should catch him at the club later on."
"He didn't say what he wanted."
"No."
"He ever call you like that before?"
"No again."
Jimmie wet the tip of his tongue with Scotch. He put the glass down before him on the table and sat looking at it.
'We want the woman," he said.
"Why?"
"Not something you ask."
Okay. I had another taste. "What about the shooter?"
Marconi shrugged. "He turns up, we want to talk to him. Where you from?"
I told him.
"You got snapping turtles up there, right? Big fuckers that look like rocks, move just about as fast. And once they bite down—it
don't matter what on, a stick, your hand—they don't let go till it thunders. I figure you're like those turtles, get your
beak onto something, you don't let go. No way you're gonna hold off looking for this woman."
The maitre d' brought new glasses of single malt. Crystal. Stricdy Sunday best: I don't think regular folks in regular clothes
and regular lives got them. We sat quiedy.
"Maybe this time I help you," Jimmie said after a while.
"Sounds to me like any help rendered here, it would be mutual."
"So we help one another, then."
He slid a four-by-six photo across the table. Dana Es-may looked out at me.
"You understand how it is. Our people walk in down there, everything stops. They start asking questions, suddenly everybody's
deaf and halfway out the door. You, it's different. You know the scene, people know you. Fifty a day plus expenses sound about
right?"
"Couple of conditions. I report only to you—"
"No problem."
"—and I say it's over, whatever the reason, it's over. No questions asked."
"Don't see why not."
I polished off my Scotch. When I was a kid, Mom made pitchers of Kool-Aid, poured it into bright-colored spun-aluminum glasses,
green, gold, silver, blue. Other kids gulped theirs down in an instant. My own sat for half an hour as I sipped and savored.
They never understood how I could do that.
"Anything you need, information, money, names, you only have to call. My private number's on the back of the photo."
"Thanks. Better get to work, huh?"
I was almost to the door when he spoke.
"Appreciate what you did for my daughter, Griffin."
The etiquette of these things dictated that I not mention it until he did; now I was free to ask.
"She okay, then? Still at home?"
"Nah. Was for a while. Says much as she loves me she can't be around me. Too much baggage's the way she puts it. Too much
stuff cluttering up the shelves. Last I heard from her she's living with this older guy up in Jackson. Both of them got custom
Harleys, his jet-black, hers pink, make their living, such as it is, hauling all this shit in a trailer—old army equipment,
dolls, iron cookware—between flea markets. Talk about too much crap cluttering up the shelves. So how long's that gonna last? I don't see her much, or hear from her. Not direcdy. But at least I know she's alive. Thanks for coming in, Griffin."
I had to wonder when was the last time Jimmie Marconi thanked someone.
T WO GUYS HAD her back in die kitchen. They'd bent her forward over the table and kicked her legs apart and one of them, a
congenital lowlife named Duke Heslep, was holding her there, hands pushed down on her shoulders, while the other one bucked
in and out and whenever she made a sound pulled at the hair he'd wrapped in one fist.
Heslep's who I was looking for. Week before, when his trial date on an assault charge rolled up, he'd failed to show. Holding
Heslep's bond, Frankie DeNoux wound up forfeiting, not the sort of story's end Frankie much cared for. So he commissioned
a sequel, suggesting that I locate Mr. Heslep and remind him of his duty as a citizen.
Half a day of asking questions and making myself a general pain in the ass led me to an abandoned apartment house in the weblike
tangle of streets just uptown of Lee Circle and riverside of St. Charles. The door stood open—off its hinges, in feet, and
leaning against the wall. Inside there
"He didn't say what he wanted."
"No."
"He ever call you like that before?"
"No again."
Jimmie wet the tip of his tongue with Scotch. He put the glass down before him on the table and sat looking at it.
'We want the woman," he said.
"Why?"
"Not something you ask."
Okay. I had another taste. "What about the shooter?"
Marconi shrugged. "He turns up, we want to talk to him. Where you from?"
I told him.
"You got snapping turtles up there, right? Big fuckers that look like rocks, move just about as fast. And once they bite down—it
don't matter what on, a stick, your hand—they don't let go till it thunders. I figure you're like those turtles, get your
beak onto something, you don't let go. No way you're gonna hold off looking for this woman."
The maitre d' brought new glasses of single malt. Crystal. Stricdy Sunday best: I don't think regular folks in regular clothes
and regular lives got them. We sat quiedy.
"Maybe this time I help you," Jimmie said after a while.
"Sounds to me like any help rendered here, it would be mutual."
"So we help one another, then."
He slid a four-by-six photo across the table. Dana Es-may looked out at me.
"You understand how it is. Our people walk in down there, everything stops. They start asking questions, suddenly everybody's
deaf and halfway out the door. You, it's different. You know the scene, people know you. Fifty a day plus expenses sound about
right?"
"Couple of conditions. I report only to you—"
"No problem."
"—and I say it's over, whatever the reason, it's over. No questions asked."
"Don't see why not."
I polished off my Scotch. When I was a kid, Mom made pitchers of Kool-Aid, poured it into bright-colored spun-aluminum glasses,
green, gold, silver, blue. Other kids gulped theirs down in an instant. My own sat for half an hour as I sipped and savored.
They never understood how I could do that.
"Anything you need, information, money, names, you only have to call. My private number's on the back of the photo."
"Thanks. Better get to work, huh?"
I was almost to the door when he spoke.
"Appreciate what you did for my daughter, Griffin."
The etiquette of these things dictated that I not mention it until he did; now I was free to ask.
"She okay, then? Still at home?"
"Nah. Was for a while. Says much as she loves me she can't be around me. Too much baggage's the way she puts it. Too much
stuff cluttering up the shelves. Last I heard from her she's living with this older guy up in Jackson. Both of them got custom
Harleys, his jet-black, hers pink, make their living, such as it is, hauling all this shit in a trailer—old army equipment,
dolls, iron cookware—between flea markets. Talk about too much crap cluttering up the shelves. So how long's that gonna last? I don't see her much, or hear from her. Not direcdy. But at least I know she's alive. Thanks for coming in, Griffin."
I had to wonder when was the last time Jimmie Marconi thanked someone.
T WO GUYS HAD her back in die kitchen. They'd bent her forward over the table and kicked her legs apart and one of them, a
congenital lowlife named Duke Heslep, was holding her there, hands pushed down on her shoulders, while the other one bucked
in and out and whenever she made a sound pulled at the hair he'd wrapped in one fist.
Heslep's who I was looking for. Week before, when his trial date on an assault charge rolled up, he'd failed to show. Holding
Heslep's bond, Frankie DeNoux wound up forfeiting, not the sort of story's end Frankie much cared for. So he commissioned
a sequel, suggesting that I locate Mr. Heslep and remind him of his duty as a citizen.
Half a day of asking questions and making myself a general pain in the ass led me to an abandoned apartment house in the weblike
tangle of streets just uptown of Lee Circle and riverside of St. Charles. The door stood open—off its hinges, in feet, and
leaning against the wall. Inside there
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