"Rita?" The two little blond girls were standing in the doorway, holding hands. "Rita, Axyl Rose won't let us watch Sesame Street. He says it's for babies."
"You tell Axyl Rose if I have to come in there, I'm gonna whip his ass," said Rita. "He should be in school anyway. His damn earache got better as soon as the bus left."
Jimmy watched the girls run back into the bedroom, giggling.
"Harlen said he loved me, but he just couldn't stand it here," Rita said to Jimmy. "He said it was louder than prison and the food wasn't as good, and I kept ragging on him because I don't like drugs around my kids. You got a cigarette?"
"Sorry."
"That's all right, I done quit anyway." Rita smiled, her breasts shifting in the tank top. "You don't smoke, you don't want a beer- you have any vices, handsome?"
"I've got a few left. My girlfriend is working on them though."
Rita played with her white-blond hair. "Me, I'm a broad-minded person." She turned again to the bedroom. "I told you, turn that thing down!" She looked at Jimmy and smiled, drawing her long legs up. "Now, where were we?"
"Did your brother ever mention someone he knew in prison named Garrett Walsh?"
"Harlen didn't talk much about prison." Rita shrugged. "If he did, I weren't listening."
"Garrett Walsh was a filmmaker," Jimmy said helpfully.
"Porno?" Rita sat up. "I don't go for that, mister."
"No, real films."
"I don't know what you heard, but I don't do that no more."
"I'm just trying to get in touch with your brother. If he calls you- if he comes by, I'd appreciate you letting me know where he's staying." He handed her his business card. "My cell phone number is on here. Call me anytime."
"SLAP magazine?" Rita pondered the card. "I heard of that. What's Harlen done now?"
"Probably nothing. He was one of the last people to see Garrett Walsh alive. I'd like to ask him some questions, that's all."
Rita shook her head. "I don't think Harlen would like talking to you." She stared at the business card. "Is Harlen going to jail again?"
"I doubt it."
"Harlen called me a stupid whore when he left. He's my brother and I love him, but he shouldn't call me names in front of my kids. You think that's right?"
Jimmy looked her in the eyes. "No."
"How come I never meet guys like you?"
Jimmy smiled. "Just lucky, I guess."
Rita shook her head, not returning the smile. "No, I ain't lucky. I'm just like Harlen that way." She took a deep breath. "He comes by for more money, I'll give you a buzz. You got a brother, Jimmy?"
"Yeah."
"I bet you get along fine. I bet you're a real family."
"You'd lose that bet. My brother and I-we're not close."
"Got to be his fault."
Jimmy handed her the mug shot of Harlen Shafer he had downloaded from the Department of Corrections database. "Is this accurate?"
"What do you mean?"
"This photo was taken when Harlen went into prison. Does he still look the same?"
"Pretty much." Rita rapped the photograph with a finger. "His hair is longer now. I don't like it so much, but he don't care what I think. His face is different too, harder. I guess prison does that."
"Do you have a more recent shot of your brother? One that I could make a copy of?"
Rita shook her head. "I got something I want you to see." She pulled her purse out from under the couch and fished out her wallet. The red leather was worn smooth, the sides bulging, the seams split. She flicked through the photo section, pulled a black-and-white out of the yellowed glassine, and handed it over.
Jimmy stared at two underfed kids standing there, holding hands. The boy's jeans had a hole in one knee; the girl's dress was well worn but pressed. They both looked scared, but the boy was trying hard to hide it.
"That's me and Harlen. I was nine, he was eleven. Our mama had just died, and we were being farmed out to kin, separated. I know you're looking for Harlen. I just want you to know what he was like before-before things changed. He was a good big brother once. I want you to remember that."
"I'm not out to hurt him."
"Life changes people. They start out one way, then things happen and they're not the same afterward."
"I know," said Jimmy. "I just need to talk to him."
"I believe you." Rita took the photo from him and tucked it carefully back into her wallet. "I don't know why, but I feel like I can trust you."
Jimmy stood up and shook her hand. "It was nice meeting you, Rita."
"Nice meeting you too." Rita pumped his hand, not wanting to let go. She waited until he was almost at the front door. "I think he's staying at one of them… motels, you know, a no-tell motel. I don't know where, but I know what Harlen likes."
"Thank you."
"That doesn't really do much, does it?" Rita looked embarrassed. "There's only probably about a million of them motels around. I just wanted to help."
"I appreciate it."
"You find him, tell him no hard feelings about him ripping me off. Tell him to come by sometime. There's always a beer waiting for him." Rita turned away so she wouldn't have to see the door close behind him.
Chapter 13
Rollo glanced out into the twilight before scurrying inside Jimmy's third-floor apartment, a laptop computer clutched to his chest, the rain falling warm and clean behind him, one of those summer storms that didn't cool anyone off.
Jimmy stood in the doorway. "Come on in, Rollo!" he shouted over the rain, calling to the row of apartments across the courtyard, his hands cupping his mouth like a megaphone. A fatigued pigeon resting on a phone wire cocked its head. "You bring the drugs and donkey porn?"
"Very funny." Rollo unzipped his windbreaker as he walked inside, taking handfuls of cell phones out of the inner pockets, clattering them down onto Jimmy's kitchen table. He headed for the refrigerator. "You got any Mountain Dew?"
Jimmy sat down at the table and spread out the papers Rollo had given him at the funeral, listing over two months of Walsh's prepaid phone calls. Like a lot of ex-cons freed from the system's rigid phone restrictions, Walsh was an inveterate talker. The record contained hundreds of brief calls, touchstone calls rather than conversation. Jimmy had barely started checking them out. He picked up one of Rollo's cell phones. "Clones?"
"Just like you asked for." Rollo cracked a can of Mountain Dew and sat beside him, opened his laptop. Now that everyone and his cockatoo had Caller ID, the only way to run Walsh's numbers without being tagged was to use untraceable clone phones, their ID and billing codes identical to a legitimate unit in use somewhere else. Rollo cracked his knuckles, loosening up his fingers. "Hundred bucks a dozen, but no guarantee on how long they're good for. The phone company is getting smarter all the time."
"Boo-hoo."
"Hey, man, people put in a lot of time and effort scamming the system, then some supercomputer steps in and ruins everything." Rollo dragged a few sheets of crumpled paper out of his pocket. "You're lucky Walsh didn't have a clone, or you'd be shit out of luck. These are the last calls he made-my inside guy at the company couldn't pull them until this morning. That's what he said, anyway. I think he was holding out for a big-screen TV." He glanced around the apartment. "Speaking of which, isn't it about time you joined the modern world? That Trinitron is a joke. My Game Boy has a better picture."
"TV looks better small. If I want big, I'll go to a movie."
Rollo looked at his reflection in the computer screen, tugged at the soul patch under his lower lip. "You think I should grow back the goatee?"
"Everyone needs a hobby."
"This girl I met yesterday said I have a weak chin. A goatee might help cover it up. Or I could grow longer sideburns." Rollo nodded, tilting his head. "Yeah. Distract attention from my chin."