for the fourth time.
“Christ. Please tell me this is a nightmare. Please, please. I’m going to wake up, right?”
Raines was drinking Field Stone chardonnay, the wine of the month. In gym shorts,
Adidas with no socks, and a tank top, he was turning all heads except for the one across
the table from him. What was it with her? All she ever talked about was work and that
twit from the paper she rode around with. And Niles, oh yes, let’s not forget that fucking,
God-save-the-queen, cat. How many times had that cat ruined a building moment? Niles
seemed to know exactly when to cause a distraction. A jump on Raines’s back or head, a
bite of a sock-covered toe. How about the time Niles sat on the remote control until the
volume of Kenny G sounded like an air raid?
“It’s not your fault,” Raines said again, working on the spinach dip.
West ate another pickle fried in beer batter as Jump Little Children began setting up all
their equipment and instruments. This small place with blue plastic table cloths and
funky art in screaming colors by someone named Tryke was going to rock tonight, jam,
trot out primitive Ids and libidos. Raines hoped he could make West stay at least until the
second set. Actually, Raines thought what had happened to her all in a day’s work was
hilarious. It was all he could do to look tender and concerned.
He imagined Mungo-Jumbo swinging into the Presto to chow down. He spots a dude
with a banana in his pocket who’s the head of the Geezer Grill Cartel. A task force is
formed, ending with a videotape of Blondie, the King of Vice and top suspect in the
Black Widow serial murders, as he cruises Five Points in his tight black jeans and
reporter’s notepad. What wouldn’t Raines have paid to see a videotape of Hammer sitting
in her important conference room watching this shit!
Christ! He fought a smile again, and was losing. His face was aching and his stomach
hurt.
“What’s wrong with you?” West gave him a look.
“There’s nothing fucking funny about this.”
“There certainly isn’t,” he said weakly as he dissolved into laugher, doubled over in his chair, howling as tears streamed down his face.
This went on as Jump Little Children set up amplifiers, and checked
Fender electric guitars. Pearl drums with Zildjian medium crash cymbals, and Yamaha keyboards. They gave each other sly looks, flipping long hair out of the way, earrings
glinting in the dim light. This guy was fried. Man, look at him go. Cool. The girlfriend
wasn’t digging it, either. Him taking a trip she’s not on.
Kind of weird he’s drinking chardonfucking-nay.
West was so angry she wanted to flip over the table, cowboy style. She wanted to jump
on top of Raines, flex-cuff his ankles and feet and just leave his sorry ass in the middle of
Jack Straw’s on a hot Thursday night. She halfway believed the only person Mungo was
undercover for was Goode. Maybe Goode had gotten to him, and promised him favors if
he would set up West, and destroy her credibility, her good relationship with Hammer.
Oh God. When they had been sitting at that polished table and the video had flickered
on, at first West was certain some mistake had been made. Brazil, big as life, was
walking along to the sound of traffic, making notes, for Chrissake! How many serial
killers or drug kingpins walk around in the middle of the day making notes?
As for Brazil’s physical description, Mungothe-Woolly- Mammoth had missed that by
about forty pounds and six inches, although West had to admit she’d never seen Brazil in
clothes that tight. She didn’t know what to make of it. Those black jeans were so tight
she could see the muscles in the back of his thighs flex as he walked, the red polo shirt
fitting like paint, muscles lean and well-defined, and he’ had veins. Maybe he was trying
to blend out there. That would make sense.
“Tell me what she did,” Raines choked, wiping his eyes.
West motioned to the waitress for another round.