“Money and power,” I said. “Some things never change.”
He started up the car. “People in their position . . . Why should I lie to you? Getting to them is not going to be easy.”
34
ROBIN WASN’T HOME. That bothered me. It also made me feel relieved, and that ate at me further.
She’d left a message on the machine. “Alex, I’m still tied up with you-know-who. Now his publicist wants me to stick around for some photographs—showing him how to hold the guitar, finger chords accurately. . . . Silly stuff, but they’re paying by the hour. . . . After the photo session, which could be late, we may go out to dinner. A bunch of us— he’s got an entourage. Maybe at Rue Faubourg, over on Hillhurst, you can try me there later. Or sooner, here at the studio—we’ve moved from the manse to Golden Horse Sound, here’s the number. … Be well, Alex.”
I phoned the recording studio, got voice mail, left a message. Was thinking about Baxter and Sage when Robin called back.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi. Sorry for the long day.” She sounded tired and distant and not the least bit sorry.
“Everything okay?”
“Sure, how about with you?”
“You’re not still angry?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“I don’t know, maybe I’ve been a little absent recently.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s not like I’m not used to that.”
“You are angry.”
“No, of course not— Listen, Alex, I really can’t talk right now, they’re calling me—”
“Ah, stardom,” I said.
“Please,” she said. “We’ll talk later—we need to get away, together. I don’t mean dinner and an orgasm. Real time—time away—a vacation, like normal people take. Okay? That fit your schedule?”
“Sure.”
“Are you? Because whatever you’ve been involved in—that girl—has taken you to another galaxy.”
“I always have time for you,” I said.
Silence. “Look, I won’t go to dinner with the gang. They make a big deal about it—Elvis and his hangers-on. Like summer camp, everyone does everything together. But I’m not part of it, I don’t need to participate.”
“No,” I said. “Finish up, do what you need to do.”
“And leave you all alone? I know you need solitude, but I think I’ve been giving you too much—that’s what I’m trying to get across. Both of us have let things slip.”
“It’s me,” I said. “You’ve been fine.”
“Fine,” she said. “Damning with faint praise?”
“Come on, Robin—”
“Sorry, I guess I am . . . feeling a little displaced.”
“Finish up and come home, and then we’ll fake out being normal and plan a vacation. Name the place.”
“Anywhere but here, Alex. There’s nothing going on that a little mellowing out won’t cure, right?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Everything will work out.”
I waited until well after Robin’s phone call—until the sound of her voice, the tone, and the content had finally stopped resonating—before pulling the scrap of paper out of my wallet.
Nine-fifteen P.M. My office windows were black, and I’d been imagining a black ocean, small faces bobbing in the waves, sucked down, the circling of sharks, a mother’s endless wail.
Cheryl Duke answered on the fifth ring. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Wow. You called.”
“You sound surprised,” I said.
“Well . . . you never know.”
“Oh,” I said, “I don’t think you get ignored too often.”
“No,” she said, merrily. “Not too often. So . . . ?”
“I was thinking maybe we could get together.”
“Were you? Hmm. Well, what did you have in mind?”
“It’s a little late for dinner, but I could handle that if you haven’t eaten. Or maybe drinks?”
“I’ve eaten.” Giggles. “You’ve been thinking about food and drink, huh?”
“It’s a start.”
I’ve been thinking about your babies murdered. About finding some way to warn you.
“Got to start somewhere,” she said. “Where and when were you thinking?”
“I’m open.”
“Open-minded, too?”
“I like to think so.”
“Bet you do. … Hmm, I just got the kids down. .. . How about in half an hour?”
“Where?”
Another giggle. “Just like that, huh? Johnny on the Spot Agreeable?”
“When I’m motivated.”
“I’ll bet,” she said. “Well . . . how about no drinks, just some intelligent conversation?”