"Hey, Tagger? You're done." Impressively, Cleo Rio has composed herself. I get a sense of what young Evan experienced that night in the condoher voice has turned glacial. She says, "You're fucking done. I'm not wasting another minute on you."
Lord, who can blame her.
A man comes on the line.
"We got your girlfriend," he says.
"She's not my girlfriend, but she'd better be alive."
"She is."
"Can this be Jerry?" I say. "Bodyguard to the stars?"
"Be at Jizz tonight. Main room. Ten sharp."
Exactly what I'd hoped for: They're offering to trade Janet for Jimmy Stoma's song.
"Ten sharp, dickhead. Bring the package."
Package? This is what comes from watching reruns of Hawaii Five-0.
"Oh," I say. "You must mean the master recording that belongs to the estate of the late James Bradley Stomarti?"
"Ten o'clock. Come alone." Jerry doesn't seem eager to get to know me over the phone.
"How's that empty eye socket, big fella?"
Boy, when I get rolling I just can't shut it down. It used to drive my mother nuts; Anne, too.
"Jerry, you listening? I want my laptop back, you worthless simian fuck."
"I shoulda"more heavy interference, like they're driving past an airport radar tower"when I had the chance."
"Put her on the phone," I tell him.
"No, dickhead. She don't wanna talk anymore."
"Not Cleo. Your guest."
"She ain't here," Jerry informs me.
"That's convenient."
"She's alive, okay? Just like I told you."
"I'd love to take your word for it, Jer, but that would require me having an IQ no higher than my shoe size. So I won't be making another move until I hear the lady's voice."
Out of the corner of my eye I spy the eavesdropping opossum man, loping nimbly away. From the end of the phone line comes a muffled rustlingJerry, covering the receiver while he and Jimmy's widow debate strategy. Then: "Okay. The girl, she'll call you at three-thirty. Gimme a number."
"It's 555-2169."
"Where the hell's that?"
"Brad and Jennifer's place. We play rummy every Thursday," I say. "It's my office phone, you ass-scratching baboon."
Jerry unleashes a string of bilious epithets. It's possible I've offended him. In the background, the former Cynthia Jane Zigler is yowling like a bobcat caught in a belt sander.
"They should make a movie about you two," I tell Jerry. "Whitney Houston could play Cleo. For you I'm thinking either Kevin Costner or Ru Paul."
"Blow me," he responds, then hangs up.
Instantly I feel drained and fuzzy-headed. Frightened, too, mostly for Janet. I rest on the bait bench, drying my sweaty palms on my trousers. Ninety-two-year-old Ike is chasing a larcenous pelican down the length of the pier. He's my new hero. Buying a fresh set of teeth at the dawn of one's tenth decadetalk about a positive outlook! He returns triumphant from the pursuit, brandishing a slimy handful of mushed pilchards. He alights next to me, saying, "Jack, that was the ballsiest half of an interview I ever heard."
"Sorry. I got caught up in the moment."
"Don't be sorry, it was priceless. All my years in the business, I could've never gotten away with something like that."
Putting an arm around his spindly shoulders, I hear myself say, "What makes you think I'll get away with it?"
26
A cardinal rule of the business is that reporters should never become part of the story. I'm hopelessly up to my nuts in this one. And while I'm dying to tell Emma about the telephone call from Cleo, I know she'd want me to call the cops.
But here's what would happen: Hill and Goldman or some equally unsmooth detectives would show up at Jizz to confront Jimmy's widow. Indignantly she would deny drowning her husband or snuffing Jay Burns or kidnapping her sister-in-law. She'd claim to have no interest in obtaining the master copy of Jimmy's recording sessions, and insist she didn't even know it was missing. And she'd say that meeting at the nightclub was my idea, and she had no idea what we were to discuss. The detectives would bluff, badger and ask a series of uninformed questions before calling it a night. Tomorrow Cleo would quietly start shopping for a songwriter to hammer out a new version of "Shipwrecked Heart," Janet Thrush would never be seen again and I'd have no story for the newspaper.
On the other hand, it won't be my story anyway if I meet with Cleo and things get ugly. Griffin, the crime reporter, would be writing about me, possibly followed by young Evan, which is no less than I deserve: an obituary penned by a college intern. At least the kid would get a front-page byline, which might be enough to change his mind about law school.
Dying is not in my plans, though it would certainly elevate my profile at the Union-Register.American journalists are rarely slain in pursuit of a story, so the paper would trumpet my heroic demise with moonwalk-type headlines. Abkazion, smelling a Pulitzer, would unleash a squad of all-stars to unravel the crime. Emma, stoically overcoming her grief, would volunteer to edit the project ...
I wouldn't be so worried if Cleo Rio were smart, because a smart criminal would never bother to kill a reporter. It's easier, and infinitely more effective, to discredit them. Killing one only brings out an infestation of others, banging on doors, asking impertinent questions. In fact, dying in the line of duty is one of the few ways for an obscure middle-aged obituary writer to make a splash, the last thing Cleo should want. Tonight I'll explain to her the downside of murdering me, in case she and Jerry haven't thought that far ahead.
In the meantime, I'll tell Emma that I spoke to Jimmy's widow but she admitted nothing, which is true. I'll also tell her that the blood samples we took from Janet's house matched up, and that I shared our information with a state prosecutor who found it "highly suspicious." I will nottell her of my plan to trade Jimmy's music for the release of his sister, as I haven't yet figured out how to pull that off. The less anyone at the paper knows about tonight's summit, the better for me.
No sign of Emma when I arrive at the newsroom, but young Evan is eagerly waiting. He crowds my desk, whispering, "Well? Did it work?"
"Like a charm. She called at noon sharp."
"How cool is that! I guess she found the CD."
"Unfortunately, she also figured out who it came from."
Evan blanches. "It wasn't me, Jack! Swear to God."
"My fault. The deli guys probably went back and got the phone number off the original order."
"So what'd Cleo have to say?"
"Nothing that a howler monkey on acid couldn't understand. Evan, let's not mention our infiltration scheme to anybody, okay?"
"Why? Did I do something wrong?"
"No, buddy, you were perfect. But Abkazion's got a thing about reporters 'misrepresenting' themselves."
Evan's face goes gray. "You mean like pretending to be a delivery man."
"You're new here. You didn't know any better."
"But you askedme to do it!" he splutters. "You trying to get me in trouble?"
"No, I'm trying to save a woman's life. Sometimes rules need to be twisted, Evan. This can't possibly come as a shock, given your choice of a future career."
"But Emma knew!"
"Don't blame Emmalately she's been under my ambrosial spell. Is she still at lunch, our fearless leader?"
"Haven't seen her all day. You sure I'm not in trouble?"
"For God's sake, you're an intern. Newspapers don't fireinterns," I assure him. "Worst that could happen, they'll move you to the Food and Fine Dining section. You'll spend the rest of the summer fact-checking matzo ball recipes." I pause while Evan shudders. "Just the same, I don't see why anyone except you, me and Emma needs to know about the deli caper."
Evan agrees wholeheartedly as he backpedals toward his desk. I wish I felt worse about using him, but at least the kid had some fun. A nubile MTV starlet rubbed an unfettered breast against his fleshhow many pre-law majors can make that claim?