Incubi

Jack got the message. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Faye. “Jan likes to be left alone when she works.”

Faye followed him up the stairs of the county HQ. He seemed remote, or distracted. Then he said, “Sorry about last night.”

“You won’t last long, drinking like that,” Faye replied.

“I’m gonna quit.“ Jack smiled at the excuse. “I know, that’s what they all say. But I’m really going to do it.”

Faye kept quiet.

As they were about to exit, an ancient sergeant at the main desk stopped them. “Hey, Captain, you got a call from City District.”

“Thanks.” Jack took the phone. “Cordesman.”

“Jack, it’s Randy.”

“How you coming on the interviews?”

“It’s like what you predicted. Rebecca Black had as many pickups as Shanna Barrington. And we struck out on the ex-husband. He was verifiably out of state during the murder.”

“Just keep plugging.”

“Sure, but that’s not why I called. Some guy keeps calling your office, says he knows you. Sounds like a real prick.”

Stewie, Jack guessed.

“I’ve got him on the line right now,” Randy said. “How about taking it and getting the guy off my back.”

“Switch me over,” Jack said. The line transferred, hummed, and clicked. “What do you want, Stewie?”

“Jackie boy! How’s it going?”

“Fine until you called. What do you want?”

“I need to rap with you, paisan.”

“Well, I don’t want to rap with you, Stewie. I’ve had a taxing day, and talking to you would only make it more taxing.”

Stewie guffawed. “You never did like me, did you?”

“No, Stewie, I never did. And I still don’t.”

“I need to talk to you about Veronica.”

The name seemed to give Jack an abrupt shove. “What about her?”

“I think she’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble? I’m listening.”

“Better if we meet, you know, man-to-man.”

But what could he mean? What kind of trouble could Veronica be in? “All right, Stewie. Man-to-man.”

“Or, hell, let’s be honest. Libertine-to-drunk.”

“How about assailant-to-assault-victim?”

“Aw, Jackie, that’s so sad. Are you threatening a law-abiding citizen over a police line? Is that wise?”

“Where and when, Stewie?”

“How about the Undercroft? In your constant inebriation, it’s probably the only place in town you can find without a map.”

“I would really love to kick your ass, Stewie, and if this is a bunch of bullshit, I will.”

“Come on, Jack. An alcoholic wreck like you? You couldn’t even kick your own ass. Now, are we going to bicker like a pair of bete noires, or are we going to rap?”

“I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Jack hung up. He looked stolid, vexed.

“You’ll be where in a half hour?” Faye asked him.

“I—” Shit, he thought. “The bar.”

“That’s great, Jack. A minute ago you told me you were going to quit drinking. Now you’re going to the bar. Great.”

“I’m not going there to drink, Faye.”

“Of course not. You’re going there to play racquetball. Why else do people go to bars?”

“It’s something personal. I gotta talk to someone, that’s all. You can come too, if you don’t believe me.”

“I have better things to do than sit in bars, Jack.” She turned, was walking away. “I have a bunch of material to go over for your murder case, remember? Have fun at the bar.”

He trotted after her into the parking lot. “Why are you always pissed off at me? I won’t get drunk, I promise.”

“Don’t promise me, Jack. What do I matter?”

“You…you matter a lot.”

“Don’t promise me. Promise yourself.” Faye slammed her car door shut, then drove off.

Jack watched her big Malibu turn out of the lot. Boy, I could use a drink, he thought, and got into his own car. That was the unique thing about the power of promises. They always dared to be broken.

* * *

“All right, Stewie. I’m here.”

It was not easy for Jack to pull up a stool next to Stewart K. Arlinger. It demanded a placation he didn’t feel capable of. Stewie wore a slate-blue Smiths T-shirt that read “You handsome devil.” He’d recently stylized his black, banged hair with a streak of silver, and most of his white jeans evaded visibility for the cuffed black boots which rose up past mid-thigh. A yellow clove cigarette burned in one hand. Before him stood a tall glass of gin.

“Good to see you, Jack,” he said through a snide smile.

Jack sat down. Craig spun a bottle of Seagram’s over his shoulder and caught it behind his back. “The usual, Jack?”

“No. Soda water. Put a piece of lime in it to make it look like I’m drinking something.”

“Soda water. Hmm,” Craig remarked. His brow arched, as did the brows of several patrons. I will not break my promise, Jack thought.

“Graduating to the hard stuff, huh?” Stewie commented.

“Believe me, Stewie. It’s very difficult for me to be in the same room with you and be sober at the same time.”

“Let’s just get to business before we get into a fight.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “I don’t have time to drive you to the emergency room. I’d miss Wheel of Fortune reruns.”

“You know, Jack, I like you, even in spite of your rampant aggression and alcoholic ill-will. But let me ask you something. Why exactly do you hate my guts?”

“Plenty of reasons,” Jack was quick to respond. “You’re selfish, greedy, pompous, you make a living off my ex-girlfriend’s work, and you wear boots that come up to your fuckin’ crotch.”

“All of the above are true, Jack, but let’s try real hard to be adults for a minute — a trying task, in your case. I’m really worried about Veronica.”

“You said she might be in trouble. How so?”

“I’m not sure. She’s never been one to shirk her professional responsibilities. Shows, galleries, interviews — all that kind of stuff’s very important to her, the business end of her art. That’s why she has me to manage her career.”

“Get to the point.”

“I haven’t heard from her all week.”

Jack set his drink down and thought about that. Stewie was right. Veronica would never remain out of touch with her manager for so long a time. There had to be a reason.

“That’s why I’m worried. She’s close to the big time, which is great because she deserves it. But it’s real easy for an artist to fuck up. All you have to do is snub a few important people, and that can mean the end of a career. She’s got a lot of things in the fire right now. Art Times wants to interview her. Two major publishers want to do books of her work. I got galleries all over the country who want to put her up. Yesterday the fucking Corcoran calls, they want to do a show too. I don’t know what to tell any of these people.