“ ‘Them’ meaning musicians.”
“Musicians,” Robin repeated, and her lips curled upward.
Petra said, “So he never called, but he did jot down the appointment.”
“Guess so. Typically, Baby just dropped in. Petra, what do I do with the guitars, now? They’re not evidence, are they?”
“Are they worth anything?”
“Clean, they’d be very pricey. With all the modifications . . . a lot less.”
“No value-added because Baby played them?” said Petra. “I read how Eric Clapton auctioned some guitars off, and they went way above estimates.”
“Baby wasn’t Clapton.” Tears trickled from Robin’s eyes. She produced the red bandana and dabbed them dry. “How could someone do this?”
“It stinks,” said Petra. “I can’t see how the guitars would be evidence, but sit tight. If I need them, I’ll let you know.”
Thinking: Maybe she should pick them up. On the slim chance she caught the bad guy and they brought him to trial and some defense attorney wanted to make a stink about the chain of evidence . . .
Robin was saying, “I hope you get whoever did it.”
“What else can you tell me about Baby Boy?” said Petra.
“Easygoing. A big kid. People took advantage of his good nature. If he got hold of a dollar, it floated right out of his pocket.”
“Doesn’t seem as if he’s made too many dollars, recently,” said Petra, remembering what Alex had told her about Baby’s perennial IOUs to Robin. Figuring quoting Alex right now might be a distraction.
“Things were tough for him,” said Robin. “Had been for a while. He got a boost when a new pop band asked him to play on their album. Guys young enough to be his kids, but he was so up for it. Thought this might be a big break. The album did great, but I doubt they paid him much.”
“Why’s that?”
Robin kicked one suede tenny with the other. “He seemed broke—as usual. He hadn’t paid me in a long time. Used to write out these elaborate IOUs—minicontracts, really. Both of us pretending we were being businesslike. Then he’d pick up his gear and offer a few dollars in partial payment and I’d say forget it and he’d argue but eventually give in. And that would be it till the next time. It went on for so long, I stopped expecting to get paid. But when he cut the album with those kids, he called me and promised he’d be settling up. ‘Closing out my tab, sweet Lil Sis,’ was the way he put it. He used to say if he’d had a little sister, he would’ve wanted her to be just like me.”
Another swipe of the bandana.
“But the tab never got closed,” said Petra.
“Not a penny. That’s how I know the gig didn’t produce serious money. If Baby’d been flush, I would’ve been high on his list, right after rent and food.”
“His rent was paid up, and there was food in his fridge—diet food.”
Robin winced. “That again? Onstage, he flaunted his weight—shook his belly, wiggled his butt, made jokes about being heavy. But the poor guy hated being big, was always resolving to trim down.” She sniffed. “For all he’d been through, he never stopped wanting to better himself. Once, when he was feeling pretty down, he told me: ‘God made a mess when he created me. My job’s cleaning it up.’ “
She broke down, crying, and Petra put an arm around her shoulder. A couple of uniforms walked through the front doors and swaggered across the lobby, jangling gear. Not even bothering to notice the weeping woman. They saw plenty of that.
6
The Thursday after Baby Boy Lee’s murder, my doorbell rang. I’d been typing court reports all afternoon, ran out of words and wisdom, and called out for Chinese food.
Grabbing tip money, I trudged from my office to the living room, threw open the door, and faced Robin. She’d never surrendered her key but was acting like a guest.
Which, I suppose, she was.
She saw the tip money and smiled. “I can’t be bought that easily.”
I pocketed the bills. “Hi.”
“Is this a bad time?”