Twenty-Five

I woke slowly, wondering why I felt so hot. On a steamy August night I wouldn’t wear so much as a T-shirt to bed, much less drape myself with my quilt. Half asleep, I tried to shove the heavy weight aside.

Ah. I stopped mid-push. Not a quilt. A man …

Last night’s liquor furred my tongue. Hot summer nights, Sam and I sleep in his Charles River Park apartment in air-conditioned bliss.

Not Sam. Cal, my ex-husband.

Cal, my ex-husband, stirred and moaned, rolled over onto the pillow beside me. I stretched cautiously. Aside from my tongue, I discovered that the rest of me felt great.

“Never sleep with your ex-husband.”

I comforted myself with the thought that my grandmother would never have dreamed of such a situation, and therefore couldn’t possibly have passed on a relevant Yiddish saying to my mom.

My vest dangled from the back of a chair. My panties were snagged on the handle of the bedside table drawer. The rest of our clothes littered the floor. I couldn’t see my shoes.

The rain. Wet shoes in the hall. No. We’d put our shoes back on because of the glass.

The glass! I sat up quickly. What the hell time was it? Would a truckload of glaziers be arriving momentarily?

Cal groaned softly and yanked at the sheet. I touched his arm. His narrow-shouldered body had aged well; he was leaner, harder. Last night my exploring hand had touched a scar near his flat stomach.

Appendectomy or barroom brawl. I’d have to ask.

I eased out of bed naked, crossed to the phone, dialed hurriedly. I spoke softly, but I was pretty sure I didn’t have to bother with the precaution. The Cal of old could sleep through a thunderstorm.

“Mooney?” I was in luck; he answered on the second ring.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you ever go home?”

“Why this sudden interest in my personal life?”

I shifted gears fast. “Anything on the bass player’s autopsy?” If the cops were satisfied with suicide, I figured there was no need to stir things up, busted windows or no.

“Doesn’t look great for your friend.”

“What does that mean?”

I could hear him shuffling papers. “Let me translate from the patholog-ese,” he muttered. “Here it is. Looks like our female Caucasian—Hunter, Brenda Alice, Miss—got a three-way hit: booze, pills, and just to make sure, an injection. Speedball-type thing, cocaine and heroin. And the kicker is that we found no works—no needle, no syringe. So what we got is this: We got her in Dee Willis’s bed, dead meat. And we got Dee Willis, first on the scene, and a bunch of hangers-on lying to keep her from incriminating herself. It may have been an accident, but, hell, she probably killed the girl. What did they give the girl who shot up John Belushi? Second degree?”

“That woman had the works on her and a drug rap-sheet as long as my arm, Mooney. She admitted the whole deal. You find a needle in Dee’s guitar case?”

“She had plenty of time to ditch it.”

I sat on the dresser, resting my toes on the wooden floor. “Mooney, listen. Somebody broke into my house last night.”

I moved the phone away from my ear, preparing myself for the explosion. Mooney doesn’t think women should live alone. When his dad died, Mom promptly sold the family digs in Southie, and moved in with her darling boy. Mooney rumbled, spluttered, and finally decided not to voice his opinion, bless him. He said “You okay?” in such a mild tone I almost missed it. I was staring at my bed, at Cal’s bony foot sticking out from under the sheet.

“I’m fine.” I pressed the receiver to my ear and tried to keep a smile out of my voice. “The only reason I’m telling you is, it wasn’t any casual kick-in-the-door job. My bag was lifted at the Berklee. Somebody used my keys to get in and trash the place.”

“You report the handbag theft?”

“Not exactly. I called Joanne Triola, asked her to let me know if my wallet turned up in a Dumpster. I wasn’t carrying more than ten bucks.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t change the locks.”

“Roz was supposed to take care of it. And don’t say you can’t believe I trusted Roz. I can’t believe I trusted Roz. Next time I see her, I’m gonna grab her and dye her hair that nasty old-lady blue—after I pull some of it out.”

“You’re damn lucky you weren’t home.”

“Somebody left a message on my mirror: Back off.”

“Polite,” Mooney said. “Usually they write dirty words. And you think it has to do with this Willis business?”

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to back off of.”

“I’ll come by.”

“No,” I said hurriedly.

“That Gianelli guy with you?”

I should never phone Mooney when I’m naked. Sometimes I swear he can see over the line. “No,” I said truthfully.

“Then I’ll come over.”

“Mooney, don’t waste your time. Use your best skip-trace artist to see if you can find a guy named David Dunrobie.” I spelled it for him. “He’s the old friend Dee was searching for in the park. Then see if you can pull an old file—and this might be tough, if not impossible. A suicide or accidental. Overdose. The friend I told you about. In 1978—yeah, don’t yell. I know, but I can’t help it. October 28, 1978. Lorraine Holbrook.”

“Sweet Lorraine.” I was almost sure that was one of the song titles from the lawyer’s letter, that Davey had claimed Dee’s famous “For Tonight” was really his song, “Sweet Lorraine.”

“Lived in Jamaica Plain,” I said to Mooney.

“Street address?”

“Addison? Maybe Addison Court or Lane.”

“Maybe?” Mooney said.

“Sounds right. Look, Mooney, back then, with a presumed suicide—booze and pills—you think they’d have checked for a possible injection site?”

“In ’78? Not unless they thought your lady was shooting heroin. Speedballs only got fashionable since Belushi kicked. Now all the hotshot M.E.’s run a check.”

