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  “I didn’t stop him because—OK, I figured there was an outside chance to get my daughter back. I know it sounds a little crazy.”

  “Not to me,” said García. “I read the divorce.”

  “Wonderful,” Erin said. The file was a trove of slander. Darrell Grant had invented lurid lies about her sexual appetite, and bribed two of his pals to corroborate the fiction. Then there were the cutting words of the judge himself, pontificating on Erin’s unfitness for motherhood. She looked hard at García. “I wouldn’t hurt my daughter for the world.”

  “I know you wouldn’t.”

  Erin went for the salad with a vengeance. It tasted like wet napkins.

  “What I meant,” García said, “is it doesn’t sound so crazy, your going along with Mr. Killian’s scheme. Your ex-husband is a shitbird, if I can be blunt. He’s got no business raising the girl. It’s Angela, right?”

  “What he told the judge, the stuff in the files—”

  “Forget about it,” García said.

  “It’s lies.”

  “I said don’t worry. How about some Key lime pie?”

  Erin had a piece. Al García ate two. Then he unwrapped a fresh cigar, holding it safely out of Erin’s reach. “Please,” he said, “I beg of you.” She found herself smiling. As García clipped off the butt, Erin picked up his lighter and flicked it open. She reached across the table and lit the cigar.

  “They shipped the body back from Montana,” García said, puffing out the words. “Back to Atlanta, I should say. Killian’s ex-wife wants to bury him up there.”

  “What about the murder investigation?”

  “They don’t like that word out in Mineral County. Murder, I mean. Unclassified was the best they could do. The coroner says he’ll reopen the case if I turn up something new. Something besides a few drops of tap water in the lungs.”

  “You’ll keep at it?”

  “In my spare time, sure.” García leaned back in a pose of total relaxation. He asked Erin if anything unusual had happened at the Eager Beaver lately. “Think hard,” he said.

  “Things stay quiet. We’ve got a pretty large floor manager.”

  “No incidents? No bad fights?”

  Erin mentioned the lunatic drunk with the champagne bottle. “He sent a young man to the hospital,” she said. “Im sure there’s a record.”

  “So where was your bigshot ‘floor manager’?”

  “He couldn’t do much. They had a gun on him.”

  “Don’t stop now,” García said.

  “It wasn’t the guy swinging the bottle. It was his bodyguard who had the gun.”

  “You get lots of bodyguards in the Eager Beaver?”

  “No shots were fired,” Erin said. “The whole thing was over in five minutes.”

  “And you didn’t recognize this particular drunk.”

  “I had another one attached to my thigh. The guy with the Korbel came out of nowhere.”

  García leaned forward. “Did you see his face? Would you know him if you saw him again?”

  “Maybe.” Erin paused. “Shad got a better look than I did.”

  “The bouncer?”

  “Don’t ever call him that. ‘Floor Manager’ is the title.”

  García said, “I need to chat with him.”

  Erin was skeptical. “He’s the strong, silent type.” She chose not to burden García with Shad’s opinion of cops.

  “I’ll come by the club some night,” the detective said. “You make the introductions and we’ll play it by ear. All he can do is say no.”

  Wrong, thought Erin. That’s not all he can do.

  García asked if Jerry Killian had been in the audience on the night of the champagne-bottle attack. Erin didn’t remember; she said she’d check with the other dancers.

  “This is probably a dumb question,” Al García said, “but it’ll save me some time: Was anybody arrested?”

  Erin giggled. She couldn’t help it.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” said the detective. He signaled for the check.

  Erin said that there was something else he should know. “Today I called the congressman’s office. I told them I was a close friend of Jerry Killian.”

  “Cute,” García said. “I’m guessing he didn’t take the call.”

  “Right.”

  “And I’m praying you didn’t leave your name.”

  “Right,” Erin said. “Want me to try again?”

  “Please don’t.” García slid out of the booth and went to pay the bill. Erin waited by the front door, then followed him out. A light summery rain was falling. The palm trees along the boulevard looked droopy and anemic.

  García stood beneath the Denny’s awning and jotted on a piece of paper. He gave it to Erin and said, “My home number. Guard it with your life.”

