But . . . Holiday. And Lucy. In the same room. They had spoken on the phone two weeks ago when we were on our way to Vegas, and while I was in the hospital I’d told Holiday that Lucy and I had gotten “close” and things might be serious—however I still thought a Kevlar vest and helmet would be useful clothing accessories when those two met.
But I’m never right about that. They hugged. They always do—women who have slept with me, or at least seen me naked. Maybe there’s something cosmic about that, something about having shared or survived a life-altering event.
I got Holiday’s next hug. I always get sloppy seconds when the girls I know get to hugging.
“Go easy on the grip, kiddo,” I told her as she reached for me. “Shoulder’s still getting fed OxyContin.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
She was. The impressive bumpers against my chest helped to mitigate the landing. I thought the hug ran a little long and might cause my new assistant to say something about breaking things up, but she didn’t. When Holiday and I parted, Lucy’s eyes were bright, happy, unconcerned. So, no Kevlar needed.
Holiday backed off and looked at Lucy and me. Her look got sharper. “You two really are sort of an item, aren’t you?”
Nothing gets by them.
“If he asks me to marry him, I will,” Lucy said matter-of-factly. “Like today if he slips up. Not sure yet if he believes it, but, yeah, we’re pretty much an item.”
“Well, good,” Holiday said. “’Cause . . .” She looked at me. “I might’ve found someone. I mean, maybe I have. When I was in San Francisco. He . . . he’s what I guess I’ve been looking for all this time—since, I don’t know, maybe even when I was in high school. But, Mort, I don’t want you to think that I—”
I put a finger to her lips. “Shh. It’s okay, kiddo. If you found what you need, then stick with it.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “Well . . . good.”
“If he treats you bad, though, let me know and I’ll kill ’im.”
“He treats me . . . you know, very good.”
“Okay, then. But I’ll be watching.”
So I lost a girl, gained a girl, and the PI world kept its books in balance.
“You’re not really gonna marry that kid, are you?” Russ asked. It was a week after Holiday met Lucy in the Green Room. He and I were in lawn chairs in my backyard, ten thirty at night, a half-moon flying almost directly overhead, temperature still in the upper seventies. “She looks younger than your daughter.” His speech was slightly slurred so I knew the beer was in on the conversation. My daughter, Nicole, was twenty-one years old, in Ithaca, New York, finishing up a degree in dance, which was one step up from a degree in art history—so said Lucy. She should know. Lucy was a PI-in-training at Clary Investigations making fourteen bucks an hour. She had a studio apartment where she actually stayed at times, and drove a recently purchased six-year-old Mustang convertible, paid for in cash. She told me I should drive it out on lonely desert roads while she got a little sun and wind, like before, sans shirt.
Russ had brought over two six-packs of what for him was a very fine brew—Bud Heavy. Love those extra calories. At least it wasn’t O’Doul’s swamp water, otherwise known as “Why Bother Ale,” which I would’ve quietly set aside and used to kill a tough patch of weeds by the back fence the next day.
“Does look kinda young, doesn’t she?” I said comfortably.
“Kinda doesn’t cover it, Angel.”
“You should call me Mort, now that I’ve compromised you, got a cop in my back pocket. But, yeah, she does look a little bit young. Thing is, she’s getting to be an old maid. I found a gray hair on her head yesterday. Made her look twenty-four.”
“Jesus.”
“She pulled it out, so she’s back to nineteen, but those gray hairs are gonna keep coming.”
“Around you, yeah.” He tried again: “So, you two gonna get hitched?” He burped, followed that up with, “’Scuse.”
“To be determined, Russ. To be determined. Twenty years ago I would’ve jumped at it. Now . . . I’m practically a grown-up. The world isn’t as simple as it once was.”
“Yeah. Sucks to get ancient, don’t it?”
“Did you ever find out what was in the safe?” I asked.
“Comic books.”
“Comic books? That all?”
“That’s all, except for a few of his nasty-shit CDs and DVD videos of his concerts. Guy had a solid silver sculpture worth fifty thousand and what’s he got in his safe? Fuckin’ comics.”
“I would’ve liked to have been there if those two had finally got that safe open.”
Another round of silence in the dark. A lot of things had been left unsaid since Vegas. I hadn’t told him about Josie, or that Ma had found that Josie signed Xenon’s guestbook as Jo-X, Reno 37-25-36 Remember me? Measurements, no last name, address, or phone number. Maybe she had the feeling she shouldn’t give out too much specific information. She was a cop’s daughter so maybe something rubbed off. A million teenagers pronounced Jo-X as “Jo-Z,” same as Josie, so, all in all, I thought it had been a close call. I’d spoken with Danya, told her what Josie had done, told her to tell Josie to act dumb and cool if cops came around, and if they brought a tape measure, tell ’em to get a court order.
I was on my fourth Bud and Russ was on his sixth, which was probably why he answered when I said, “Arlene and Buddie Hicks didn’t kill Xenon. They were murderers, but they didn’t kill him like everyone thinks.” Everyone being pretty much the entire country, satisfied that Jo-X’s killers died behind Arlene’s Diner—satisfaction that did not include the FBI. They’d taken over the investigation based on the theory that Jo-X had gone missing and might’ve been kidnapped
