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?”
“Of course not.” I held the door open, and she stepped into the place we’d designed together. I watched her wander around the living room, as if reacquainting herself with the space. When she perched on the edge of a sofa, I took a facing seat.
“You know about Baby Boy,” she said.
“ Petra called me looking for you.”
“I was just over at the Hollywood police station, talking to her.” She stared at the ceiling. “I’ve never been close to someone who was murdered… all the years you and I were together, I stayed on the periphery.”
“You didn’t miss anything.”
She played with an earring. “It’s disgusting- the feeling of gone-ness. It brings back my father’s death. It’s not the same, of course. I was fond of Baby, but he wasn’t family. Still, for some reason…”
“Baby was a good guy.”
“Great guy,” she said. “Who’d want to hurt him?”
She got up and walked around some more. Straightened a picture. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you.”
I said, “Does Petra have any leads?”
She shook her head.
“Any lifestyle issues? Had Baby gotten back into drugs?”
“Not as far as I know,” she said. “The last few times when he came by he looked clean, didn’t he?”
“Far as I could tell.” Not that I’d paid much attention to Baby Boy’s demeanor. The last time he’d dropped off some gear, music had drifted into the house from Robin’s studio, and I’d gone over to listen. Baby Boy had left the studio door open and I stood there, watching, listening, as he cradled his old Gibson acoustic like a baby, hammered some notes in a drop-D tuning, sang something low and pained and tender.
“But what do I know?” said Robin. “Maybe he had gotten back into the bad old days. What do any of us know about anyone?” She rubbed her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come. It was inconsiderate.”
“We’re still friends.”
“Right,” she said. “That was the deal, walk away friends. Is that sitting right with you?”
“How’re you doing with it?”
“Okay.” She stood. “I’ll get going, Alex.”
“Things to do, places to see?” I said. Why had she had come? Shoulder to cry on? Was Tim’s shoulder defective? I realized I was angry but also weirdly gratified- she’d chosen me.
“Nothing pressing,” she said. “I don’t belong here.”
“I like you here.” Why had I said that?
She walked over to me, tousled my hair, kissed the top of my head. “Once upon a time we’d be dealing with this you-know-how.”
“How?”
She smiled. “Once upon a time, we’d be doing the two-backed beast. That’s how we always ended up dealing with stress.”
“I can think of worse ways to cope.”
“Definitely,” she said.
She lowered herself onto my lap and we kissed for a long time. I touched a breast. She emitted a low, sad sound, reached for me. Stopped herself.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, as she ran for the door.
I got to my feet but remained in place. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
“Lots to be sorry for,” she said.
New adultery.
“How’s Spike?” When in doubt, ask about the dog.
“Fine. You’re welcome to come see him.”
“Thanks.”
The doorbell rang, and her head whipped around.
“I called out for food. That Hunan place in the Village.”
She patted her hair in place. “Good place.”
“Spicy but not hostile.”
She gave a terrible smile and twisted the doorknob. An Hispanic kid who looked around twelve held out a greasy bag, and I jogged to the door, took the food, reached into my pocket for money, grabbed too many bills, thrust them at him.
“Thanks, man,” he said, and hurried down the stairs.
I said, “Hungry?”
“Anything but,” said Robin. As she turned to leave, I thought of a million things to say.
What came out was: “ Petra ’s as good as they come. She’ll keep working at it.”
“I know she will. Thanks for listening. Bye, Alex.”
“Anytime,” I said.
But that wasn’t true, anymore.
7
For two weeks of double shifts, most of which she neglected to file as overtime, Petra drove herself crazy, trying to track down as many members of Baby Boy’s final audience as she could, coming up only with the few names on the freebie list- most of whom hadn’t bothered to show up- and the stragglers she’d already talked to. She had a go with the Snake Pit’s absentee owner- a dentist from Long Beach – reinterviewed the custodians, the bouncers, the cocktail waitresses, Lee’s band- all pickup musicians- and the diminutive, poorly shod Jackie True. All useless.
She even tried to contact the members of Tic 439, the band that had sparked visions of comeback in Baby Boy’s head. Here, she encountered another side of the music biz: layers of insulation, from the receptionists of record-company executives on up to the band’s manager, an unctuous-sounding stoner named Beelzebub Lawrence, who finally deigned, after Petra called him a dozen times, to speak to her over the phone. Music pounded in the background, and Lawrence spoke softly. The two-minute conversation strained Petra ’s hearing and her patience.
Yeah, Baby Boy had been brilliant.
No, he had no idea who’d want to hurt him.
Yeah, the guys had dug jamming with him.
No, they hadn’t had contact with him since the recording session.
Petra said, “He really added something to their sound, didn’t he?” She’d bought the CD, found it an execrable mix of whiny lyrics and plodding rhythm. Only Baby Boy’s guitar, sweet and sustaining, on two tracks, lent any sense of musicality to the mess.
Beelzebub Lawrence said, “Yeah, he was cool.”
The coroner was finished with Baby Boy’s corpse, but no one had come forward to claim it. Even though it wasn’t her job, Petra did some genealogical research that led her to Edgar Ray Lee’s closest living relative. A great-aunt named Grenadina Bourgeouis, ancient-sounding and feeble.
Senile, too, it soon became clear. The phone chat rattled the old woman and left Petra ’s head spinning. She called Jackie True and apprised him of the situation.
He said, “Baby wanted to be cremated.”
“He talked about dying?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” said True. “I’ll handle it.”