“So what’s the ‘Z’ stand for? Is it for real?”

“Yeah, it’s for real.” I gave her what I hoped was a probing look, though I’m not sure I’m good at that sort of thing. It’s a question I’ve been asked before. A lot. I don’t usually give a straight answer, or even answer at all. But there was something about her. Actual curiosity, maybe? She wasn’t asking just to be coy, or to tease. I don’t know. Well, what the hell. “It’s Zimbalist.”

” ‘Zimbalist’?” I could hear the extra quotes in her voice. Mistake. Oh well; no turning back now.

“Zimbalist. My middle name’s ‘Zimbalist.’ Efrem Zimbalist Street.” She gave me a blank look. Still didn’t get it. “See, my mom watched a lot of old TV detective shows.” Still nothing. “I take it you did not.”

“What?” She seemed a little embarrassed. “No. No; my parents were really into the folk scene. You know, clubs? Jug bands in the park? We didn’t even have a TV.” Then a glimmer: “Bet you can’t guess what my middle name is.”

I thought a moment. “Rainbow?”

She looked crushed.