“Yeah?”
“Fingers in the eye sockets is another good one,” said Krome. “The scrotal squeeze is a crowd pleaser, too.”
“These come in handy in the newspaper biz?”
“Today was the first time.”
JoLayne was pleased he didn’t let go of her hand until the light turned green and it was time to steer the car. They stopped at a Burger King on Northwest Seventh Avenue and ate in the parking lot with the windows down. The breeze was cool and pleasant, even with the din from the interstate. After lunch they went on a tour of JoLayne’s childhood: kindergarten, elementary school, high school. The pet shop where she’d worked in the summers. The appliance store her father once owned. The auto garage where she’d met her first boyfriend.
“He took care of Daddy’s Grand Prix,” she said. “Good at lube jobs, bad at relationships. Rick was his name.”
“Where is he now?”
“Lord, I can’t imagine.”
While Krome drove, JoLayne found herself spinning through the stones of the significant men in her life. “Aren’t you sorry,” she said, “you left your notebook at the motel?”
He smiled but didn’t take his eyes off the road. “I got a helluva memory.” Then, swerving around a county bus: “What about Moffitt—he’s not on the List of Six?”
“Friends only.” JoLayne wondered if Krome’s interest was strictly professional, caught herself hoping it wasn’t. “He dated both my sisters, my best friend, a cousin and also my nursing supervisor at Jackson. But not me.”
“How come?”
“Mutual agreement.”
“Ah,” Krome said. He didn’t believe it was mutual. He believed Moffitt would go to his grave asking himself why JoLayne Lucks hadn’t wanted him.
“We’d been buddies so long,” she was saying, “we knew too much about each other. One of those deals.”
“Right,” Krome said. He pulled to the curb while two police cars and an ambulance sped past. When the wail of sirens faded, JoLayne said, “Plus Moffitt’s too serious for me. You saw for yourself. Why I’m telling you this stuff, Lord, I don’t know.”
“I’m interested.”
“But it’s not part of the story.”
“How do you know?” Krome said.
“Because I’m telling you so. It’s not part of the story.”
He shrugged.
“What in the world was I thinking,” JoLayne said, “bringing you in on this. First off, you’re a man, and I’ve got rotten instincts when it comes to men. Second, you’re a reporter, for heaven’s sake. Only a crazy fool would believe a reporter, am I right? And last but not least—”
“I’m awfully white,” Krome said.
“Bingo.”
“But you trust me anyway.”
“Truly it’s a mystery.” JoLayne removed her floppy hat and flipped it in the back seat. “Can we stop at a pay phone? I need to call Clara before it gets too late.”
Clara Markham was the real estate broker who had the listing for Simmons Wood. Clara knew JoLayne wanted to buy the property, because JoLayne had phoned the night she’d won the lottery. But then, two days later, JoLayne had called back to say something had happened and it might be awhile before she could make a down payment. Clara had promised not to accept any other offers until she spoke to JoLayne again. She was a friend, after all.
Krome spotted a pay phone outside a sub shop on 125th Street. JoLayne got Clara Markham at the realty office.
JoLayne said, “Whatcha up to, working so late.”
“Busy, girl.”
“How’s my pal Kenny?”
Kenny was Clara’s obese Persian. Because of its impeccably lush whiskers, Clara had named it after Kenny Rogers, the country singer.
“Much improved,” Clara reported. “The hair-ball crisis is over, you can tell Dr. Crawford. But I’m afraid I’ve got some other news.”
JoLayne sucked in a deep breath. “Damn. Who is it?”
“A union pension fund out of Chicago.”
“And they build malls?”
“Girl, they build everything.”
“What’s the offer?” JoLayne asked gloomily.
“Three even. Twenty percent down.”
“Damn. Goddamn.”
Clara said, “They want an answer in a week.”
“I can do better than three million. You wait.”
“Jo, I’ll stall as long as I can.”
“I’d sure appreciate it.”
“And be sure and tell Doc Crawford thanks for the ointment. Tell him Kenny says thanks, too.”