"No way, Jack, he's from the U.K."

"Well, he moved all the way to Dunedin, Florida, to sell Dream Weaver travel trailers. That's not appalling?"

She rolls her eyes. "Let it go. Drink up."

"His books," I mutter to my vodka, "are fucking unreadable."

"Who's that?" With her cigarette Carla points toward the beanbag corner, where Cleo and Loreal have been joined by a wiry, dark-skinned man with curly long hair and a Pancho Villa mustache.

"That," I say, "is Senor Tito Negraponte, another former Slut Puppy. He was at the funeral."

Cleo and the record producer discreetly disengage, and make space for Tito between them on the beanbag throne. The two men shake hands the old-fashioned way, as if it's the first time they've met.

Carla says, "What did he do with the band?"

"Bass guitar."

"Who's he with now? He looks pretty old and moldy."

"Yeah, he must be all of fifty-two. It's amazing he gets around without a wheelchair."

I'm distracted by two bony models in miniskirts who are pogo-stomping on the dance floor. They're sucking on baby pacifiers, waving phosphorescent swizzle sticks and flashing their panties at the bartender, or possibly me.

"That's just the kind of chick you need, Jack. Totally." Carla jabs my sore ribs. "Seventeen-year-old X freaks, they'll rock your little world."

"Your mother's the only one who ever did that."

"What?" Carla leans closer. The DJ has ratcheted up the volume to encourage the gregarious dancers.

"I said, your mother's the only one who ever rocked my world. And now she's sleeping with a bad novelist."

Carla shrugs helplessly.

"And marrying the bastard on my birthday." I gulp down the last of my vodka. "The woman who remembers everything."

"Not birthdays," Carla interjects. "She's lousy on those, Jack. You can ask my father. Yo, look who's leaving."

Loreal has risen off the beanbag throne. He air-kisses Cleo, high-fives Tito and makes his way across the floor, dodging the models and heading toward the door.

"Wish me luck," I tell Carla.

She slides off the seat to make way. "Go! Get a move on. I'll keep an eye on the widow and the Mexican geezer."

I peck her cheek and lay out a ten for the drinks, which she promptly shoves back in my palm.

"You got my cell number, right?"

"Listen, Carla, are you really meeting somebody? I feel crummy leaving you here alone."

She finds this uproariously funny. "Don't worry, Daddy, I'll be fine. Now beat it."

I reach the beachfront parking lot just as Loreal is mounting his Harley. By the time I get the Mustang started and wedge myself into the heavy flow on A1A, Cleo's studhunk already has a five-block head start.

Florida's legislature recently passed a law allowing motorcyclists to ride without helmets, a boon for neurosurgeons and morticians. Tonight I benefit as well, for Loreal's lack of a head protector makes him easy to follow even at night, his long hair streaming behind him like a red contrail.

He doesn't go far; a billiards joint called Crabby Pete's. I park my car next to the chopper and wait twenty minutes, enough time for Loreal to get at least two more drinks in his system. Then I grab my notebook and enter the bar.

"What paper'd you say you were from?"

"The Union-Register."

"Never heard of it."

"We're the only rag in town."

"To be perfectly honest, I don't have time to read all that much."

This hardly comes as a thunderous shock. Loreal and I have been chatting for an hour and it's my impression he'd need a personal tutor to get through a set of liner notes. Mostly we've been discussing music—specifically, his sizzling career as a record producer. His resume lengthens with each beer, though he has stumbled once or twice when reciting the various artists who've sought out his genius. My notes reflect a certain recurring confusion, for example, between the Black Crowes and Counting Crows. Young Loreal's credibility has also been dented by boastful references to his clever (though uncredited) studio work for a band he insists on calling "Matchbox Thirty." I've made no effort to correct him because—as any reporter will tell you—there's no finer thrill in our business than interviewing a hapless liar. I've gotten him rolling by telling him that I recognized him from a photo in Ocean Drive,and that I need a few quotes for a feature story about Cleo Rio's soon-to-be-released CD.

He says, "She told you I was producing it, right?"

"Actually, she said her husband was the producer."

"For sure, he was."Loreal is tracing a tic-tac-toe pattern in the rime on the bartop. "It was a real bummer, what happened to her old man. She came to me all crying and was like, 'I don't know what to do. I need help finishing the record.' "

"I'd gotten the impression they were almost done," I say.

Loreal clicks his teeth and feigns demureness. "Hey, I'm not gonna say anything about Jimmy Stoma, okay? He did a good job, considering it was his first-ever gig on the boards. All I told Cleo was, hey, this record could be even better with a little extra juice. And she's all like, 'Go for it, man. That's what Jimmy would've wanted.' So," he says in a confiding tone, "we're gettin' there. We're real close."

Merrily he watches me jot each golden word. I expect his demeanor would change if I asked about his unconventional way of consoling Jimmy's wife; to wit, placing his pecker between her lips. But I avoid that line of inquiry, tempting as it is, and allow Loreal to imagine himself the portrait of the cool young auteur,patiently explaining his craft to the stolid middle-aged journalist. His true roots are revealed, however, by the sound of a thick-soled motorcyle shoe tapping along to a Bob Seger song on the jukebox. I resist the urge to like him for it.

"Maybe you could explain something to me," I say.

"For sure." Loreal has milky girlish skin with a spattering of cinnamon freckles, though I would swear his cheeks have been lightly rouged. He has baptized himself liberally with the same rotten-guava cologne that he wore that day in Cleo's elevator, which explains the bartender's brisk retreat. Every so often Loreal tilts his head so that the glossy mane hangs clear of his shoulders, and gives it a well-practiced shake.

"I thought record companies didn't release a single until the whole album was done. But 'Me' came out months ago," I say. "It seems strange there's still no Cleo Rio CD."

"She's with a small label and they do things different." On this subject Loreal is not so thrilled to see me taking notes. "Plus, the lady's a righteous perfectionist. She wants to take her time and do it her way. But, yeah, there's pressure to get the record wrapped, and we're almost there. Basically it's down to one song."

"Which one is that?"

'"Shipwrecked Heart.' The title cut."

"The one she sang at the funeral," I say.

"I wasn't there," Loreal says pointedly, "but I heard she did." Two more beers have been delivered, and he snatches at one.

To keep the conversation moving, I ask him if he'd heard about what happened to Jay Burns.

"Yeah, Cleo told me. Unfuckingbelievable," he says. "Jay was supposed to play piano on 'Shipwrecked.'"

"Any of the other Slut Puppies working with Cleo?"

"Nope," he replies, between swigs. I'm waiting to see if he mentions meeting Tito Negraponte tonight, but all he says is: "Jimmy had a good band, but Cleo wants her own sound. Definitely."

He stands up, digs into his stovepipes and throws a twenty on the bar. "Listen, I gotta motor. You need anything else, call Cueball Records in L.A. and ask for the publicist. Sherry, I think her name is."

"Thank you, Loreal."

He smiles and sticks out his hand, which is moist from the bottle. "What'd you say your name was?"