She nodded. “How the heck should I know?” she asked. “That’s what I want to say.”

“What do you usually say?”

“Usually something about pulling things in from life. Or that God just beams them down to me. You know, I tailor the answer depending on the questioner.”

“Did you know Jesse Barre?”

She shook her head. “I knew of her guitars, of course. Anyone in the industry knew about them. But no, I didn’t know her personally. Why?”

“She makes music. You make music. I figured the two of you would have crossed paths at some point.”

“Good guess,” she said. “But no. We never did.”

“Oh,” I said.

We sat in silence for a few moments. A few thoughts ran through my mind.

“How long have you known Shannon?” I said.

“We sort of grew up together,” she said. “Went to high school together. Played music together. Fell in and out of touch over the years, but when we both got serious, then we hooked up.”

“Did you know Laurence Grasso?”

“Um-hm.”

“Did you hear he’s dead?”

She nodded.

“Do you care?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“He was a waste of a human being.”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” I said.

“He treated her like dirt. He was mean. He was cruel. He was stupid but cunning. A weasel,” she said. “I’m glad someone sent him on his way.”

She was pretty matter-of-fact. I didn’t think it was an act.

“Will you turn it into a song?”

“Everything’s a song. It’s just a matter of writing it down.”

Sounded like a tailor-made answer.

I was about to ask another question when I saw her face change. It sort of went slightly pale, and the general din of the crowd went down a notch. I turned and looked over my shoulder.

Shannon’s manager stood before me. Teddy Armbruster, his bald head glistening like a Fabergé egg, his tree trunk body immoveable.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I turned back to Memphis, but she was gone.

I looked back at Teddy, and his dull-blue fish eyes stared back at me.

“Yes, you,” he said.

I picked up my glass.

It seemed like the party was over.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Teddy lifted the club head until it was an inch from my face.

“Four hundred sixty cc” he said.

I nodded.

“Big Bertha. Titanium. Graphite shaft.”

“Very nice,” I said.

He leaned down, put a ball on top of a rubber tee and turned his body toward Lake St. Clair. We stood on a little raised platform at the back of the house. It had a patch of Astroturf about nine square yards, and Teddy had his golf bag and clubs leaning against a little wooden rack.

Teddy addressed the ball, and I said, “Keep your head down.”

He turned his granite slab of a body and brought the club back in a swift, fluid motion. His body pivoted, and the club bent nearly in half before it sped down with astonishing speed. The ball rocketed off the platform and flew in a direct line out until it made a tiny little splash about three hundred yards away.

“Nice shot,” I said. “I think you nailed a muskie. And you didn’t even call fore.”

“You’re funny,” he said without even cracking a smile. He lined up another ball and repeated the same effort.

“Got a perch that time,” I said. “Do you have someone go out and dive for all those balls?”

“Cheaper just to buy more balls.”

“Are golf balls considered pollution?”

In response, he pointed the handle of the club at me and said, “Wanna give it a shot?”

“I’ve modeled my golf game after Nancy Lopez,” I said and took the club. I put a ball on the tee, set down my glass and took a mighty swing. I barely nicked the little pill, and I watched it run off the platform, down to the water’s edge until it sat there like a little lake stone.

“Now if we were on the course and that didn’t make it past the women’s tee,” Teddy said, “you’d have to pull your pants down when you walked up to the ball.”

“Insult to injury,” I noted.

“Why don’t you give me that back before you hurt somebody with it,” he said.

He took the club and rested it on his boulder of a shoulder. “So what are you doing here, John? Besides disgracing the game of golf?”

“Did you know Larry Grasso?” I said.

“I don’t interact with scum,” he said. He was bouncing the giant driver off his shoulder. He looked like he was ready to hit me with it. Knock my head into the lake. I’m sure the impression was intended.

“Did you know the scum was killed?”

“I did hear, but I don’t care.”

Shannon’s assistant, Molly, appeared behind me. Had Teddy somehow summoned her?

“Did Shannon still keep in touch with him?”

He laughed. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He shook his head. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Stay away from Shannon. Stay away from me. But even more importantly, stay away from the game of golf, okay?”

He tilted his chin toward Molly. “See Mr. Rockne to the door,” he said.

I turned to little Molly and saw that she was now flanked by Erma and Freda.

I glanced back at Teddy. He was in the middle of his backswing. “Thanks for taking the time to bullshit me,” I said. His swing caught, and he shanked one about fifty yards to the right. His face turned red.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said.

The Hefty Girls moved up on either side of me, and I lifted my hands up.

“Easy, girls. I’m going. Don’t get those gigantic undies of yours in a bundle.”

Molly led the way back through the party, and I found myself back at my car.

“Just so you know, I’ve been told to schedule no more conversations with Shannon for you,” Molly said. Her tone was curt and clipped. She extended a hand.

“This will be the last time we talk,” she said. Erma and Freda stood behind her, their faces showing all the emotion of rubber caulk.

I shook Molly’s hand and felt the soft scrape of paper in my palm.

•

Lakeshore Drive was deserted as always. The lake was choppy, stirred up no doubt by the constant plopping of Teddy Armbruster’s Titleist Pro Vs. What an arrogant prick. A guy used to having the world at his feet. A guy living off the natural talent of Shannon Sparrow. A wheeler and a dealer and a fifteen-percent cut of, what, fifteen or twenty million a year? Not bad.

Something told me that Teddy was the kind of guy who could burn a few million bucks a year without batting an eye.

The piece of paper Molly had shoved into my hand now sat on the passenger seat. Subterfuge was surprising coming from the world’s most efficiently curt assistant.

I had taken a peek at the note. It was a phone number. Probably a cell. I debated calling it immediately but thought better of it. She’d be at that party for a couple more hours, and I had a feeling that the conversation she wanted to have, that I hoped she wanted to have, would be better done in private. Like when she was on her way home from the boss’s party.

I looked out at the dark-green water. I’d had too much to drink at the party because I now saw the pale, lifeless eyes of Benjamin Collins. Saw his puffy flesh hanging from his bones in shreds. All because of my colossal mistake.

What a fuckup I was. Usually, I let the feeling pass. Told myself that everyone makes mistakes. Some more egregious than others. But not tonight. Booze sometimes did that to me. Opened up the old wounds and dumped in the salt. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I just throw the kid in the back of the squad car and let him sleep it off in his own private cell?

There was no right answer, at least not one I wanted to face.