"Save that crap for the media tour. I listened to the tracks myself. Your husband wrote that number a long time ago, probably for another girl."
Cleo takes a hard drag. Her hand is steady. Eyeing me, she says, "Tagger, you got a death wish?"
I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. "It's a good song," I say, "wherever it came from."
"A damn good song," Cleo says with a chuckle.
"And we'll make it even better," Loreal chimes in. "Time we're done, it won't sound anything like Jimmy's."
The widow and I ignore him. To her I say: "When I get Emma, you get the computer drive with all the music."
"Don't forget the discs you made."
"Them, too. Absolutely."
Jerry, sipping his soda, gives a scornful grunt. Turning to him, I can't resist saying: "You know what I belted you with, that night you busted into my apartment? A frozen lizard."
Reflexively Jerry touches a knuckle to his patch.
"That's right, tough guy. Your eye was put out by a one-hundred-and-seventy-seven-pound weakling armed only with a dead reptile. It's something to tell your grandchildren, when they ask how it happened."
Loreal says, "That's not funny, dude."
Jerry angrily states that I'm full of shit.
"Cleo, you should've been there," I say. "Your man saw all that blood on the floor and figured I was dead, so he ran away. But I wasn't dead."
"Unfortunately not," she says. "But you're gettin' closer by the minute, Tagger."
Her tone is not entirely unconvincing, but I laugh it off. "Is that supposed to be a threat? For God's sake, you're twenty-three years old!"
"Twenty-four," she says, "and my coffee's cold. So, how we gonna do the trade?"
I hear myself warning her to watch her step. "If you harm Emma or me, prepare for an eternal rain of shit. Lots of people know what I've been working on, and they'll come inquiring. And then they'll come back again and again."
Here I lay it on thick, dropping the names of detectives Hill and Goldman and of course Tarkington, the prosecutor. "By the way," I tell Cleo, "he was a big fan of your husband's."
She appears unmoved. "How can I, like, trust you to keep quiet?" she demands. "About the song, I mean."
"No, you mean about everything."Here comes the hairy part. "Look, I know you killed Jimmy, but I'll never prove it because the autopsy was a joke and the body's been cremated. Jay Burns was cool with the program because you promised he could play on 'Shipwrecked,' and who doesn't want to be on a hit record? But then I showed up at the boat, Jay went jiggy and you guys decided he wasn't all that terrific a piano player. The cops are ready to believe he got drunk and dozed off under that mullet truck. I seriously doubt it but, again, where's the proof?"
I shrug. Cleo yawns like a lioness and bites into an ice cube. Loreal starts to say something but wisely changes his mind. Jerry, meanwhile, folds his cable-sized arms across his chest. I think he picked this up from a Mr. Clean commercial.
"Now, let's talk about Tito Negraponte," I say. "Poor Tito wasn't lying when he told you he didn't know anything about 'Shipwrecked Heart.' He had nothing to do with the Exuma sessions. Jimmy didn't use him."
Cleo levels a moist glare at Loreal, who looks as if he wants to crawl under the ashtray.
"That's correct, darling," I inform the widow. "You tried to murder the wrong bass player. I'm guessing the Mexican gentlemen who took the job were recruited by Jerry here. Old prison chums, am I right, Jer? You look as if you spent some time in the yards."
The bodyguard's lips curl into a pale smile. I wink obnoxiously and plow ahead:
"I'm also guessing that the two fellows who visited Tito are no longer with us, meaning the shooting can't be traced to anyone at this table. Which leaves me with what? A song."
"Thesong," says Cleo, whose sphynx-like composure is unnerving.
"Yes, the song you claim was a conjugal effort. I know the truth, but the only people who can back me up won't do it. Danny Gitt, the singers, the other studio players—they figure you'll sue 'em if they say anything, and who needs the hassle. Long as they got paid for the sessions, they'll stay quiet."
We are interrupted by an autograph seeker, a gothed-out Ecstasy twerp with a silver safety pin in each nostril.
"You rule, girl," she says to Cleo, who brusquely signs the cocktail napkin as "Cindy Zigler," her given name. Puzzled but grateful, the young fan departs.
"Getting back to the song," I say to Cleo, "maybe you just want to swipe the lyrics, or maybe you want Loreal to loop some of Jimmy's vocals, too—sort of a duet with the dead. That'll get some crossover air play. And I can't wait to see the pop-up video."
"Why the fuck should youcare?"
"I was a fan, that's why. But as long as I get Emma back, I don't give damn what you do with Jimmy's song. It'll never be as good as the one he did, but that's show business."
Cleo says, "You're forgettin' one thing. His sister."
"What about her?"
"She don't like me."
"So what? She doesn't know about all this." The secret of big-league bullshitting is to keep it coming.
Loreal says, "I bet she knows about the Exuma sessions."
"No doubt." Cleo scowls and crunches another ice cube.
"She doesn't know anything about this song," I say firmly. "Jimmy never told Janet—I asked her myself." Another hefty lie. I've got no idea if he ever played "Shipwrecked Heart" for his sister. The crucial thing is to convince Cleo that Janet poses no threat.
"She seems perfectly thrilled," I add, "to be getting a hundred grand from the estate."
Cleo laughs acidly. "Her and the goddamn Sea Urchins." She turns to Jerry. "Whaddya think? You said he wanted money."
Jerry says, "He will. Don't worry."
Guys like this, they make it too easy. "That's right, Jerry. The first time I saw you in that snazzy bomber jacket and those Beatle boots, I told myself: I'm gonna squeeze a couple million bucks out of that chrome-domed, noodle-dicked troglodyte."
Now, getting in Cleo's face, I really crank up the charm. "And no offense, Mrs. Stomarti, but if you were sitting here having drinks with Clive Davis, I might be impressed enough to hit you up for a few bucks. Unfortunately, you're here with a dork who's named himself after a fucking hair product, and couldn't get into the Grammys with an AK-47."
A plum blush rises in young Loreal's cheeks, and he huffily challenges me to fisticuffs in the nearest alley. The rest of us stare at him pitilessly.
"Someday you might be a star," I say to Cleo, "but so far you've had exactly one hit single for a rinky-dink label. Whatever money you made is already spent on dope and wardrobe. Beyond the fact you're not worth blackmailing, it's significant to note that I've got nothing to blackmail you with.I can't write a story alleging you stole your husband's song without somebody else saying so. The paper wouldn't print it—please tell me you're not too fried to understand."
The widow paws absently at her bangs. She seems cordially immune to insult. "Suppose you burn another copy of Jimmy's solo version—that'd queer things up for me, it ever got out on the Net. What's to stop you from shakin' me down six months from now? Or a year?"
"Nothing," I say, "except an intense distaste for cliches."
Cleo puffs her cheeks and snorts. "Bottom line, all you want is the chick?"
"Correct."
"What's her name again?"
"Emma. And I want my portable computer, too." I grab one of Jerry's earlobe hoops and pull his grimacing mug close to mine. "The laptop doesn't belong to me, Jer. It belongs to the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group, a publicly held company that is fiercely accountable to its shareholders."