"You could say that."

"Just tell me it's not over dope."

"This isn't about drugs, Ike. It's about a newspaper story."

The old opossum man beams. "Good for you, Jack Tagger."

Then the phone rings.

Here's how I messed up. I assumed Cleo would panic the moment she discovered the compact disc in the deli bag—or at least after she listened to it. I figured she'd be too rattled to bother snooping after the phony delivery boy, our intrepid Evan.

But I underestimated the little barracuda. She must have called up the restaurant manager to find out if there'd been a pickup order for meatball subs with a side of slaw. From there it would have been easy to match the bogus delivery to my phone order. Lots of takeout joints use caller-ID logs, which work just dandy on most non-published numbers. That's likely how the deli man got my name, which he provided to Jimmy Stoma's wife as blithely as he would to any booty-flashing celebrity customer.

Big mistake on my part. Major fuckage. Tomorrow I'm calling the phone company and springing for the trace-blocking option.

For now, there's nothing to do but strap on an attitude and act like I'm having a ball. I wait until the fourth ring before lifting the receiver.

"Is this Cindy?" I say sweetly. "Of oyster fame?"

The desired effect is achieved—a long pause, broken by edgy breathing, on the other end of the line.

Finally: "Fuck you, Tagger."

"How's widowhood treating you, Mrs. Stomarti? Is it all you hoped it would be?"

"What a flaming asshole you are. I don't even know why we're talking."

"I'll tell you why. Because, A, you're dying to find out how I got a copy of that track. And, B, you want to know if I've figured out what really happened to your husband."

Not much return fire from Cleo's end. The static leads me to think she's on a cellular.

"Listen closely," I tell her. "I know you don't give a shit about 'Cindy's Oyster' but there's another song you've been searching all over creation for. I've got that one, too. Your title cut."

"Oh, I'm so sure."

Snideness is such an unattractive quality in the bereaved. Now I'm thinking I ought to sing the song, just to give the needle to Cleo. So I do the verse that has the nice line about night whispering to the shore—Ike, gutting a fish, sways appreciatively—and for good measure I finish big with:

Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart ...

Watching for your sails on the horizon.

Not a peep from Cleo's end.

"I'd sound a whole lot better with a band," I tell her. "By the way, if you're charting the chords on the refrain, it's C, G, A-minor, A-minor seven, then hack to G—"

"You bastard!" she explodes in the strangled cadence of a nine-year-old brat.

I suppose I should be more sensitive. "Cleo, I'm just trying to help. You missed that minor seven when you did the song at Jimmy's funeral."

Three years of lessons and I'm spouting off like I'm frigging Segovia. I've played barely a lick since college, though I've still got my old Yamaha and a fairly reliable ear.

"Hey, Tagger? You're done." Impressively, Cleo Rio has composed herself. I get a sense of what young Evan experienced that night in the condo—her voice has turned glacial. She says, "You're fucking done. I'm not wasting another minute on you."

Lord, who can blame her.

A man comes on the line.

"We got your girlfriend," he says.

"She's not my girlfriend, but she'd better be alive."

"She is."

"Can this be Jerry?" I say. "Bodyguard to the stars?"

"Be at Jizz tonight. Main room. Ten sharp."

Exactly what I'd hoped for: They're offering to trade Janet for Jimmy Stoma's song.

"Ten sharp, dickhead. Bring the package."

Package? This is what comes from watching reruns of Hawaii Five-0.

"Oh," I say. "You must mean the master recording that belongs to the estate of the late James Bradley Stomarti?"

"Ten o'clock. Come alone." Jerry doesn't seem eager to get to know me over the phone.

"How's that empty eye socket, big fella?"

Boy, when I get rolling I just can't shut it down. It used to drive my mother nuts; Anne, too.

"Jerry, you listening? I want my laptop back, you worthless simian fuck."

"I shoulda"—more heavy interference, like they're driving past an airport radar tower—"when I had the chance."

"Put her on the phone," I tell him.

"No, dickhead. She don't wanna talk anymore."

"Not Cleo. Your guest."

"She ain't here," Jerry informs me.

"That's convenient."

"She's alive, okay? Just like I told you."

"I'd love to take your word for it, Jer, but that would require me having an IQ no higher than my shoe size. So I won't be making another move until I hear the lady's voice."

Out of the corner of my eye I spy the eavesdropping opossum man, loping nimbly away. From the end of the phone line comes a muffled rustling—Jerry, covering the receiver while he and Jimmy's widow debate strategy. Then: "Okay. The girl, she'll call you at three-thirty. Gimme a number."

"It's 555-2169."

"Where the hell's that?"

"Brad and Jennifer's place. We play rummy every Thursday," I say. "It's my office phone, you ass-scratching baboon."

Jerry unleashes a string of bilious epithets. It's possible I've offended him. In the background, the former Cynthia Jane Zigler is yowling like a bobcat caught in a belt sander.

"They should make a movie about you two," I tell Jerry. "Whitney Houston could play Cleo. For you I'm thinking either Kevin Costner or Ru Paul."

"Blow me," he responds, then hangs up.

Instantly I feel drained and fuzzy-headed. Frightened, too, mostly for Janet. I rest on the bait bench, drying my sweaty palms on my trousers. Ninety-two-year-old Ike is chasing a larcenous pelican down the length of the pier. He's my new hero. Buying a fresh set of teeth at the dawn of one's tenth decade—talk about a positive outlook! He returns triumphant from the pursuit, brandishing a slimy handful of mushed pilchards. He alights next to me, saying, "Jack, that was the ballsiest half of an interview I ever heard."

"Sorry. I got caught up in the moment."

"Don't be sorry, it was priceless. All my years in the business, I could've never gotten away with something like that."

Putting an arm around his spindly shoulders, I hear myself say, "What makes you think I'll get away with it?"

26

A cardinal rule of the business is that reporters should never become part of the story. I'm hopelessly up to my nuts in this one. And while I'm dying to tell Emma about the telephone call from Cleo, I know she'd want me to call the cops.

But here's what would happen: Hill and Goldman or some equally unsmooth detectives would show up at Jizz to confront Jimmy's widow. Indignantly she would deny drowning her husband or snuffing Jay Burns or kidnapping her sister-in-law. She'd claim to have no interest in obtaining the master copy of Jimmy's recording sessions, and insist she didn't even know it was missing. And she'd say that meeting at the nightclub was my idea, and she had no idea what we were to discuss. The detectives would bluff, badger and ask a series of uninformed questions before calling it a night. Tomorrow Cleo would quietly start shopping for a songwriter to hammer out a new version of "Shipwrecked Heart," Janet Thrush would never be seen again and I'd have no story for the newspaper.

On the other hand, it won't be my story anyway if I meet with Cleo and things get ugly. Griffin, the crime reporter, would be writing about me, possibly followed by young Evan, which is no less than I deserve: an obituary penned by a college intern. At least the kid would get a front-page byline, which might be enough to change his mind about law school.