  Erin put the number in her purse. “Does your wife know what you’re working on?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You call anytime.” He shielded his cigar from the rain and walked Erin to her car. “Donna’ll understand. Trust me.”

  Erin said, “I’ll bet she had a Darrell, too.”

  “A world-class Darrell. Makes yours look like an altar boy.”

  “What happened?”

  “First, I put his ass in jail,” García said, “then I married his wife.”

  “Now that’s style,” said Erin.

  “Yup. That’s what Donna says, too.”

  13

  On the morning of September twenty-fifth, a breezy autumn day, Jerry Killian was laid to rest at Decatur Memorial Gardens, a few miles outside Atlanta. Burial followed a small ceremony attended by Killian’s ex-wife, his daughters and nine friends from the television station in Florida. All who came to the funeral were secretly photographed by a man concealed forty-five yards away in a vale of young Georgia pines. The man wore the drab overalls of a gravedigger, but he worked for Malcolm J. Moldowsky. He used a Leica 35-millimeter camera with a long lens and a motordrive, and bracketed the exposures just to be safe. By midafternoon, six strips of black-and-white negatives were sitting on Moldowsky’s desk in Miami. Every person in every frame had been identified; none seemingly could have connected the late Mr. Killian to Congressman David Lane Dilbeck.

  Moldy was convinced that the woman who’d phoned Dilbeck’s office was not present at the funeral. Who was she—a mistress? A secret partner in the blackmail scheme? Finding her wouldn’t be easy. Had Killian worked any place but a TV station, Moldowsky could’ve sent a discreet private investigator to chat up his pals and colleagues. In this case it was too risky. Press people tended to be cranky and suspicious, and a visit from a PI would only stir things up. The safest strategy was to wait. Maybe the mystery woman would call again, maybe she wouldn’t.

  Either way, Malcolm J. Moldowsky couldn’t relax. It was like having a cobra loose in the house. Eventually you’re bound to step on it. The only question was: when?

  Darrell Grant was loading wheelchairs when Merkin and Picatta arrived, unannounced. The Broward robbery detectives got out of the unmarked car and walked slowly around the U-Haul three times. Finally one of them asked Darrell Grant what the fuck he was doing.

  “Business,” he said.

  “You steal these?” Merkin asked.

  “Of course not.” Darrell Grant was twitchy and freckled with sweat.

  Picatta said, “What’s the substance of the day, tiger?”

  “Folger’s,” Darrell Grant said, rolling an Everest-and-Jennings up the ramp. “You wanna move please so I can finish here? Please?” He was worrying about something Erin had said—about what might happen to Angie if he got popped again.

  Picatta and Merkin were exchanging cop-style glances, which increased Darrell Grant’s nervousness. He ran a long bungie cord through the spokes of the stolen wheelchairs, and hooked it to a ring on the wall of the U-Haul; that way, they wouldn’t roll all over creation every time he took a corner.

  Picatta said, “What about your van?”

 
“What about it?”

  “Why rent the truck, is what I mean.”

  “Van’s too small,” Darrell Grant said. “That should be obvious.”

  “Yeah,” said Merkin. “This broken wheelchair business is going gangbusters. Pretty soon you’ll be franchising.”

  Picatta laughed. Darrell Grant locked up the U-Haul and sat down on the bumper.

  “Ain’t like stealin’ cars,” Picatta said. “Cars got a VIN number you can check.”

  “And registration,” said his partner.

  “And a license tag, too,” Picatta said. “That’s the beauty of wheelchairs. They’re pretty much untraceable.”

  Darrell Grant took out the dagger and began cleaning his fingernails, wiping the blade on his jeans. The cops couldn’t believe the balls on this guy.

  “You think I stole these?” Darrell said. “Let me put it another way: Do you want the honest-to-God truth? If I did steal these goddamn chairs, would you guys really want to know?”

  “No,” Merkin said. “We wouldn’t.”

  “Then stop these bullshit head games, OK?”

  Picatta said, “Funny, we were about to make the same request of you.”

