Merrily he watches me jot each golden word. I expect his demeanor would change if I asked about his unconventional way of consoling Jimmy’s wife; to wit, placing his pecker between her lips. But I avoid that line of inquiry, tempting as it is, and allow Loreal to imagine himself the portrait of the cool young auteur, patiently explaining his craft to the stolid middle-aged journalist. His true roots are revealed, however, by the sound of a thick-soled motorcyle shoe tapping along to a Bob Seger song on the jukebox. I resist the urge to like him for it.
“Maybe you could explain something to me,” I say.
“For sure.” Loreal has milky girlish skin with a spattering of cinnamon freckles, though I would swear his cheeks have been lightly rouged. He has baptized himself liberally with the same rotten-guava cologne that he wore that day in Cleo’s elevator, which explains the bartender’s brisk retreat. Every so often Loreal tilts his head so that the glossy mane hangs clear of his shoulders, and gives it a well-practiced shake.
“I thought record companies didn’t release a single until the whole album was done. But ‘Me’ came out months ago,” I say. “It seems strange there’s still no Cleo Rio CD.”
“She’s with a small label and they do things different.” On this subject Loreal is not so thrilled to see me taking notes. “Plus, the lady’s a righteous perfectionist. She wants to take her time and do it her way. But, yeah, there’s pressure to get the record wrapped, and we’re almost there. Basically it’s down to one song.”
“Which one is that?”
‘”Shipwrecked Heart.’ The title cut.”
“The one she sang at the funeral,” I say.
“I wasn’t there,” Loreal says pointedly, “but I heard she did.” Two more beers have been delivered, and he snatches at one.
To keep the conversation moving, I ask him if he’d heard about what happened to Jay Burns.
“Yeah, Cleo told me. Unfuckingbelievable,” he says. “Jay was supposed to play piano on ‘Shipwrecked.'”
“Any of the other Slut Puppies working with Cleo?”
“Nope,” he replies, between swigs. I’m waiting to see if he mentions meeting Tito Negraponte tonight, but all he says is: “Jimmy had a good band, but Cleo wants her own sound. Definitely.”
He stands up, digs into his stovepipes and throws a twenty on the bar. “Listen, I gotta motor. You need anything else, call Cueball Records in L.A. and ask for the publicist. Sherry, I think her name is.”
“Thank you, Loreal.”
He smiles and sticks out his hand, which is moist from the bottle. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Woodward. Bob Woodward.” I spell it for him. He nods blankly. “Good luck with the album,” I say.
“For sure, bro.”
At that salutation, I’m overtaken by a whimsical urge to mess with his head. “Doesn’t all this creep you out?” I ask as we’re heading for the door.
“All what?”
“First Jimmy Stoma, now Jay—it’s almost like there’s a curse on Cleo’s record.”
Loreal tosses his magnificent hair and laughs. “Shit, man, it’s just the music business. People are always dyin’.”
18
Nine-fifteen on Sunday morning, Emma calls.
“Hi, there. You awake?”
I can barely hold the phone. My eyelids feel like dried mud. I had only three beers last night so it’s not a hangover; I’m just whipped. Pertly my female caller says:
“Everything all right? How’s the story going?”
I remember that Emma makes a mean cup of espresso, and it sounds like she’s had about seven cups.
“You got any interviews set up for today? I thought maybe you could use some company.”
“Sure,” I hear myself say as though it’s no big deal, Emma playing sidekick. “But first I’ve got to know: Did you kiss me the other night?”
“Hmmm.”
“When I was on the couch.”
“Yes, I believe that was me.”
I’m too groggy to know whether Emma is being playful or sarcastic. “I need some guidance here,” I tell her.
“Regarding the kiss.”
“Exactly. How would you describe it?”
“As friendly,” she says, unhesitantly.
“Not tender?”
“I don’t think so, Jack.”
“Because that’s how it felt to me.”
“You were in pain. Your judgment was clouded.” Emma is a tricky one to read over the phone. “Well, what about today?” she sallies on. “You want me to swing by and pick you up?”