“Yeah, it was that heavy construction paper. You know . . .”

“John . . .”

“. . . the kind you used in school with all the colors? It’s so thick! It’s practically a Bowie knife. You could cut a T-bone—”

Anna glared at me and I stopped talking. There was no getting around it. I was going to have to tell the truth.

“Okay, I was in a bit of a . . . tussle.”

“A tussle?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a cross between a tumble and a wrestle. A tussle. From the Latin word tussilius. Meaning to—”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

She tapped her feet and drummed her fingers. She was very coordinated.

“A tussle with who?” she said.

“Some guy.”

“Some guy as in some guy you don’t know? Or some guy as in some guy you didn’t get a good look at?”

“I would say the latter.”

“And how did your hand get hurt?”

“Well, we were—”

“Tussling.”

“Right. And a woodworking machine got turned on, and we crashed into it, and it went right between my fingers. A freak shop accident. Happens all the time. You ever have a shop teacher? Ever notice how they all have part of a finger missing? In high school my shop teacher was the baseball coach, and one time we asked when practice was, and he held up three fingers but one of the fingers was half gone, so somebody yelled out ‘two forty-five?’”

I chuckled, but as Anna wasn’t laughing, I quickly stopped.

By now, we were in the living room. Anna sat on the couch, propped her feet up on the ottoman, grabbed a throw pillow, and hugged it to her chest. I gave her a brief overview of the case.

“Did you talk to your sister?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And?”

“She said I should do what I gotta do.”

This brought an eye roll.

“Look, it was a freak accident,” I said. “ I’m sure it had very little to do with the case.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe right now. I have to keep at it and try to figure out what’s going on.”

I recognized the look on Anna’s face. It was the expression she wears when she wants to tell me to drop this whole PI thing, that I got out of law enforcement for a reason. That what the world really needs is another fucking accountant. She opened her mouth, and I knew she was going to launch into the speech I’d heard quite a few times.

Instead she just shrugged her shoulders, indifferent.

Holy Christ, that was even worse.

•

The next morning I was back in my office, a fresh pot of Peet’s coffee (I was on the mailing program—a fresh bag every month straight from Portland, Oregon) and the telephone. I looked up the number for St. Clair Salvage and dialed the number.

There was no answer. I left a message, letting him know that I was a private investigator working for Clarence Barre and that I would like to talk to him about Jesse.

By lunchtime I had finished all of the filing and paperwork I could find around the office and Hornsby still hadn’t called me. I left another message, this time alerting Nevada Hornsby to the fact that he had just won a year’s supply of a new product called Turkey Jerky—all the great taste of jerky with half the fat and calories. Now available in three flavors: ranch, jalapeño and lemon lime! I left my number and urged him to hurry, hurry, hurry!

By mid-afternoon I had searched the ’net for as much information as I could find on Hornsby. There wasn’t much. Just a very short human-interest story in the Free Press about St. Clair Salvage. Nothing useful that shed any light on Clarence Barre’s enemy number one.

I looked at the clock. It was now dinnertime, and Hornsby still hadn’t called me. My next message informed him that a distant relative living in Hawaii had died and left him a forty-eight-acre estate on Maui, complete with three swimming pools, a cabana, and a small population of native island girls who ran the property’s private nude beach. All he had to do was call the number (coincidentally, the same one offering a year of Turkey Jerky.)

I used the other phone, my private line, to call Clarence Barre. He answered on the third ring.

“Tell me everything you know about Nevada Hornsby.”

I listened while Clarence laid out what he had. It wasn’t much. Apparently the guy didn’t talk about his past. He was most likely from Michigan. Didn’t have family to speak of. Ran St. Clair Salvage and had been in love with his daughter. Like I said, not much.

“I think he’s bad. Just a bad, evil person,” Clarence said.

There Clarence went again with his intuition. Weren’t women supposed to have that? Clarence had more than his share. Maybe he had the stuff I didn’t get.

I finished with Clarence and checked the clock. Quittin’ time.

I went home, had dinner, played with the kids, and then just before going to bed, called in to my answering machine. There still wasn’t an answer from the elusive Mr. Hornsby.

I guess I would have to deliver the jerky in person.

Chapter Thirteen

The Spook stood before the full-length mirror in his suite at the Royalton Hotel in New York City. His Fender Telecaster was slung over his shoulder, its cable trailing out behind him to the small Pignose amplifier propped up on the bed. He had the guitar’s distortion on a medium setting, the juice turned to the first pickup. The settings were designed to create a dense, fuzzy sound that was tight enough to sound like a raucous bouncing romp when he pounded down a blues shuffle.

The Spook put an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth and looked at himself in the mirror again. He had just flown in from London via Mexico the night before and looked like an exhausted traveler. He saw a pale man in his late thirties, early forties with scraggly black hair and a thin, pinched, slightly pockmarked face. He had on dirty blue jeans, cowboy boots, a short-sleeved black T-shirt, and a bone necklace.

On his right ring finger was a large skull ring.

The Spook had two loves in the world: the first was the ecstasy of a perfectly executed hit. There was really nothing like it in the world. Scoping things out, identifying the target, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Selecting the absolutely most pristine time and place. And then delivering the knockout blow with strength, speed, and deadly aim.

It was like a beautiful melody to him that ended in a blazing crescendo of blood and violence, capped off by the silent applause of a roaring crowd inside his head.

His second love was Keith Alvin Richards, lead guitarist for the Rolling Stones. The Human Riff, they called him. The man who constantly carried around five or six new songs in his head. If you stopped him in the street, he’d be in the middle of constructing a new song at that very moment.

He was the heart and soul of the Stones.

Granted, Mick had something to do with it. But common wisdom held that Mick was a cold fish.

They said that while Mick thought it, Keith felt it.

For the Spook, whose own profession required a detached frostiness, he longed to be like Keith, for his job required him to be Mick. Keith’s riffs spoke to the Spook. The sexy wail of “Honky Tonk Women,” the anthemic call of “Satisfaction.” They all kindled a flame in the Spook’s soul. He could relate to those riffs. To those sudden bursts of inspiration.

Now, in his hotel room, he slid the fingertips of his left hand slowly up the fretboard of his Fender. The little Pignose amp responded smoothly and quietly. As much as the Spook would have loved to crank it up, it wasn’t the time nor the place.

In his apartment in London, he had a soundproof studio in which he would sit for hours and play Keith’s riffs, his riffs, over and over again, until he had a welt on his chest from the Fender digging in.