"That gets old," said the henna redhead.
The three of them burst out laughing. Jimmy pretended to be embarrassed.
"Stephanie dumped the sex machine and found a hard worker willing to marry her," said Kool Light. "She said he was a hard worker, anyway."
"I couldn't find a marriage license issued in her name," said Jimmy. "I checked."
"Aren't you the eager beaver?" Kool Light narrowed her eyes. "Stephanie got married in Mexico. She showed me pictures of the ceremony. It was beautiful. The water there is bluer than ours. At least in the pictures."
"I got married in Vegas," said the bottle blonde. "Dipshit lost five hundred dollars shooting craps, and we had to come home the next day."
"Do you know where Stephanie is living now?" said Jimmy.
The henna redhead shook her head. "Someplace out in the desert, I think. She sent me a Christmas card a couple years ago. Her little girl was dressed as an elf. Even fixed her ears so they looked pointed."
"Did you write down the address?" said Jimmy.
"No, sorry." The henna redhead brightened. "I might have kept the card, though. I got a big box full of pictures and photographs that I'm saving for this big decoupage project. I want to do all my kitchen cabinets in pictures of little kids. My husband's sterile-at least he says he is-but I like kids."
"Decoupage is so over," said the bottle blonde.
"Could you check your box of pictures and see if you kept the Christmas card?" Jimmy asked the henna redhead.
The bottle blonde picked up the check and fished a calculator out of her purse. "Okay, I had the potato blintzes, the hibiscus iced tea"-her manicure flew across the keys-"and the eggplant appetizer, which we split three ways."
"I hardly touched the appetizer," said Kool Light. "Eggplant gives me gas."
"What's Stephanie's married name?" asked Jimmy.
"I had the hummus, the wheatgrass surprise-" The henna redhead glanced at Jimmy. "Something Spanish, I think. Or Jewish. One or the other."
"Jews don't move to the desert," said the bottle blonde.
"Moses led the children of Israel into the desert for forty years," said Kool Light, watching the bottle blonde add the bill. "My hearts of palm was three ninety-nine, not four ninety-nine."
"My second husband was a Jew," the bottle blonde said, "so don't go telling me about the children of Israel."
"Your Christmas cards?" Jimmy reminded the henna redhead. "Will you see if you have Stephanie's address?"
"You're sure you're not from a collection agency?" asked the henna redhead.
"Yeah, like he'd tell you the truth if he was," said the bottle blonde. "You need to stop trusting everything in pants. Okay, your share, with tax and tip, make it eight twenty-five."
"I'm a reporter," said Jimmy. "I'm writing a story on April McCoy. I just want to talk to Stephanie-"
"Let me see the bill," the henna redhead said to the bottle blonde.
"What, you think I'm cheating you?" asked the bottle blonde.
"I had a small wheatgrass surprise," said the henna redhead.
Jimmy plucked the check from the bottle blonde and pulled out his wallet.
"Look girls, we got a real strongman here," said the henna redhead. "He picked that check up like it was nothing."
The women laughed so hard that people at the other tables turned to see what had happened.
Chapter 36
An emerald tree boa and a brown-and-red-striped Burmese reticulated python placidly watched Jimmy as he walked into Santa Monica Exotics. The snakes were piled in the front windows, draped across fake tree limbs, ten and twelve and fourteen footers, their wide flat heads draped across their coiled bulk. Two black-clad goth kids stood outside, holding hands as they stared at the snakes. The girl, draped in silver ankhs and crucifixes, eyes blackened like a raccoon, flicked her tongue stud at the python.
A two-toned colobus monkey screeched, its black and white fur looking like formal attire, but Jimmy ignored it, looking for Samantha Packard. A caged red-green macaw followed his progress as he passed the gekkos and iguanas. A West African dwarf crocodile, an ugly beast no larger than a dachshund, opened wide its mouth as Jimmy walked past, its teeth like sharpened dice. A small boy pressed his face against a glass front, and the tarantulas inside waved back. A nearby cluster of black Mexican scorpions clicked their claws against the glass. The sound gave Jimmy the creeps.
Samantha Packard had called him at the office this morning, sounding out of breath, her voice little more than a whisper. "Santa Monica Exotics-do you know it? Three o'clock."
The store was a collection of nooks and crannies, narrow aisles leading into large open areas like clearings in the jungle. A sales-woman in black leather pants was showing a gold chinchilla to a middle-aged couple, brushing out its fur before handing it over to the wife, who cuddled it like a child. The chinchilla had tiny black eyes, a silky yellow pelt, and the face of a sewer rat.
Jimmy turned the corner and saw Samantha Packard at the end of the aisle, staring into one of the cages, her shoulders slumped. She was wearing a lively orchid-colored dress and her hair was coifed, but her posture gave her an air of fatigue and defeat. He came up behind her, moving so quietly that she jumped when he spoke her name.
Samantha pressed her back against the glass wall of the cage, terrified. In the dim recesses a ring-tailed lemur dangled from a tree limb, sleeping.
"It's okay," said Jimmy.
"You're-you're a little early."
Jimmy could see a small bruise on the side of her jaw, barely covered by makeup. "I'm glad you called me. Does he know?"
Samantha blinked. "Know what?"
"About the letter?"
Samantha glanced away, then back. "I'm sorry."
"It wasn't you, it was me. Walsh tried to tell, but I didn't believe him."
Samantha acted like she hadn't heard him, turning back to the cage, watching the lemur snooze, a silvery marsupial with bony humanoid hands. "They sleep sixteen hours a day, eighteen hours sometimes, dreaming their life away. They're very intelligent. They're so much smarter than us-" She jerked as Jimmy touched her shoulder, flinging off his hand, still watching the lemur, her dull eyes reflected in the glass.
Jimmy heard something behind him.
Mick Packard acted startled that he had been caught, his surprise turning to anger. "I told you to stop bothering my wife." He was a lousy actor.
Jimmy glanced at Samantha, who maintained her vigil on the lemur cage.
Packard advanced, looking tough in black turtleneck and black pants, hands poised in martial arts readiness. "You picked the wrong woman to harass."
"I think there's been a mistake."
"I'm not the one who made a mistake."
"You gave me the idea when we met at Garrett Walsh's funeral. I'm doing a profile on action stars and their wives. I wanted to interview Mrs. Packard first-"
Packard did one of his signature spin-turns, and Jimmy dodged, the kick just grazing his head. Packard looked surprised again. He had slowed down since he was a top box-office draw, but even the near miss almost tore Jimmy's ear off.
Jimmy backed away, fists cocked, watching Packard's eyes as the man closed in.
"Running away?" Packard was talking too loudly.
Jimmy glanced around and saw a video cameraman shooting from the far end of the aisle. The sight distracted him for a moment, long enough for Packard to attack again, his roundhouse kick slamming into the wall next to his head. Jimmy grabbed his outstretched foot and twisted, sending him to the ground bellowing.
Packard got quickly to his feet, limping slightly. "You've had training."