  Darrell Grant looked up, feigning innocence.

  “You gave us a grand total of three tips this month.” Picatta paused. “Three red-hot leads. You ready for the box score, tiger? No hits, no runs, nobody left on base.”

  Darrell tapped the knife on his kneecap. “You know how it goes,” he said. “Win some, lose some.”

  “You,” Merkin said, “are a fucking fountain of wisdom.”

  The detectives ran through a list of Darrell’s bum tips: An alleged coke peddler turned out to be dealing uncut grams of Tide laundry detergent. An alleged big-time bank robber turned out to be a teenager who vandalized (but seldom penetrated) suburban ATM machines. And a ring of allegedly sophisticated foreign-car thieves turned out to be a trio of hapless hubcap boosters.

  “Bad luck streak,” said Darrell Grant, pondering his sneakers.

  Picatta crouched down to eye level. “Look at me, handsome, I’m speaking to you.”

  “I got lousy information, that’s all.”

  “We stuck our necks out for you, tiger.”

  “And I appreciate it—”

  “Not once, but twice we stuck our necks out. Where’s your little girl?”

  Darrell Grant went rigid. The knife fell out of his hand. “None a your goddamn business,” he said.

  Merkin grabbed him roughly by the forelock. “Blondie, lemme ‘splain de facts o’ life. Everything you do is our business: What you drive, what you eat, where you sleep, what you steal or don’t steal. Whether you wipe your ass with your left hand or your right hand. It’s all our business.”

  “She’s in the day care,” Darrell Grant said. “She’s fine.” He knocked Merkin’s hand away and smoothed his hair. When he bent down to pick up the knife, Picatta kicked it away.

  “We could always call that judge.”

  “Fuck the both of you,” said Darrell Grant.

  “Then give us some cases,” Merkin said. “Good cases.”

  “Which means,” Picatta said, “you need to be out on the street, with those pretty blue eyes wide open. Lay off the wheelchairs, tiger.”

  “And the dope,” Merkin added. “Think of it like this: What if that judge suddenly hauls you in to drop urine? You want to keep custody of that little girl, you better clean up.”

  “Speed freaks make lousy parents,” Picatta said. “That’s a well-known fact.”

  Darrell Grant stood up. “Thank you, Dr. Spock.” Sullenly he picked up the dagger and climbed into the cab of the U-Haul. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  As the truck pulled away, Merkin frowned. “You hate to see that—so much bitterness in such a young man.”

  “What’d you expect from a career asshole.”

  “Yeah,” Merkin said, “but he’s our asshole.”

  Shad was short-tempered and withdrawn. Undoubtedly it was the job—the drunks, the unpredictable girls, Orly, the whole damn shooting match. Now Kevin, the disc jockey, was on a Hammer spree: twenty solid minutes of the most annoying music Shad had ever heard. Finally he couldn’t stand it. He vaulted into the booth, knocked Kevin aside and tore the compact disc from the CD player. The Eager Beaver was plunged into silence—the dancers stopped moving, midthrust. Customers murmured worriedly. A Peruvian tourist, anticipating a raid, bolted for the door; from his abandoned tabletop came a curse of self-pity from Monique Jr. The fleeing Peruvian had been trimming her garter with twenty-dollar bills.

  Shad chewed up the Hammer CD like a big shiny wafer, never feeling the sharp pieces cut his tongue and gums. He spit the whole bloody mess on Kevin’s mike stand, and commanded him to play Bob Seger or die. Watching from the rear of the club, Orly silently retreated to his imitation red-velvet sanctuary.

  Erin waited about an hour for Shad to settle down. When she approached him, he was sitting alone in a corner booth, reading a large-print edition of Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis.”

  “Good book?” she asked.

  Shad looked up. “I’m startin’ to feel sorry for cockroaches.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Erin said. “How’s the lawsuit?”

  Shad shook his head glumly. “On to other projects, babe.”

  “Like what?”

  How Shad had fretted over this moment: should he include Erin in Mordecai’s scheme? She was Shad’s friend, or the closest he had to one. Wouldn’t she be surprised to learn that the drunk lunatic with the champagne bottle was a congressman! It was almost worth telling her, just to see that beautiful smile.