“You got pressure to bust Dee? Make headlines?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. But let me get this straight. You think Willis might have killed both these women. Same way?”

“No, Moon, that’s not what I think.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Don’t get hostile. I think it would be interesting to find out, that’s all. Bye now.”

Cal’s eyes were open when I sat down on the bed.

“Eavesdropping?” I asked.

“I stare at naked ladies too.”

I plugged a Rory Block tape into my cassette deck, adjusted the volume, and wriggled in close to him. “That all you do with them?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.

It made us both laugh. He reached for me.

Block sang, “Send the Man Back Home,” and we made love again—better than last night, if not as frenzied. Cal seemed to have learned a few new moves since me.

I made sure he used a condom. Hell, I thought, if you can’t trust the louse who walked out on you ten years ago, who can you trust?

I got on top to control speed and depth. His callused fingers touched my breasts. I wondered if he found this morning’s lovemaking more enjoyable, less like combat. Last night’s had left me wondering when he’d last had a woman.

Afterward, I fluttered the top sheet over our sweaty bodies like a giant fan. Propped on one elbow, he rubbed the bridge of my thrice-broken nose with his index finger. “So why didn’t you get married again?” he asked. I closed my eyes and forgot about the glaziers and the clock and the mess downstairs.

“’Cause I’m no fun in bed,” I said.

“Fooled me, all that screaming and wiggling.”

I listened to Block soar a cappella through the end of “Foreign Lander.”

“I’ve conquered all my enemies,

From land and o’er the sea.

But you, my dearest new love,

Your beauty has conquered me.”

Cal said, “Good sound system in here.”

“Surprised?”

“No.”

I couldn’t leave his earlier question alone. “So why haven’t I remarried? Number one: you. You soured me on the institution, as if my mom and dad hadn’t already done their best. Number two: I hate to compromise.” I caught a glimpse of my guitar case lying open on the floor. “Three: I seem to remember you playing me a song last night.”

“You must have been drunk.”

“Come on. What did you play?”

“Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor,” he admitted sheepishly. “Seemed appropriate at the time. Don’t get up yet.”

“It’s late,” I said.

“We’ll shower together. I’ll scrub your back.”

He sang to me in the tub while I tried to hurry up, and he tried to slow me down. We attempted “Make Me a Pallet” in ragged harmony, then Cal scat-sang a bass line while I held the melody and he soaped my shoulders.

“Don’t you ever turn a stranger from your door,

Don’t you ever turn a stranger from your door,

For the day may come you’ll be a stranger too,

Just looking for a pallet on the floor.”

“I’m supposed to be working,” I said firmly, when Cal’s hands started sliding their way around to my breasts.

“Give yourself a break, Carly. Me, too. Relax.” He snuggled in closer, pressing his lips to my neck.

I took a deep breath. “Working,” I repeated. “Now.”

“Okay, lady,” he said. “Rinse cycle.”

I yanked open the shower curtain and got out first.

Cal towel-dried his hair, watched me fasten my bra in the steamy mirror. “You sleep with everybody you want answers from?”

“Sure,” I said with no inflection in my voice. “And they always tell me the absolute truth.”

“What absolute truths do I know?”

“Start with Davey Dunrobie,” I said.

“You slept with him. I know that for an absolute truth. He told me.”

I said, “You slept with Dee Willis. Christ, you slept with every woman who ever admired the way you play.”

He backed off and said, “What’s going on with Davey?”

“No. You tell me what’s going on with Davey.”

“We tried AA together, but it didn’t stick to him. So I cooled it. It’s one of the rules. You can’t stay clean when you’re hanging with junkies.”

“Last time you saw him?”

“Hell, years ago. Three years at least.”

“Living where?”

“Some kind of communal thing. Mission Hill.”

“Religion?” There are a lot of cult houses in that part of town.

“Vegetarianism and alcohol. Playing reggae.”

“Remember any names?”

“Sorry. Maybe something’ll come. Malcolm somebody.”

“Did Davey ever write songs? When he was playing with Dee?”

“Why?”

I didn’t feel like telling him, so I switched the subject. “Why did you leave Dee?”

“I thought you were asking about Davey.”

“Why?”

He stuck his wallet into his back pocket. “I didn’t leave. I got fired.”

I studied his face in the mirror.

“Too doped and too drunk to know when I had it good,” he went on. “And I don’t mean Dee. By that time we weren’t sleeping together. Carly, you know, I kick myself every day for pissing away that music. Dee—whatever it is, whatever it takes to front a band—she’s got it. She lets you out, gives you plenty of room to breathe, and then reels you back in like a fish on a line. She works free, but she’s grounded. She’s just—she’s home in the blues. She knows where the music starts, and where it ends.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard Cal string so many words together. I wondered if he knew Dee would be needing a bass player.

“You’re giving me that cop look,” he said. “I remember that look.”

I said, “Tell me about this Malcolm Somebody.”

“Guru type on the Hill. I could find where he lived. We had some parties there, outrageous parties. On second thought, maybe I couldn’t find it. Maybe I’d have to get stoned to find it.”

“Let’s give it a try,” I said. “Now. With you sober.”

“Carly,” he said. “Am I good sober?”

“Good at what?”

“What I do.”

“Play bass or make love?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You hold back, Cal,” I said, turning to face the mirror and brushing my hair hard. “From everything but the music. How come you need to ask?”