Tom.
Nina sat next to Tom as he drove her home, and, again, she smelled sawdust.
“Are you a carpenter?” she asked, the alcohol making her a little unguarded. “You smell of wood.” She leaned toward him and sniffed theatrically.
He laughed. “Sort of.”
Nina frowned at him. “Well, do you carpent, or not?”
“I don’t think that’s even a verb.”
“It should be. Why isn’t it?” She threw herself back in the seat. “I carpent, you carpent, he or she carpents . . .”