“Does your mother know?”
“That’s who gave it to me.”
“No way,” I said.
“Seriously. She’s got one, too.”
“Anne packs a rod? Our Anne?”
Carla said, “She never told you because she didn’t want you to freak. No big deal.”
The things I didn’t know.
I arrive at the club at quarter past ten. Cleo Rio suspects I’m wearing a wire so, in a scene worthy of a Derek Grenoble potboiler, Jerry leads me to the men’s room and roughly pats me down. Fortunately, I’ve left Lady Colt under the front seat of the Mustang.
In the coziness of the toilet stall I remark upon the stylishness of Jerry’s black velvet eye patch. “That cologne, though, smells like fermented pig piss. Why does she make you wear it?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he says, slugging me in the ribs. When my respiration stabilizes, we return to the table. Loreal has arrived, hair aglimmering, to complete the motley foursome. Cleo is sporting white leather pants and a matching vest with nothing but skin beneath it. Tonight her pageboy is magenta while her eyelids and lips are done in cobalt. The look clashes badly with her Tortola-caliber tan.
Drinks are ordered and small talk is commenced, mostly by Loreal. He has been creatively inspired by something “funky” he heard on a No Doubt CD, and is confident he can replicate the effect on Cleo’s record. She nods impassively and lights another cigarette. No screwdrivers for the widow tonight; it’s black coffee. Loreal and I are tending Budweisers, while one-eyed Jerry sticks with Diet Coke. For a goon he’s quite the sober professional.
As soon as the Nordic Rastafarian DJ takes a break, I invite Loreal to shut up so I can talk business with Cleo. She seems amused by my rude treatment of her boyfriend—clearly she’ll be dumping this joker as soon as the album is finished. I expect she’s already gotten stingy with the blow jobs.
“Here’s the situation, Mrs. Stomarti,” I begin. “You want Jimmy’s song. I want my friend back.”
“It’s not just Jimmy’s song. We did it together.”
“Save that crap for the media tour. I listened to the tracks myself. Your husband wrote that number a long time ago, probably for another girl.”
Cleo takes a hard drag. Her hand is steady. Eyeing me, she says, “Tagger, you got a death wish?”
I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. “It’s a good song,” I say, “wherever it came from.”
“A damn good song,” Cleo says with a chuckle.
“And we’ll make it even better,” Loreal chimes in. “Time we’re done, it won’t sound anything like Jimmy’s.”
The widow and I ignore him. To her I say: “When I get Emma, you get the computer drive with all the music.”
“Don’t forget the discs you made.”
“Them, too. Absolutely.”
Jerry, sipping his soda, gives a scornful grunt. Turning to him, I can’t resist saying: “You know what I belted you with, that night you busted into my apartment? A frozen lizard.”
Reflexively Jerry touches a knuckle to his patch.
“That’s right, tough guy. Your eye was put out by a one-hundred-and-seventy-seven-pound weakling armed only with a dead reptile. It’s something to tell your grandchildren, when they ask how it happened.”
Loreal says, “That’s not funny, dude.”
Jerry angrily states that I’m full of shit.
“Cleo, you should’ve been there,” I say. “Your man saw all that blood on the floor and figured I was dead, so he ran away. But I wasn’t dead.”
“Unfortunately not,” she says. “But you’re gettin’ closer by the minute, Tagger.”
Her tone is not entirely unconvincing, but I laugh it off. “Is that supposed to be a threat? For God’s sake, you’re twenty-three years old!”
“Twenty-four,” she says, “and my coffee’s cold. So, how we gonna do the trade?”
I hear myself warning her to watch her step. “If you harm Emma or me, prepare for an eternal rain of shit. Lots of people know what I’ve been working on, and they’ll come inquiring. And then they’ll come back again and again.”
Here I lay it on thick, dropping the names of detectives Hill and Goldman and of course Tarkington, the prosecutor. “By the way,” I tell Cleo, “he was a big fan of your husband’s.”