He waited, shoulders bunched, as I ran a search.
“Close to seven million manufactured.”
“There you go. Walk into any damn gun shop or show and buy dozens. Not to mention private sales. Okay, thanks for your time. Let’s both take a break.”
Once home, I took the rear steps down to the garden, paused to feed the koi, and continued to Robin’s studio.
Usually she’s got several projects going, working on a mix of electric and acoustic instruments. For the past three weeks she’d been busy with one: restoring a hundred-and-fifty-year-old Antonio Torres classical guitar with a tissue-thin top and a history of ownership by several major composers and players. The challenge: alter as little as possible but do enough to resuscitate tone destroyed by wood-butchery in Barcelona.
Not her usual gig but the Swiss-born artisan in New York who used to take on that kind of thing had retired and forwarded clients to Robin.
If she found the assignment intimidating she didn’t let on. But hours spent in the studio had been stretching later than usual, the roar-and-buzz of power tools replaced by the click-clack of tweezers and scalpels.
I opened the door slowly and paused in the doorway to make sure I didn’t startle her.
Blanche had also gotten with the program. Instead of her usual jump off the couch followed by a heavy-breathing waddle toward me, she remained in place. Glancing at the workbench where Robin sat wearing magnifying goggles and holding a tiny tessera of inlay an inch above the Torres’s sound hole. Repairing the rosette, a masterpiece of inlay that had warped. Hundreds of snippets of dyed wood and ivory no larger than toothpick tips requiring painstaking reinstallation.
She smiled. “It’s okay, girlfriend, do your romantic thing. Same for you, darling.”
But both of us waited until she’d set the sliver.
Removing the thick specs, she breathed out, rolled her shoulders, knuckled her eyes, finally smiled.
“How’d it go, babe?”
The reunion you set up?
I kneeled and received slobbering affection from Blanche. “Interesting case.”
“That’s great.” Walking away from the bench, Robin untied her hair, shook it loose, removed her apron, dusted off black overalls.
I said, “Kicking off early?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I’ll resume later. It’s a gorgeous little thing, isn’t it? Can’t wait to hear it once it’s playable.”
I stood, took her in my arms, held her and kissed her, breathing in perfume and sawdust and oddly aromatic sweat.
“You have lunch with Big Guy?”
“Italian.”
“Pizza the size of a manhole cover, you eat a slice or two, he demolishes the rest?”
“Pasta with black truffles.”
“Ooh,” she said. “Now I’m jealous.” She rubbed the back of my neck. “Looser than it’s been in a while, good for you. Not that it’ll stop me from guilt-tripping you as I pry open a can of tuna with aching fingers and pair it with dry crackers.”
She feigned coughing.
I cracked up.
“Glad someone thinks it’s funny.” Grinning.
I said, “How about dinner as atonement? Maybe the Bel-Air? Restaurant or bar, been a while.”
“That might partially compensate. If you toss in special devotion.”
“Dessert?”
“More like some serious calorie-burning afterward.”
“I’m free now.”
“And I’m starving and will soon have fish breath. Sure, let’s do the bar, keep it light, catch some music.”
“Perfect.” In more ways than one.
We left the studio, entered the house, and went into the kitchen. I said, “Mea culpa, culpa mea,” as she reached for the tuna can.
“You’re on the right track but have a way to go.”
I drank coffee as she ate, remained at the kitchen table when she went to freshen up. When the shower began running, I texted Milo and asked him to send me Giovanni Aggiunta’s and Meagin March’s headshots.
Why?
I told him.
Doctor Romantic.
The emoji that followed stuck its tongue out in disgust.
If you don’t want me to...
Fine, on their way. Any shame’s on you.
Chapter 8
The bar at the Bel-Air was half empty when we arrived, nearly full by the time we’d had our first drinks.
On the menu, tagliatelle with black truffles.
I said, “Karma.”
Robin said, “Did you plan it?”
“Wish I was that prescient.”
She stared at me. “I guess I believe you. What are you going to have?”
“Black bass sounds good.”
“I may steal some of that, too.”
She leaned over and kissed me. “This is great, I’m so glad you’re back in the swing.”
Midway through the food, the entertainment arrived. Solo pianist, older guy, bad suit, great touch, long memory. My opportunity came when he took a break and Robin said, “ ’Scuse me, back in a sec.”
The restrooms at the Bel-Air are outdoors, a short walk from the bar and a right angle beyond the restaurant.
More than a sec required. I went up to the hostess and showed her the photos.
She said, “Gio? He comes here. Her... don’t think so... nope, never. Why?”
“He and my girlfriend have kind of a history and bumping into each other could be, you know.” I smiled and shrugged.
“Awkward City, got it,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for a while and he’s always with a date. Would that hurt or help?”
“Definitely help, she’s the one who ended it.”
“Good for her. When I say dates I mean different women.”
“That fits. Thanks.”
She looked me over. “Treat her good.”
“Promise.”
A group of four middle-aged men in expensive suits and gut-flaunting T-shirts stepped up behind her, laughing.
“Welcome, guys, we’ve got a nice table over by the bar.”
One of the men said, “Closer the better, gorgeous.”
Laughter all around. The hostess forced a smile.
I was back at our table when Robin returned.
Later that evening, after we’d burned calories and showered together, she slipped on a robe and tied her hair up. “I thought I’d sneak over and take a look at the Torres. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Go for it.”
When she was gone, I phoned Milo at home.
“What’s up?” he said. Clogged voice. Weary.
I said, “Aggiunta goes by Gio. He was a regular at the Bel-Air bar and took lots of women there. Not including Meagin.”
“How’d you find this out?”
“A not-so-confidential source.” I told him about the hostess.
He said, “Covert operation while your true love’s in the ladies’? Of course you told her what you were up to. Not.”
I said, “Need-to-know basis.”
“You also didn’t tell her you figured out she called me.”
“Same criterion.”
“So the guy’s a big-time player, no surprise.”
I said, “What I find interesting is he never took Meagin there and she was one of many. So maybe there was no long-term affair. They met jogging or at some other chance event.”
“Maybe... you realize what that does. Expands the jealous-husband thing way beyond Mr. March.”
“On the other hand, it was Ms. March who got shot.”
“Coulda been wrong place, wrong time.”