The bartender cut him off. “It’s a metaphor.”
Jigs made a sound like he was loosening a hairball in his throat. “Ack. Metaphors. Perfectly lovely mermaid, and you want to shunt her off as a metaphor. You poets need to start facing reality on more of a regular basis.”
The bartender didn’t seem to care what Jigs thought. He found a far corner of the bar that needed polishing.
“I’m after the bastard who’s been slitting throats,” I said.
Jigs cocked an eyebrow at me. “Is that so? Town’s kind of jumpy on that topic.”
“So am I.”
He indicated the sketch. “Would this be him?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. This is who packed me into the East River. It’d be nice if he was also the killer.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Jigs said, eyeballing the sketch. “I watched some of that trial on the tube. Ugliest show in America. Impossible not to watch. I saw the pretty girl getting the once-over from the dead lawyer. He wasn’t dead yet, and neither was she. But now they are. The both of them. How does that play out, Fritz? There was surely no love lost between the two of them. They were adversaries. Who would hold a grudge against one of them and then go on to begrudge the other to the same result?”
“You mean why would someone target Robin Burrell and then go after Riddick?”
“To put it less poetically.”
“That’s the question. Were they targets in their own right, or was it more a case of somebody targeting Marshall Fox? Or people associated with Fox?”
“That’s where I go,” Jigs said. “You find someone who’s too furious about what Mr. Fox did to those two girls last year. An avenging angel, tit for tat.”
“But why now? Fox is in the fight for his life.”
“Not in this state, honey. Here he gets packed off for ten to twenty and he comes back out somewhere in the middle.”
“Still, why shake things up so close to the verdict?”
Jigs consulted his whiskey. “Maybe an acquittal would play in to our good fellow’s hand. It does put Mr. Fox back out on the street, after all.”
“So you mean kill two people to even the score, then if Fox is set free, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”
“Now, that’s poetical.”
I considered what Jigs was saying. It made as much sense as anything else being bandied about. I figured the police were already looking closely at family and close associates of Cynthia Blair and Nicole Rossman. They’d surely be working that angle.
I squared the drawing of Ratface on the bar. Had he known either of those two women? My gut was saying no.
I realized my gut was also saying it didn’t matter.
“I want this guy.” The voice didn’t even sound like mine. It was a profound baritone. Just an octave or two up from a growl. I tapped a finger heavily against the sketch. “I don’t know his angle, and to be honest, I don’t care. This bastard lives nearby. In the neighborhood somewhere. I’ve gotten a couple of positive IDs.”
Jigs set his glass down. “And you want him.”
I looked past the row of bottles behind the bar and confirmed it with the cranky fellow in the watch cap. From my pocket, I took Alan Ross’s envelope and laid a large stack of twenties down on the flyer. “That’s right.”
Jigs nodded sagely. “Yeah, brother. I can see that.”
31
MEGAN WAS LOOKING DOWN at her fingers when the woman approached. “Hey. Remember me?”
Megan looked up. Large. The ubiquitous big-boned. Cute face under a Louise Brooks cut. She was wearing orange jeans and a black T-shirt with a William Wegman dog on it. A Weimaraner. This one wasn’t dressed up in a costume like they usually were. It was sitting on a white box looking terribly cute and perplexed. Megan wondered if that was how she was looking. Cute, she couldn’t say. Perplexed, definitely.
“I’m sorry. Uh. I’m waiting for someone.”
The woman showed her a classic ear-to-ear. “I notice you’ve been waiting for a long time. Maybe you’re being stood up. Do you mind if I join you?” She didn’t wait for an answer but pulled back the chair opposite Megan and made herself at home. “What are we drinking?”
Megan had been staring at a Scotch and soda for forty minutes.
“You want me to freshen that? What is it?”
“It’s Scotch, but-”
The woman called out. “Two Scotches!” She turned back to Megan. “You really don’t recognize me, do you? That’s okay. I’m not offended.”
Megan didn’t know where to put her eyes. This was ridiculous. She had no business coming back to this place. Why not? a voice in her head demanded. What the hell’s wrong with getting on with your life? It’s just a place.
“Ruth,” the woman said.
Megan looked up from the table. “I’m Megan.”
Ruth skidded her chair back from the table. She lifted her shirt slightly while tugging down on her jeans. Megan leaned forward. Part of a tattoo showed just below the woman’s belly button. A dragon of some sort. Most of it remained below the belt.
“You don’t remember?”
Megan shook her head. She did, vaguely. Like in an uncomfortable dream. “Maybe it wasn’t me.”
Ruth grinned. “Oh, it was you, sugar. I don’t forget a face like yours.”
The drinks arrived. Megan could feel her first sip travel to the tip of each limb. It felt good. Ruth touched her lightly on the wrist, then pulled back sharply, as if she’d received a shock. “You need to smile, little girl. Nothing can be that bad.”
Two hours later, Megan switched on the overhead light and stepped aside. The keys slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. She didn’t dare lean over to fetch them. Instead, she kicked at them with her foot. It didn’t even feel like her foot.
Ruth followed her into the apartment with a slight stumble. She laughed, holding her arms out from her sides like a high-wire artist. She turned around as Megan closed the door. “I’d kill for a place in the Village.”
Megan kicked the keys across the floor. “You want it? It’s yours.”
“Yeah, I should be so lucky.”
“Serious. I don’t give-” Megan had to grab hold of a chair.
Ruth started forward. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
“Fine.”
“Look. Do you want to get high?”
As Ruth reached into her pants pocket, Megan grabbed hold of her arm. “Don’t.” It was a fleshy arm. Megan closed her eyes tightly. She was afraid she was going to be sick.
“I’m just thinking of a little nightcap.” Ruth began singing: “‘Nothing could be finer than a little mariwhiner in the eeeeeeevening.’”
Megan squeezed the woman’s arm. “Don’t.”
Ruth shrugged. “Hey. Okay. That’s how you want it. I’m just trying to be a good guest.” She grinned, reaching down and hooking her fingers into Megan’s belt loops. With a jerk, she brought their pelvises together. Megan’s hit Ruth’s below the hips. She stumbled. Ruth cooed, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Megan couldn’t remember putting away such quantities of alcohol since forever. She could taste the bile in her throat. Ruth was holding her close. She cupped her hand on Megan’s ass. “I think we can loosen you up.”
Megan’s head lolled forward onto the woman. She felt as if she were being drawn into a cave. A cave with a dragon hidden in the darkness. This was wrong, all of it. Megan told herself this was not what Helen would have wanted her to be doing. Soft, silly Helen. Where was she? Dammit, why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she coming in the front door right now and telling this Ruth woman to kindly get her big bones out of here? Ruth was kneading Megan’s ass with her fingers. Megan couldn’t breathe. Where the fuck is Helen!
Ruth nuzzled forward and tried to kiss her. Megan jerked her head away.