  On the other hand, a potentially mountainous sum of money was at stake. The more participants in Mordecai’s shakedown enterprise, the smaller everyone’s cut. There were times, Shad reasoned, when financial exigencies overshadowed friendship.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

  “Is there a yogurt angle?”

  He laughed, loosening up. “No yogurt, no fucking insects.”

  Erin inquired about the scalp wound. Shad lowered his head to show her how Darrell Grant’s dagger mark was healing. “The scar’s fading,” he said. “I’m a little disappointed.”

  For the fiftieth time, Erin apologized for what happened.

  “Forget it,” Shad said. “I imagine we’ll meet again, me and your ex.”

  “Not if I can help it,” said Erin. She had a fleeting image of Darrell Grant being loaded into an ambulance.

  The new dancer, Marvela, came out on the main stage. With both hands she seized one of the gold poles, straightened her long legs and leaned back at a languorous slant. She began tossing her head like a mop, around and around in time to the music. The men in the front row crowed enthusiastically.

  “What do you think?” Erin asked Shad. “Is it the boobs or the hair?”

  “Hair, definitely.”

  “Supposedly she cleared four hundred the other night.”

  “Oh yeah?” Shad made a mental note to speak with this upstart Marvela; she’d only tipped him out five bucks. “You’re still the best,” he told Erin.

  “I don’t know. She can really dance.”

  “Not like you.” He went back to his Kafka.

  Erin knew she should’ve been up dancing, making a few bucks, but it felt good to take a break. She was comfortable sitting in the dark booth with Shad.

  “I’ve got a small problem,” she told him.

  “What’sa matter?” He glanced up from the book.

  “I need you to talk to somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s all right. I think he can help me.”

  “I said, who?”

  When Erin told him it was a cop, Shad snorted. “You got more than a small problem.”

  “Well, yes. It’s a homicide detective.”

  “Christ Almighty.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds.” But when Erin r
elated what had happened to Mr. Peepers, it sounded bad indeed. Shad didn’t understand why anyone would bother to kill the little guy, and he didn’t honestly care. He was more worried about Erin.

  “Aren’t you due for a vacation?” he said. “I recommend Mars.”

  “The detective wants to know about that night a few weeks ago, when the guy pulled a gun on you.”

  “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

  “Come on,” Erin said, pinching his arm. “It’ll help with Angela. Everything’s connected.”

  “How?” Shad asked. “Your daughter’s involved—how’d you manage that?” He couldn’t believe Erin had dug herself into such a mess.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  Monique Jr. approached the booth and said Mr. Orly wanted to speak with Shad. She said Kevin was demanding an apology. Shad said he’d be glad to apologize as soon as Kevin displayed a trace of good taste in music. Monique Jr. cheerlessly agreed to take that message back to Mr. Orly.

  After she was gone, Shad turned to Erin and said the floor manager’s job was getting to him. “I definitely need a new career.”

  “Me, too,” Erin said. “A job where I could wear underpants again.”

  Shad put his hands on his head and squeezed lightly, as if testing a cantaloupe for ripeness. He squinted hard, then blinked repeatedly. “I ain’t noticing ordinary things anymore, that’s what’s got me worried. For instance, it just now hit me that your boobs are hangin’ out.”

  Erin covered up. “Jeez, I’m sorry. I was in the middle of a set—”

  “Point is, I should’ve picked up on that. Don’t you agree?”

  “But you see so much of it—”

  “Exactly! Too much of it. I need to get out.” Shad pointed at the book on the cocktail table. “The guy in this story, he turns into a motherfucking centipede. Wakes up one morning and bingo, he’s a bug. Sounds asinine but it sure makes you think. People change overnight, they’re not careful.”

  Erin said, “Maybe you need the vacation.”

  “Yeah, maybe so.” Shad drummed his fists softly on the table. “OK, I’ll talk to your damn detective. But as I mentioned, my memory ain’t so hot.”

  Erin leaned over and kissed his vast forehead.

  Shad said, “Hey, that’s a new G-string.”