“Um—yeah, it was,” I said, faltering a little. “I needed his help—with my story on Devon. And finding out who’s been trying to sabotage me.”
“His help? Let me guess—did he and Devon know each other as members of the Big Hair, Small Brains Association of America?”
I almost laughed—at the absurdity of the comment and Beau’s obvious distaste for Chris—but I didn’t, which was a good thing. That would not have helped matters. And I could see that help was what I needed.
“Well, you’re partially right,” I said, trying to sound cooperative. “Chris used to work as a model, and I need information about modeling agencies.”
“And you had to have him up to your apartment to discuss it?”
“No, we were in the coffee shop. And he just dropped by for a minute, Beau—on his way someplace else. It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal. Is that right?”
“That’s really funny,” I said, starting to feel a swell of anger. “I’m not supposed to mind when a girl you used to screw in Turkey calls and suggests you meet up, and yet you seem irritated by the fact that I spent thirty minutes with someone who could help save my job and my reputation.”
I had a head of steam going now, like I was Joan of Arc trying to make my case on horseback to a legion of French soldiers. To my embarrassment, I sensed that Bob, the evening doorman of my building, was watching us out of the corner of his eye.
“Isn’t it really just more payback, Bailey?” Beau demanded. I’d never seen him look so annoyed. “Like your taking off for the weekend just because I had to be out of town.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.”
With that he turned on his heels and strode off angrily, the back panels of his coat flapping in the cold night air. I just stood there, not knowing what the hell to do. For a brief moment I felt a temptation to take off after him, but I then overrode the urge. I didn’t like how Beau had managed to turn the tables so that our spat tonight had been about some totally innocent activity on my part—excluding my flashback to the night I ripped Chris’s clothes off—rather than his fling with Abigail, the dig-site slut.
As I slunk into the lobby of my building, Bob offered a rueful smile. I wondered if he sometimes went home and yammered to his wife about me over a cold Bud. “There’s this girl in the building who seems nice enough, but no sooner does she get into a relationship with some guy than she’s picking a fight with him on the curb.”
In desperation I thought of pounding on Landon’s door, but it wasn’t fair, considering his head cold, to subject him to more pathos about my love life. I thawed a chicken cutlet in my microwave and cooked it halfheartedly to within an inch of its life. A few times I felt an overwhelming urge to call Beau, but I fought it off. Why should I be the one trying to make things right?
At eleven I considered hitting the sack, but I knew it would be pointless. I could already envision the horrible bout of insomnia that lay ahead of me tonight. A thought suddenly snagged my brain. This might be a good time to reach Tommy. He hadn’t answered or returned my calls, but at this hour I might catch him off guard. From what I remembered from the weekend, he was nice and loose as midnight rolled around.
I was right. He answered hello with the deafening sounds of live music and bar yell behind him. And, surprisingly, he didn’t seem to mind hearing from me now; that was a nice change of pace.
“I’ve been wondering how you were doing,” I half shouted.
“Well, ain’t that sweet of you to be concerned,” he shouted back.
“I’d love to get together and talk—I have some information I’d like to share with you.”
“Is that right?” The music had subsided and been replaced by the sound of a car zooming by. Wherever he was, he’d managed to step out onto the street, away from the epicenter of noise.
“It’s about Devon. I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve learned.”
“No time like the present.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said there’s no time like the present. I’m at the Living Room. A dude I know is performing here. Why don’t you mosey that cute little butt of yours down here?”
I knew the Living Room. It was a bar on the Lower East Side, known for showcasing emerging bands in the back room. I’d been there a few times over the years, but not lately. The Lower East Side, once a ghetto for European immigrants in the 1800s, was now a hip area filled with wine bars, boutiques, and trendy restaurants, and it tended to attract mostly twenty-somethings. At my age I now felt like I needed to obtain special clearance to go down there. But that didn’t matter tonight. I was anxious to see Tommy and promised to be there within thirty minutes.
I left on the jeans and V-neck sweater but added a black leather jacket. I also swiped on black eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss, hoping it would assist in the extraction of info.
I figured it would take a while to find Tommy in the dense crowd of the bar, but when my cab pulled up, he was standing out in front with the smokers, dressed in just a T-shirt and black jeans, sucking on the last of a cigarette. From the look on his face, he appeared to have a nice buzz going.
“That was fast,” he said. “You must be just dying to see me.” He flicked his butt into the street. “Why don’t we go inside, and you can buy me a drink?”
“You’ve got it,” I said. I loved the idea that the drinks would be on my tab. Maybe Tory was right—the last album had really tanked.
The place was packed and smelled of beer, sweat, and dampish wool coats. Somehow we managed to find a space to stand at the end of the bar. The band was obviously on a break, though I could see lots of people milling around in the back room.
Tommy asked for a Maker’s on the rocks, and I ordered a beer for myself. He gripped his drink with long, slim fingers that must have served him well on the guitar. Though we’d had a couple of brief conversations at Scott’s, this was the closest I’d ever been to him. He was way too bony and inked for my liking, but his gray eyes were compelling. Maybe that’s what had hooked Devon and Tory.
I flashed him a friendly smile but tried not to seem too flirty, knowing that if I gave off the wrong vibe, he’d start talking about turning me into a human hot fudge sundae.
“How do you know the band?” I asked over the din.
“What?” he asked.
“The band. How do you know them?”
“The drummer is the brother of a buddy of mine. They fuckin’ stink—but I promised to show tonight.”
“That’s nice. I mean, it must still be pretty hard for you right now—with Devon’s death and all. As you told me, Devon was your lady for a while.”
“Yeah, I’m a big hero, aren’t I?”
“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said. “That it was definitely Devon’s eating disorder that led to her death.”
“That’s what they tell me. But like I said to you last weekend, she never pulled any of that stuff on my watch.”
“The night she died, she was obviously suffering the side effects of losing vital nutrients—like potassium. It’s that loss of nutrients that leads to a heart failure.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m not an M.D.” I almost laughed out loud. That had to be the understatement of the year.
“When you lose potassium, it also affects your muscles,” I explained. “That was probably why she seemed dizzy before she went back to her room. And by one o’clock she would have been feeling pretty awful.”