soundtrack.
“So talk,” she said, shifting the receiver back to her hand.
She could almost feel the caller’s hesitation. It happened a lot. They got up the nerve to make the call, but once they were connected, their mouths went dry and all their words turned to sand.
“What’s your name?” she added, trying to make it easier on him.
“Bob.”
“Not the one from
“I’m sorry?”
Obviously not a David Lynch fan, Zoe thought.
“Nothing,” she said. “What can I do for you tonight, Bob?” Maybe she’d make an exception, she thought, and added: “Did you have a special song you wanted me to play for you?”
“No, I ... It’s about Gordon.”
Zoe went blank for a moment. The first Gordon that came to mind was Gordon Waller from the old UK band, Peter & Gordon, rapidly followed by rockabilly great Robert Gordon and then Jim Gordon, the drummer who’d played with everybody from Baez to Clapton, including a short stint with Bread.
“Gordon Wolfe,” Bob said, filling in the blank for her. “You were talking to him earlier tonight on the patio of The Rusty Lion.”
Zoe shivered. From his blanket beside the studio door, Rupert lifted his head and gave an anxious whine, sensing her distress.
“You ..” she began. “How could you know? What were you doing, following me?”
“No. I was following him.”
“Oh.”
Recovering her equilibrium, Zoe glanced at the studio clock and cued up the first cut from her next set in the CD player, her fingers going through the procedure on automatic.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because he’s dangerous.”
He’d given her the creeps, Zoe remembered, but she hadn’t really thought of him as dangerous—at least not until his parting shot.
“Who is he?” she asked. “Better yet, who are you? Why are you following this Wolfe guy around?”
“That’s not his real name,” Bob said.
“Then what is?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Not won’t,” Bob said quickly. “Can’t. I don’t know it myself. All I know is he’s dangerous and you shouldn’t have gotten him mad at you.”
“Jesus,” Zoe said. “I really need this.” Her gaze flicked back to the studio clock; the Steve Earle cut was heading into its fadeout. “Hang on a sec, Bob. I’ve got to run some commercials.”
She put him on hold and brought up the volume on her mike.
“That was Steve Earle,” she said, “with the title cut from his latest album, and you’re listening to Nightnoise on WKPN. Zoe B. here, spinning the tunes for all you night birds and birdettes. Coming up we’ve got a hot and heavy metal set, starting off with the classic ‘Ace of Spades’ by Motorhead. These are
She punched up the cassette with its minute of ads for this half hour and brought the volume down off her mike again. But when she turned back to the phone, the online light was dead. She tried it anyway, but Bob had hung up.
“Shit,” she said. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Rupert looked up again, then got up from his blanket and padded across the floor to press his wet nose up against her hand. He was a cross between a golden lab and a German shepherd, seventy pounds of bighearted mush.
“No, not you,” she told him, taking his head in both of her hands and rubbing her nose against the tip of his muzzle. “You’re Zoe’s big baby, aren’t you?”
The ads cassette ran its course and she brought up Motorhead. As she cued up the rest of the pieces for this set, she kept looking at the phone, but the online light stayed dead.
“Weird,” Hilary Carlisle agreed. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face and gave Zoe a quick smile. “But par for the course, don’t you think?”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I didn’t say you egged them on, but it seems to be the story of your life: put you in a roomful of strangers and you can almost guarantee that the most oddball guy there will be standing beside you within ten minutes. It’s —” she grinned “—just a gift you have.”
“Well, this guy’s really given me a case of the creeps.”
“Which one—Gordon or Bob?”
“Both of them, if you want the truth.”
Hilary’s smile faded. “This is really getting to you, isn’t it?”
“I could’ve just forgotten my delightful encounter at The Rusty Lion if it hadn’t been for the followup call.”
“You think it’s connected?”
“Well, of course it’s connected.”
“No, not like that,” Hilary said. “I mean, do you think the two of them have worked this thing up together?”
That was just what Zoe had been thinking. She didn’t really believe in coincidence. To her mind, there was always connections; they just weren’t always that easy to work out.
“But what would be the point?” she asked.
“You’ve got me,” Hilary said. “You can stay here with me for a few days if you like,” she added.
They were sitting in the front room of Hilary’s downstairs apartment which was in the front half of one of the old Tudor buildings on the south side of Stanton Street facing the estates. Hilary in this room always reminded Zoe of Mendelssohn’s “Concerto in E Minor,” a perfect dialogue between soloist and orchestra. Paintings, curtains, carpet and furniture all reflected Hilary’s slightly askew worldview so that Impressionists hung sideby-side with paintings that seemed more the work of a camera; an antique sideboard housed a stateof-theart stereo, glass shelves held old books; the curtains were dark antique flower prints, with sheers trimmed in lace, the carpet a riot of symmetrical designs and primary colors.
The recamier on which Hilary was lounging had a glory of leaf and scrollwork in its wood; Zoe’s club chair looked as though a bear had been hibernating in it.
Hilary herself was as tall as Zoe’s fiveten, but where Zoe was more angular and bigboned, Hilary was all graceful lines with tanned skin that accentuated her blue eyes and the waterfall of her long straight blonde hair. She was dressed in white this morning, wearing a simple cotton shirt and trousers with the casual elegance of a model, and appeared, as she always did, as the perfect centerpiece to the room.
“I think I’ll be okay,” Zoe said. “Besides, I’ve always got Rupert to protect me.”
At the sound of his name, Rupert lifted his head from the floor by Zoe’s feet and gave her a quick, searching glance.
Hilary laughed. “Right. Like he isn’t scared of his own shadow.”
“He can’t help being nervous. He’s just—”
“I know. Highstrung.”
“Did I ever tell you how he jumped right—”
“Into the canal and saved Tommy’s dog from drowning when it fell in? Only about a hundred times since it happened.” Zoe lips shaped a moue.
“Oh God,” Hilary said, starting to laugh. “Don’t pout. You know what it does to me when you pout.”
Hilary was a talent scout for WEA Records. They’d met three years ago at a record launch party when Hilary had made a pass at her. Once they got past the fact that Zoe preferred men and wasn’t planning on changing that preference, they discovered that they had far too much in common not to be good friends. But that didn’t stop Hilary
