The Old Silent

'Sure.' Charlie smiled and nearly short-circuited her frenetic search for a bit of paper to write on. When Jury saw her bend down he was afraid she was going to rip the hem off her petticoat.

She reached out her high-heeled shoe to Charlie. 'Here.'

He laughed shortly, baffled. 'Wait, it'd ruin your shoes. I must have something…' But he had nothing in his pockets.

Jury had been about to get out his notebook and didn't. The intensity of Mary Lee's transaction stopped him.

'It's okay. Never mind. These ones are old; I hardly wear them.'

Jury did reach over his pen to Charlie, who still seemed uncertain. 'I don't think the ink will hold on the clear stuff-'

'That's all right, then. If it don't, I'll find something else,' she said reasonably and watched with fascination as he carefully inked up the top of the shoe. He handed it back.

Mary Lee took it carefully, as if it were really glass. She said nothing, only looked down at the inscription. Beside her, Jury read it, too: To Mary Lee's shoe. Charlie Raine.

It was too much for her. Without a word Mary Lee turned and limped up the aisle into the shadows.

'Can I give you a lift to your hotel?' asked Jury.

Humping the gig bag over one shoulder Charlie said, 'Thanks. But I was only just going to the pub round the corner. Haven't eaten all day. Care to join?'

'I could use a pint myself.'

Charlie Raine turned up the wattage of his smile. 'We can talk about drugs.'

Jury carried the flanger and the delay-box-which, according to Charlie he used when he wanted distortion. The lecture on heavy distortion was pretty much lost on Jury. He was wondering about that comment on drugs.

'Because you're not the Drug Squad,' Charlie said in answer to Jury's question inside the pub. 'You're C.I.D.'

Jury was getting the drinks, Charlie was standing at the steam table and food counter, absorbed by the large bowls of salads and rice that a girl with rusty red hair was busily covering with wrap.

The pub was a plain one, deal tables and chairs, long bar whose only color and decoration were supplied by the rows of bottles ranged on shelves. No handsome mirrors, no mock Tiffany shades. But there were a number of framed posters and pictures of musicians who'd probably played at the Odeon.

Indeed, directly behind the food counter and the back of the aproned girl was the by now well-known poster of the Sirocco band.

She drew herself up, hands on hips. 'It's gone two. No food after two o'clock.' She turned icy blue eyes on both of them.

'You can't just do a ploughman's? Something cold?'

Her sigh was overwhelming, the roll of her eyes toward the heavens the signal to God that she was a true martyr to her job. 'And what's so funny, I'd like to know?'

This was directed at Jury, who was standing at the bar watching the porky bartender draw the pints. He had looked up at the poster behind her, laughed, and shaken his head.

'If I were you,' said Jury, 'I'd give him what he wants.' His tone was mildly threatening.

It fueled her martyrdom. 'If you was me... well, you ain't, not from where I stand.' Hands on hips she swiveled from one to the other of them, displaying the hips to their best advantage. 'So where d'ya get off coming in here and telling me-'

'Police,' said Jury. He shoved his warrant card near her face.

Under the bronze makeup, her face paled as if a mask were sliding off. 'Well, I never… oh…' And she set about uncovering the cheese plate and whacking off a chunk. Not, however, before she'd given them a dismissive wave as if it weren't that she was scared, but that the meal was being prepared out of her infinite largess.

Look up, Jury silently commanded her. She didn't. Charlie was looking at the face in the poster as if it belonged to somebody else, only mildly interesting.

Sitting at a table scratched and coal-bitten by cigarette stubs Jury said to Charlie, 'C.I.D. You're pretty observant.'

Charlie shook his head, watched Jury over the rim of his pint of lager, said, 'No. I didn't get it from your ID; it was your name.'

Jury looked over at the huge poster, apparently useless as identification, and smiled. 'I'm so famous?'

Charlie didn't return the smile. 'I read the papers, see-'

The redhead, still haughty and tight-lipped, set Charlie's plate before him. But she did hover a bit, looking at him more studiously.

'Thanks,' said Charlie.

'You're most welcome, I'm sure.' The edge of sarcasm had crept back in. She rolled off, hips swaying like a sailor who hadn't found his land legs. Her own legs were in no way, however, of being lost.

'Does this happen to you often?'

'What happen?' Charlie was arranging some cheese on a piece of dark bread.

'Not being recognized? She's trying to work out where she'd seen you before and that poster's right over her flaming head.'

'Happens a lot.' He put a pickled onion on top of the cheese, bit down. 'Recognize Alvaro more than the rest of us. But he's big and he's black. I mean, I don't think Hendrix would've been able to walk down the street without people pawing him and collapsing and… Or Elvis. I'm just a face in the crowd. It's nice.'

'You say you read the papers-'

'Your name was right there. That murder up in Yorkshire. What happens when a policeman's the witness?'

'Nothing much. Like any other witness.'

'I'll bet.' Charlie put a hunk of crumbly Cheshire on another thick piece of bread, stuck on some Branston pickle, and tried to work his mouth round the clumsy sandwich. All the while he was casting glances at Jury with solder-colored, expressionless eyes. Strangely so, given the light they had projected back in the theater. It was as if the tints of an impressionist painting had vanished, fled from a Monet, perhaps, recalled to be used elsewhere. Jury doubted the smile bestowed on Mary Lee was ever put to much use.

Jury had never felt so totally off-guard. The comment about the murder was the last thing he had expected.

They both seemed to be waiting for the other to give out with information-some signal, some clue-like poker players.

Jury called. 'You've been in London for two days to give a concert and your mind's on some obscure killing in the West of Yorkshire?' He smiled slightly.

'I just thought it was interesting. Scotland Yard detective as witness. You saw the whole thing.'

'Yes.' Jury added nothing.

'I expect you're not to talk about it?'

'What did you want to know?'

'Me?' The eyes opened wider. 'Nothing.' When Jury didn't comment, he added, 'Well, I expect I was interested because I was born up there. Leeds. But you probably know that.'

'Why would I know that?'

'You're a fan.' His attempt at a smile was depressing. Jury thought his picking up the paper napkin to wipe his mouth had more to do with wiping away the false smile.

Jury looked over to the food counter. The fiery-haired girl was standing there, legs crossed, smoking a fag, and still trying to sort it out. A regular customer? Don't be stupid, girl. You know the regulars. A busker, maybe. He has that guitar. That could be it. Passed him in the Hammersmith station. No, that wasn't it. In an irritated little gesture she flicked ash from the cigarette, recrossed her ankles, went back to staring at Charlie Raine.

Jury could read her mind; he wished he could read Charlie's. 'I think it was-a great tragedy, that killing.'