16
The Mojito Fairy
When the elevator opened, we were on a rooftop.
I saw no one but an older gentleman who had been sitting with his back to a bar, waiting. As soon as he saw us, he came lumbering our way. He was short and more than a little rotund. Up close, I realized the white hair had caused me to overestimate his age. He was probably only in his late fifties, early sixties.
“Thank you, Morgan, that’ll be all,” he said as he approached.
“Sir? I thought—”
“That’ll be all,” he said sharply.
“Yes, sir!” She spun on her heel and went back into the elevator.
“Mr. Kettleman, good to put a face to the name,” he said warmly, shaking my hand. “My name is Arthur Woodhouse. May I call you Joe?” Without waiting for an answer, he struck a sympathetic tone and continued, “Yoonie, sweetheart
