Magazines and books and CDs were spread across its surface. I spied Rita's name on the cover of a comic book titled
Funny Girls
. "This yours?" I asked, picking it up.
"Yep," Rita said. "My little baby. I've been selling it on my website. Moved nearly two thousand copies at twelve ninety-five per, not including tax or postage. The girls on the cover, the three girls, have crazy adventures all over the world. They're bisexual, which adds to the fun. Both Eclipse Comics and HBO are very interested."
"Who wouldn't be?" I said. "You have a shot at twice the audience."
"I'm very proud of my work." She sat beside me and took the book from me. "Let me show you a few things." She sobered suddenly and gave me a hopeful look. "Assuming you really are interested."
"Beautiful and bisexual? Sounds like a party."
Though I'm no better judge of comic art than fine art, it seemed to me that Rita's work was professional and commercial. Her funny girls were drawn in an enhanced realistic style. Very beautiful, very shapely. Very, very bisexual. We were in the middle of an adventure in Rome, with Rita providing me with a detailed verbal annotation, when Melody Moon returned.
She was wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and bright red tennis shoes. She stared at us blankly over the huge brown grocery bag she was carrying. She seemed neither surprised to find me in her living room nor curious about why I might be there.
"Look who's here to see you, Melody," Rita said, nervously breaking the silence.
"Let me get that," I said, relieving Melody of the heavy bag.
"Thank you," she said flatly, without affect. "I'll show you where it goes."
Walking stiffly, she led me to a tiny kitchenette just off the living room. It featured a two-burner, a microwave, a small fridge, a sink, and, squeezed beneath it, a mini-dishwasher. After I'd placed the bag on a narrow counter, I noticed the wallpaper--white with little dark illustrations that upon closer examination turned out to be early black-and-white cartoon characters. Bimbo. Koko. Felix the Cat. Betty Boop.
"Comic art is Rita's life," Melody said as she put the perishables away.
"Caught that," I said.
"I appreciate your coming here, chef," she said, shuffling objects in the small freezer to make room for a quart of butter-pecan ice cream, "but I'm doing fine. I'll be okay."
I felt like a louse. She and her roommate were assuming I'd come to lift her spirits, when, in fact, I was there looking for someone to take my place as murder suspect number one. It hadn't even occurred to me that she might be in mourning.
"I'm a little surprised you knew about Rudy and me," she said, folding the now-empty brown bag and placing it with other folded bags in a narrow cabinet. "He told me he was keeping it a secret from the people he worked with. But I guess there are some things you don't hide from friends."
Friends? How low could I feel?
When we returned to the living room, Rita was slipping into what looked like a shiny Day-Glo yellow plastic pea jacket. "Mello," she addressed her roommate, "since the chef's here to keep you company, would it be okay if I ducked out for an hour or so? There's a Love and Rockets retro at a gallery in the Village. Los Bros are supposed to be there."
I hadn't a clue as to what Rita was talking about, but Melody just said, "Go. I'm good."
Rita hugged her. "It'll get better," I heard her whisper.
Then she hugged me. "You're a lovely man to have come here," she said.
If I was so lovely, why was I feeling like a first-class creep?
As soon as Rita closed the door behind her, whatever had beenkeeping Melody going suddenly gave up the ghost. Her rigidity dissolved and her legs buckled.
I caught her before she fell onto the footlocker coffee table and helped her to the couch. "You're worn out," I said, sitting beside her. "You need sleep."
"I don't think I can. My head is full of jumbles."
"Why don't I fix you some warm milk?"
"No. Really. I'm okay. I just keep asking myself
Funny Girls
. "This yours?" I asked, picking it up.
"Yep," Rita said. "My little baby. I've been selling it on my website. Moved nearly two thousand copies at twelve ninety-five per, not including tax or postage. The girls on the cover, the three girls, have crazy adventures all over the world. They're bisexual, which adds to the fun. Both Eclipse Comics and HBO are very interested."
"Who wouldn't be?" I said. "You have a shot at twice the audience."
"I'm very proud of my work." She sat beside me and took the book from me. "Let me show you a few things." She sobered suddenly and gave me a hopeful look. "Assuming you really are interested."
"Beautiful and bisexual? Sounds like a party."
Though I'm no better judge of comic art than fine art, it seemed to me that Rita's work was professional and commercial. Her funny girls were drawn in an enhanced realistic style. Very beautiful, very shapely. Very, very bisexual. We were in the middle of an adventure in Rome, with Rita providing me with a detailed verbal annotation, when Melody Moon returned.
She was wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and bright red tennis shoes. She stared at us blankly over the huge brown grocery bag she was carrying. She seemed neither surprised to find me in her living room nor curious about why I might be there.
"Look who's here to see you, Melody," Rita said, nervously breaking the silence.
"Let me get that," I said, relieving Melody of the heavy bag.
"Thank you," she said flatly, without affect. "I'll show you where it goes."
Walking stiffly, she led me to a tiny kitchenette just off the living room. It featured a two-burner, a microwave, a small fridge, a sink, and, squeezed beneath it, a mini-dishwasher. After I'd placed the bag on a narrow counter, I noticed the wallpaper--white with little dark illustrations that upon closer examination turned out to be early black-and-white cartoon characters. Bimbo. Koko. Felix the Cat. Betty Boop.
"Comic art is Rita's life," Melody said as she put the perishables away.
"Caught that," I said.
"I appreciate your coming here, chef," she said, shuffling objects in the small freezer to make room for a quart of butter-pecan ice cream, "but I'm doing fine. I'll be okay."
I felt like a louse. She and her roommate were assuming I'd come to lift her spirits, when, in fact, I was there looking for someone to take my place as murder suspect number one. It hadn't even occurred to me that she might be in mourning.
"I'm a little surprised you knew about Rudy and me," she said, folding the now-empty brown bag and placing it with other folded bags in a narrow cabinet. "He told me he was keeping it a secret from the people he worked with. But I guess there are some things you don't hide from friends."
Friends? How low could I feel?
When we returned to the living room, Rita was slipping into what looked like a shiny Day-Glo yellow plastic pea jacket. "Mello," she addressed her roommate, "since the chef's here to keep you company, would it be okay if I ducked out for an hour or so? There's a Love and Rockets retro at a gallery in the Village. Los Bros are supposed to be there."
I hadn't a clue as to what Rita was talking about, but Melody just said, "Go. I'm good."
Rita hugged her. "It'll get better," I heard her whisper.
Then she hugged me. "You're a lovely man to have come here," she said.
If I was so lovely, why was I feeling like a first-class creep?
As soon as Rita closed the door behind her, whatever had beenkeeping Melody going suddenly gave up the ghost. Her rigidity dissolved and her legs buckled.
I caught her before she fell onto the footlocker coffee table and helped her to the couch. "You're worn out," I said, sitting beside her. "You need sleep."
"I don't think I can. My head is full of jumbles."
"Why don't I fix you some warm milk?"
"No. Really. I'm okay. I just keep asking myself
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