They set up. The twisters and table crowd ignored them. A jukebox tune bled into their opener.
A high-school kid played tenor sax. The drummer was a bantamweight pachuco. The guitar man matched Joey’s R&I stats.
The greasy little hump was half on-the-nod. His socks were deelasticized way below his ankles.
They played loud, shitty music. Pete felt the wax in his ears start to crumble.
Barb Jahelka slinked up to the mike. Barb oozed healthy pulchritude. Barb was no show-biz-subspecies junkie.
Tall Barb. Lanky Barb. That sparkly red bouffant was no fucking dye job.
Dig that tight, low-cut gown. Dig the heels that put her over six feet
Barb sang. Barb had weak pipes. The combo drowned her out every time she reached for a high note.
Pete watched. Barb sang. Barb DANCED–Hush-Hush would tag it HOT, HOT, HOTSVILLE.
Some male twisters stopped twisting to dig on the big rangy redhead. One girl poked her partner–You get your eyes off of her!
Barb sang weak-voiced and monotonous. Barb put out unique gyrations flat-out concurrent.
She kicked her shoes off. She thrust her hips out and popped seams down one leg.
Pete watched her eyes. Pete tapped the envelope in his pocket.
She’d read the note. The money would hook her in. She’d give Joey the dope and urge him to get lost.
Pete chain-smoked. Barb lost a breast and tucked it back before the Twist fiends noticed.
Barb smiled–oops!–dazzling.
Pete passed the envelope to a waitress. Twenty dollars guaranteed transmittal.
Barb danced. Pete shot her something like a prayer: Please be able to TALK.
o o o
He knew she’d be late. He knew she’d close the club and let him sweat for a while. He knew she’d call Freddy 0. for a quick rundown of his pedigree.
Pete waited at an all-night coffee shop. His chest hurt–Barb twisted him through two packs of cigarettes.
He called Littell an hour ago. He said, Let’s meet at Lenny’s at 3:00–I think I might have found our woman.
It was 1:10 now. He might have called Littell just a tad premature.
Pete sipped coffee and checked his watch every few seconds. Barb Jahelka walked in and spotted him.
Her skirt and blouse looked half-assed demure. No makeup did nice things to her face.
She sat down across from him. Pete said, “I hope you called Freddy.”
“I did.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he’d never mess with you. And that your partners always make money.”
“Is that all he said?”
“He said you knew Lenny Sands. I called Lenny, but he wasn’t home.”
Pete pushed his coffee aside. “Did you try to kill that dyke you shivved?”
Barb smiled. “No. I wanted to stop her from touching me, and I didn’t want it to cost me the rest of my life.”
Pete smiled. “You didn’t ask me what this is all about.”
“Freddy already gave me his interpretation, and you’re paying me five hundred dollars for a chat. And by the way, Joey says, ‘Thanks for the taste.’”
A waitress hovered. Pete shooed her away. “Why do you stay with him?”
“Because he wasn’t always a drug addict. Because he arranged to have some men who hurt my sister taken care of.”
“Those are good reasons.”
Barb lit a cigarette. “The best reason is I love Joey’s mom. She’s senile, and she thinks we’re still married. She thinks Joey’s sister’s kids are our kids.”
Pete laughed. “Suppose she dies?”
“Then the day of the funeral is the day I say goodbye to Joey. He’ll have to get a new girl singer and a new chauffeur to drive him to his Nalline tests.”
“I bet that’ll break his heart.”
Barb blew smoke rings. “Over’s over. That’s a concept junkies don’t understand.”
“You understand it.”
“I know. And you’re thinking it’s a weird thing for a woman to get.”
“Not necessarily.”
Barb stubbed out her cigarette. “What’s this all about?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“Soon. First, you tell me about you and Peter Lawford.”
Barb toyed with her ashtray. “It was brief and ugly, and I broke it off when Peter kept pestering me to go to bed with Frank Sinatra.”
“Which you didn’t feel like doing.”