The usual suspects gathered at their favorite table at the Warsaw that evening. Oswald had changed into his usual jeans and a crew neck sweater. He sat, his back to the door, and took a healthy (well, as healthy as it was possible to be for a caffeinated alcoholic beverage) gulp of Buzz Beer and sighed hugely. “Man, it’s good to get back into civies.”

“Sorry about your shorts, man,” Lewis apologized.

“Ah, don’t mention it. Aside from a lowered sperm count there’s no harm done. In fact, it really helped with my tips.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Ladies kept tucking dollar bills in my waistband.”

“I know one person you impressed,” said Drew.

Oswald turned white. “Please God, tell me it wasn’t Mimi!”

“God, no, man! Don’t you trust me enough to shoot you if that happens?”

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Drew.”

“No, it was Wick.”

“Wick?” Oswald looked indignant again. “He called me a bum.”

“Oswald, in British slang, bum means ass.” Kate informed him.

Oswald looked mollified. “Oh, he called me an ass. Okay, that I can deal with.”

“To be specific, he called you luscious ass. That, and a vision and a magnificent piece of tail.”

Lewis said, “And what do those terms mean in American?”

Drew saw a delivery boy enter The Warsaw, carrying a long, white, cardboard box. He spoke to Steve at the bar, and was directed over to their table. He plopped the box down on the table between Kate and Oswald. “Got a flower delivery here.”

“Drew, you dog!” Oswald grinned, as Kate began to reach for the red satin ribbon that closed the box.

“I didn’t send them.”

The delivery boy slapped Kate’s hand. “Ow! Hey!”

“Those aren’t for you, unless your name is Oswald.”

The other three chorused “Oswald?”

Oswald had been in the middle of another gulp of beer. He looked around, puzzled. “Present.”

The delivery boy handed him a clipboard and pen. “Sign here, Camille.” Oswald scratched his name on the clipboard, and the boy left.

“Flowers?” Lewis frowned. “Oswald, are you sick?”

“No.”

“Are you dead?”

Oswald thought about it. “No.”

“Then why is someone sending you flowers?”

“Check the card and find out. Unless you’ve got a secret admirer, there’ll be a card,” Kate declared.

Oswald untied the ribbon and lifted off the lid. A dozen long stemmed roses were revealed. They were lush, half-open pink buds, almost as large as hen’s eggs. “Oh, Oswald!” Kate breathed. “I need to get a picture of this. This is what I want for when I finally get married.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty nice.” Oswald removed one flower, and held it up along his cheek, smiling.

“But who sent them?” asked Lewis. He looked a bit agitated.

“I dunno.” Oswald was rubbing the soft petals over his lips. “See if there’s a card.”

Lewis fished in the box and came up with a pasteboard square covered in fine copperplate script. Kate and Drew saw Mr. Wick enter The Warsaw, but their two friends didn’t. Mr. Wick’s eyes zeroed in on Oswald, and he made a bee line.

Lewis read the card, “These roses are the same pink that I hope some day to inspire in your blushing cheeks.” Oswald fluttered his eyelashes and took the stem of the rose between his teeth, like a flamenco dancer. Drew sincerely hoped that Mr. Wick would refrain from sitting on Oswald’s lap. “There’s more on the back.” Lewis flipped the card over and read, “All four of them. Nigel Wick.”

Mr. Wick’s hands settled on Oswald’s shoulders and he said softly, “I take this to mean that you like the flowers?” Oswald swallowed visibly. Wick leaned down and neatly nipped the rose out of Oswald’s mouth with his own teeth. He stood back up, then tucked the bud behind his ear, murmuring, “Ole.”

“Uh... yeah. They’re... nice.” He held up a hand beside his face and mouthed, “Help!”

Drew commented, “Kate was just saying she’d like to have some just like them for her wedding.”

“Oh, I don’t know about pink roses for a wedding.” Wick quickly dragged a chair up to the table, between Oswald and Lewis. He set his back to Lewis, leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. Wick gazed up at Oswald flirtatiously. “I think that white roses would be more appropriate for a wedding, don’t you?” His voice deepened on the last two words.

“Uh...”

“Or perhaps something more exotic.” Wick put a fingertip against the back of Oswald’s hand, where it rested on the beer bottle, and began to slowly stroke. “Say, magnolia blossoms, to match your lovely skin.”

“Um...”

“You have a positively musical voice, did you know that? I could listen to you read the phone book aloud.”

Lewis said sourly. “It’s not such a thrill. Trust me--he bogs down on the Gees.”

Not looking back, Wick said, “I wasn’t speaking to you, Mop Boy. Have I ever said anything to you about your eyes, Ossss-wald?”

Kate’s shoulders jerked. “Damn, he’s good. That gave me a shiver.”

Oswald was gazing at Wick with something akin to the look a sparrow might give the cobra waving over it. “No. What about my eyes?”

“Oswald!” Lewis barked. Oswald jumped, blinking. “Get hold of yourself. He’s a man!”

Wick drew himself up with dignity. “That’s right, I’m a man, and when you’re through playing with the little boys,” he shot Lewis a look that singed his hair, “I’ll be waiting. But don’t make me wait too long.” Before anyone could react Wick grabbed a handful of Oswald’s curly hair, jerked his head back, and kissed him--hard--with tongue. He righted Oswald, released him, straightened his tie, and said. “Growl.” Then he left.