Milo stared at his food, then at mine. He reached over, appropriated the largest fry in my basket, and began uncurling it meticulously between his massive fingers.
"He dresses almost as snappy as you," I said.
Milo's features move slowly if they move at all. You pretty much have to rely on his eyes. Now they were dark and concentrated. Angry.
"Johnny used to manage Mel Tillis," he told me. "They did a show once on an aircraft carrier, the whole road crew got those flight jackets. It kind of went to Johnny's head."
"What was he talking about just now?"
Milo ate the smallest bite of fry. "More trouble with Miranda's Century Records deal.
Sunday night somebody took some potshots at Crea as he was coming out of the studio, around midnight. He heard a pop, pop, took him a few seconds to realize it was a gun. Police came, found a slug in the doorway, said they'd get right on it."
"A sniper. Like with Julie Kearnes. Thanks for telling me."
"I was meaning to, man."
"Sure. Right after you got through laying flowers on Julie's grave."
Milo gave me a bland look. "Kearnes made my life hell. She stole from us. What do you expect me to do— cry?"
"No. I wouldn't expect that from you. But Julie Kearnes didn't steal your damn demo tape, Milo."
I told him about my last few days of surveillance, up to and including my falling out with Erainya, and my feelings that maybe I'd be looking for some other kind of work in the nottoodistant future.
Milo finished dissecting and eating the curly fry. He produced an individual Wetwipes packet from his pocket, ripped it open, and began wiping the grease off his fingers carefully, cleaning under his nails. I caught the scent of lemon.
"I'm sorry, Navarre. Is that what you want to hear? You want to cut loose from this and leave it to the police, nothing's stopping you. Les and I will figure out something."
"Bullshit."
Milo's black eyes drifted back toward me. "What was that?"
"You and SaintPierre aren't figuring out a damn thing, Milo, and your problem is bigger than a missing demo tape. People are getting shot at here; one of them is dead.
What the fuck is going on?"
He gave me the look of a bull that was just a little too sleepy to charge. "You know who Les SaintPierre is, Tres? Every artist that's come out of Texas since 1980, Les has either booked their dates or managed them or both. Miranda Daniels isn't the first artist he's gotten flack for stealing from her local sponsors, for taking her to the big league.
He's handled worse."
"Why am I not convinced?"
Milo put his hand flat on the picnic table. He drummed his fingers slowly, one at a time, like he was making sure they all still worked. "I like this job, Navarre. It's not just legal commissions, you know? I'm starting to sell my own dates at fifteen percent. Miranda Daniels gets the Century Records deal, people are going to start knowing my name."
"I'm still not hearing any answers."
"Are you willing to keep working for me?"
"I've worked for a lot of lawyers, Milo. You know what I hate about it? They always have to test you. They give you one small corner of a case and wait to see how you'll handle it. Sometimes that caution works out okay. More often it leaves you operating with a dangerously incomplete picture and somebody winds up hurt. Seeing as we've known each other for fifteen years, seeing as we've been down this road before, I figured we'd be skipping the test stage. I guess I was wrong."
Milo tapped his fingers. "All right."
"All right, what?"
"I made some calls about you over the last week, after you agreed to look at Julie Kearnes."
"Calls," I repeated. "What kind of calls?"
"Roger Schumman, for one. He said you did nice work—said you threw a loan shark through his office window extremely well. Manny Forester had good things to say, too.
Seems you know how to get discreet results with skip traces. He said if all his thugs had Ph.D.s maybe they'd be as reliable as you."
"You called for references. On me."
Milo shrugged. "It's been a long time since San Francisco, Navarre. I figured you'd turn out to be good at this kind of work. I was glad to find out I was right."
"No more tests, Milo. What's going on?"
Milo started to say something, then stopped. He tapped his fingers. "Les isn't in Nashville. He's been missing for over two weeks."
I took a plastic knife, reached over, and cut off half of the uneaten cheeseburger in Milo's basket. "And you haven't told the police, even after what happened to Julie Kearnes?"
"It's not that simple. Les—" Milo searched for the right phrase, something legally neutral. Finally he gave up. "Les screws up a lot. He's eccentric. He drinks, he has some other bad habits. Sometimes he'll go off on a binge for a few days and we'll have to cover by saying he's out of town, like we're doing now. I can't be sure—"
"Has he ever been gone this long before?"
Milo shook his head. "But still—" His voice trailed off in disappointment, not buying what he was about to say.
"You think his disappearance might be connected to the missing demo tape," I said.
"And the gunshots at John Crea. Now Julie Kearnes' murder. You think it might all be part of a package—somebody pissed off because of this deal you're working on."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"The wife hasn't reported Les missing?"
The look of distaste on Milo's face told me Mrs. Saint Pierre was not his favourite subject. "Let me tell you about Les SaintPierre and his wife and the police. About six months ago, the last time Les took off, Allison went to Missing Persons. You know what they told her? "
I ate some cheeseburger. I waited.
"They told her Les was already missing. For seven years. Seems a former girlfriend had the same problem with him disappearing, reported Les and forgot to let the police know when he'd come home. The Bureau never bothered to follow up, take him off the rolls. Can you believe that?"
"It's been known to happen. MPB is flooded with domestics that are resolved ninety percent of the time before they're even assigned."
"Yeah, well. This time Allison isn't in any hurry. Les joked from time to time about running away to Mexico.
Allison figures maybe he finally did it and she's not crying any tears."
"We're not talking just Missing Persons this time, Milo. Homicide is going to want to talk to Les. You've got to tell them."
Milo pulled on the back of his neck. "It's more complicated than that, Navarre. It's one thing for our clients to think Les is eccentric—that he slips out of pocket for a few days now and then. That his wife reports him gone after a fight or whatever. People can give him some slack there because he's Les SaintPierre. But the minute somebody hears a rumour he's honesttoGod missing—that I'm looking for him, that it's just Milo holding down the fort—"
He raised his hands off the table. "I need to find Les. Quickly and quietly. And I don't have time to shop around for help."
"You know how to flatter a guy."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money roll only Milo could've carried without his pants bulging obscenely—fiftydollar bills wrapped as thick as a Coke can.
"Your boss doesn't like the case, we can cut out the middle man."
"No," I said. "I don't have my own license. At this point it looks like I might never."
"That's just as well."
"I told you, I'm thinking about getting out of this line of work."
Milo put the cylinder of money sideways on the table and rolled it in my direction.
"You're going to look into Kearnes' murder anyway, Navarre. You couldn't put down something that happened on your watch—I know you better than that. Why not let me pay you?"