She appears unmoved. “How can I, like, trust you to keep quiet?” she demands. “About the song, I mean.”
“No, you mean about everything.” Here comes the hairy part. “Look, I know you killed Jimmy, but I’ll never prove it because the autopsy was a joke and the body’s been cremated. Jay Burns was cool with the program because you promised he could play on ‘Shipwrecked,’ and who doesn’t want to be on a hit record? But then I showed up at the boat, Jay went jiggy and you guys decided he wasn’t all that terrific a piano player. The cops are ready to believe he got drunk and dozed off under that mullet truck. I seriously doubt it but, again, where’s the proof?”
I shrug. Cleo yawns like a lioness and bites into an ice cube. Loreal starts to say something but wisely changes his mind. Jerry, meanwhile, folds his cable-sized arms across his chest. I think he picked this up from a Mr. Clean commercial.
“Now, let’s talk about Tito Negraponte,” I say. “Poor Tito wasn’t lying when he told you he didn’t know anything about ‘Shipwrecked Heart.’ He had nothing to do with the Exuma sessions. Jimmy didn’t use him.”
Cleo levels a moist glare at Loreal, who looks as if he wants to crawl under the ashtray.
“That’s correct, darling,” I inform the widow. “You tried to murder the wrong bass player. I’m guessing the Mexican gentlemen who took the job were recruited by Jerry here. Old prison chums, am I right, Jer? You look as if you spent some time in the yards.”
The bodyguard’s lips curl into a pale smile. I wink obnoxiously and plow ahead:
“I’m also guessing that the two fellows who visited Tito are no longer with us, meaning the shooting can’t be traced to anyone at this table. Which leaves me with what? A song.”
“The song,” says Cleo, whose sphynx-like composure is unnerving.
“Yes, the song you claim was a conjugal effort. I know the truth, but the only people who can back me up won’t do it. Danny Gitt, the singers, the other studio players—they figure you’ll sue ’em if they say anything, and who needs the hassle. Long as they got paid for the sessions, they’ll stay quiet.”
We are interrupted by an autograph seeker, a gothed-out Ecstasy twerp with a silver safety pin in each nostril.
“You rule, girl,” she says to Cleo, who brusquely signs the cocktail napkin as “Cindy Zigler,” her given name. Puzzled but grateful, the young fan departs.
“Getting back to the song,” I say to Cleo, “maybe you just want to swipe the lyrics, or maybe you want Loreal to loop some of Jimmy’s vocals, too—sort of a duet with the dead. That’ll get some crossover air play. And I can’t wait to see the pop-up video.”
“Why the fuck should you care?”
“I was a fan, that’s why. But as long as I get Emma back, I don’t give damn what you do with Jimmy’s song. It’ll never be as good as the one he did, but that’s show business.”
Cleo says, “You’re forgettin’ one thing. His sister.”
“What about her?”
“She don’t like me.”
“So what? She doesn’t know about all this.” The secret of big-league bullshitting is to keep it coming.
Loreal says, “I bet she knows about the Exuma sessions.”
“No doubt.” Cleo scowls and crunches another ice cube.
“She doesn’t know anything about this song,” I say firmly. “Jimmy never told Janet—I asked her myself.” Another hefty lie. I’ve got no idea if he ever played “Shipwrecked Heart” for his sister. The crucial thing is to convince Cleo that Janet poses no threat.
“She seems perfectly thrilled,” I add, “to be getting a hundred grand from the estate.”
Cleo laughs acidly. “Her and the goddamn Sea Urchins.” She turns to Jerry. “Whaddya think? You said he wanted money.”
Jerry says, “He will. Don’t worry.”
Guys like this, they make it too easy. “That’s right, Jerry. The first time I saw you in that snazzy bomber jacket and those Beatle boots, I told myself: I’m gonna squeeze a couple million bucks out of that chrome-domed, noodle-dicked troglodyte.”
Now, getting in Cleo’s face, I really crank up the charm. “And no offense, Mrs. Stomarti, but if you were sitting here having drinks with Clive Davis, I might be impressed enough to hit you up for a few bucks. Unfortunately, you’re here with a dork who’s named himself after a fucking hair product, and couldn’t get into the Grammys with an AK-47.”