Part 13 (1/2)

Sans a visible expression, she stepped aside and I caught the scent of either Aqua Velva or Hai Karate.

”This is Erma,” she said and lifted her Kirk Douglas chin toward the hall. Freda's twin stepped out from a doorway and nodded to me.

”Hey, Erma,” I said. I sounded nice and chipper. If anything, she was more muscular than Freda. Either one could crack my head like a walnut. Erma had a sportcoat and among her many bulges, I noticed one in particular underneath her left arm. It would probably be a big caliber gun. You got forearms the size of Dubuque hams, you need the opportunity to put them to use.

I walked down the hall between them, feeling like the special sauce between two all-beef patties.

The matching Bronco Nugurskis showed me to a small office where a bone-thin woman with wispy brown hair, rosy cheeks, and a small mouth with small white teeth was talking on a cell phone. She sat behind a small gla.s.s desk, her black nylon encased legs were crossed. A white laptop was open in front of her. While she talked, her eyes scanned the computer screen.

Her fingers tapped hard on the keyboard, twice, and then said into the phone, ”They're your f.u.c.king problem now.”

She paused, glanced at me, then looked back at the screen.

”You were paid to do a job, not f.u.c.k up,” she said. ”Fix it and don't call me until you do.” Her voice was as sharp and cutting as the points of her high heels.

She disconnected the call and looked at me.

”John Rockne,” I said.

”She's in the studio.” The way she said it, it sounded like I was interrupting Shannon Sparrow in the middle of taking a c.r.a.p.

”I'm sure it won't take long,” I said. ”By the way, are you Molly?”

She ignored me and my outstretched hand, then answered the phone after it vibrated on the desk.

”Are you sure?” she said, her voice softer, almost warm. Something told me the boss was on the other end of the line. There was a brief pause before she locked her eyes onto mine.

”I'll bring him right up,” she said.

The first thing I saw of Shannon Sparrow in person was her pubic hair.

”Shannon, this is Mr. Rockne,” Molly said, and immediately took her leave.

The famous singer sat spread-eagled in an overstuffed armchair, wearing a sports bra and a pair of bikini underwear rolled down to just above her happy place. I stood there, open mouthed, G.o.d only knows what kind of expression on my face. I didn't know what to say. 'I'm your biggest fan' didn't seem right under the circ.u.mstances. Nor did 'I really admire your work.'

She pressed a wet washcloth against her pubic mound, and then with a straight razor, she sheared about a half-inch off the top of her patch, as it were. She then lifted the razor and with a finger, delicately brushed the pubic hair into an envelope.

”Is this a bad time?” I said, thinking this was a really bad time for me. Maybe when I was young and single it would have been fun, but a happily married man, even if he is a private investigator, doesn't really need to be seeing something like this.

”I send them to my doctor for a.n.a.lysis,” she said, by way of greeting. So I guess she didn't think it was a bad time. ”You know, they study my vitamins, nutrients, what I'm missing, what I've got too much of.”

”I never realized you could learn so much from pubic hair,” I said. I don't believe I'd ever used 'learn' and 'pubic hair' in the same sentence.

”It's like Nietzsche said, 'when you look into pubic hair, pubic hair looks into you,” she said. She gave a weird sort of giggle after she said it.

”Well, I suppose in your job you have to be very aware of your health,” I said. I felt like I was trying to communicate with an alien. I needed Richard Dreyfuss to start playing notes on an organ.

Shannon Sparrow took the opportunity to respond by producing a huge joint. She took a monstrous. .h.i.t from it. She then set the joint back in an ashtray, picked up the razor, and sheared off another half-inch of pubic hair. It was like she was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the shrubs.

”Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?” I said.

”Shoot,” she said and shook off another batch of clippings into the envelope.

”Jesse Barre.”

”Technically that's a statement,” she said.

”Let me rephrase. What do you know about Jesse Barre?”

”So sad,” she said, without a trace of emotion in her voice. She lifted the joint and gave it a good two-second suck. Maybe that was how she grieved. Boy, I had enough to go to the tabloids. I wondered what the National Enquirer would pay. I could see the headline: P.I. claims famous singer shaves pubic hair while smoking marijuana!!!

”How well did you know her?” I said.

”We b.u.mped into each other once in awhile,” she said. ”Well, when I wasn't traveling. You know her Dad right? You're working for him?”

I smiled. ”I don't remember telling you that.”

She shrugged her shoulders. ”Someone did.”

The stench of the marijuana smoke was getting to me. Or maybe it was the little scene unfolding in front of me. Probably both. I felt like I was stuck in some kind of 1960s experimental film and soon a man in all black with a long goatee would come out and start rambling about the symbolic roots of Fascism.

”Tell me about the guitar she was making for you.”

”Oh, Christ, I'd practically forgotten about it,” she said. She shook her head, a vaguely self-condemning act. ”I've got quite a few, but this one was going to be special. Jesse said she was making it just for me, you know, my size, my playing style, my sound, as it were.”

”Did you approach her or did she approach you?”

She sucked on the joint, then answered while exhaling. ”I approached her. I'd seen a lot of her guitars around. Studio guys love to record them. A lot of dumba.s.ses think they're only for looks, but the sound is truly incredible.”

”So you asked her to-”

”I told her to spare no expense,” she said. ”I just wanted her to make her masterpiece. She told me she loved it so much, you know.

”The guitar?”

”Building guitars. It was what she lived for.” Now, for the first time, some emotion crept into Shannon's voice. She and Jesse had obviously enjoyed some sort of relations.h.i.+p. How deep it had gone, I wasn't sure.

”I guess in that sense, she died happy, doing what she loved to do,” Shannon said. ”We should all be so lucky.”

She licked the envelope and sealed it closed, then rolled her panties back up. What, no aftershave lotion?

”If she had finished it, how much do you think a guitar like that would have been worth?” I said.

”Fifty grand. A hundred grand,” she said. ”More if I'd actually played it.” No boastfulness on her part, just a statement of fact.