"Did you get that from Rollo?"
Napitano nodded. "A gift."
Rollo and Napitano had become close a year ago after Jimmy had introduced them. Rollo had been hiding out and needed someplace safe to stay for a few days, and Napitano was eager to show off his new armored limousine. They were a good match. Both of them were smart and funny, with no respect for protocol or the common man, and Rollo, like Jimmy, wasn't intimidated by Napitano's wealth and power. Rollo was a free agent, a quality Napitano respected above all others.
Napitano caressed the lump of rock with his fingertips, his face glowing, probably imagining himself the lord of the moon. "Try to imagine where this has come from, the tales it could telclass="underline" the bitter chill of the lunar surface, the bombardment of meteor showers, the steady rain of cosmic rays-"
"Where would Rollo get a moon rock, Nino? All of them have been catalogued. They're either at the Smithsonian or on display at museums. Maybe the White House."
"Such naivete." Napitano carefully replaced the rock on his desk, then leaned back in his chair, his enormous head lolling against the tiger skin. "The more precious the cargo, the more likely that some percentage will be lost in transit. A tax of desire. That is what I wanted to talk with you about." He crossed his bare feet, the pink cashmere pajamas softly rustling. "I want you to do a story on sacred objects, objects of disputed provenance, things that don't belong in private hands."
"Looted artworks? Biological oddities? Necklaces of gold teeth and eagle headdresses? How about a vial of anthrax?" Jimmy shook his head. "I'm working on something, Nino."
Napitano caressed the underside of his soft throat, then thumped the underside of his double chin. "Put it aside."
"No."
"No?" Napitano wiggled his pink toes, soft baby toes that had never touched a bare floor or anything rougher than glove leather. "This project of yours, this secret thing-it must be quite important."
"It is."
"Dangerous too, perhaps?"
Jimmy didn't like Napitano's expression.
"I ask because the editorial receptionist has been receiving some very ugly phone messages for you."
"What else is new?"
"This man keeps calling. His threats have been quite explicit- and quite vulgar." Napitano ran a hand through his oiled locks, rearranging them across his forehead. "He won't leave his name, but this gentleman always calls from a phone booth, a di ferent phone booth each time, which would indicate a certain seriousness on his part."
"It just indicates he's got a pocket full of quarters."
"Ah, Jimmy's vaunted cowboy sangfroid."
"I'll do what I always do, Nino. Walk light, watch my back, and hope for the best."
"How deliciously optimistic of you, dear boy."
Chapter 12
"The place don't usually look like this." Rita Shafer picked up the dirty clothes, tossed them behind the sofa, and sat down. She patted the cushion beside her, beckoning. "Darn kids. They'd live like pigs if I let them."
"Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Shafer," said Jimmy, iridescent Froot Loops crunching underfoot as he crossed the carpet and sat down beside her on the swaybacked sofa.
"Rita," she corrected him, pulling one leg up so her bare knee touched him. "And it's Miss. I'm free and easy. That Ms. shit-I never got the point of it."
A TV blared from the back bedroom, the channels changing every few moments, accompanied by the outraged howls of children. Rita Shafer's stucco one-bedroom apartment was part of a fourplex just north of downtown Long Beach. Unopened mail was strewn on the floor, utility bills with overdue stamped on the outside in red letters. Shutting off your lights and gas wasn't enough-first the city wanted to embarrass you. Through the security bars on the side window of the living room, Jimmy could see the Queen Mary docked in the harbor, shimmering in the afternoon sun, the former luxury liner now a floating mall for tourists.
"You here for Harlen?" asked Rita.
A Nerf football landed in Jimmy's lap, startling him. He smiled and picked it up off the floor, standing now. "Go out for a pass," he said to the sullen eight-year-old in the doorway, cocking the football behind his ear. "Go long, I'll hit you."
"Just give me the fucking ball, mister," said the boy, scratching the seat of his Scooby Doo underwear.
"Axyl Rose Shafer, you apologize right now to the nice man," said Rita.
Axyl Rose gave his mother the finger and turned away. Jimmy bounced the foam football off the back of his head before he took a step. "Hey!" howled Axyl Rose, angry, not hurt.
"Don't talk to your mother like that," said Jimmy.
Axyl started to flip Jimmy off, then thought better of it, scooting away into the back bedroom.
Rita pulled Jimmy back onto the couch. "Thanks. I need a man around to keep Axyl in line." She snorted. "'Course, that's not the only thing a man's good for."
Rita Shafer had started out pretty, taut and slender, with high sharecropper cheeks and large eyes, but she was exhausted now, beaten down, her skin sallow, her eyes dull. All the makeup and caked-on mascara didn't hide the damage. There had been three kids running around the cluttered living room when he arrived: Axyl and a couple of younger ones, four or five years old maybe, skinny blond girls with skin like cream and sad blue eyes. The girls stopped what they were doing when they saw Jimmy, suddenly on their best behavior. Three kids, and Rita was still slim-hipped and high breasted, sexy in short-shorts and Harley-Davidson tank top. Only her face showed her mileage.
"You got kids?" Rita asked.
"Never had the courage."
"None that you know of." One of Rita's front teeth was chipped, but it was a good smile.
"I think I'd know. I hope so, anyway."
"That's a sweet thing to say." Rita turned it over, like a pretty pebble. She held up her beer can. "Get you a cold one?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"You're better than fine," cooed Rita. "Me, I could use another one." She headed for the refrigerator, turning around partway there to see if he was watching her ass.
Rita Shafer was the sister of Harlen Wilson Shafer, and her apartment was his last-known address. According to the Department of Corrections, Shafer was a small-timer with two convictions for sales of a controlled substance, a high-school dropout who had recently finished a five-year pop at Vacaville, Walsh's alma mater. Jimmy had read through Shafer's jacket on the computer at SLAP and known he was the one-Walsh's last date. No history of violence with Shafer; he was more likely Walsh's dealer than his killer, but Jimmy still wanted to talk to him.
Rita came back from the kitchen and popped a beer, delicately cupping her hand over the top to shield herself from the spray. It was a curiously ladylike gesture that made Jimmy want to scrub her clean.
"You were right before. I am looking for your brother."
"I figured that's why you were here," nodded Rita, plunking herself down beside him. She killed half the beer in one long swallow.
"No, it's nothing like that."
"Lucky you." Rita took another hit of the beer. "Harlen stayed with me about a week when he got out of prison, emptied my purse when he left." She edged closer to him. "He left me some pot and some pills, like some pack rat, thinking it was a fair exchange. I still got most of the pot. Good stuff too." She plucked at the hair on his arms. "I don't smoke so much anymore. It makes me too horny." She turned toward the bedroom doorway. "Turn down that goddamned TV!"
"Do you know where he's staying?"
"Harlen's not bad. He's just got bad luck," said Rita. "Been like that his whole life-he calls tails, heads come up."
"Does he have a job? I really need to get in touch-"
"A job?" Rita threw back her head and showed Jimmy her fillings.