Part of inhabiting the private domains of celebrities is an inherent ability to belong behind the velvet rope. It is important to honor the unspoken rules of privacy and decorum, and also to appear at ease doing so. It’s exhausting for celebrities to have to always be on, to be reminded of the pressures that rest on their shoulders, and having anyone around them display the slightest case of nerves or fandom can rattle them. Act like you belong, and eventually, you will.
It had been twenty minutes since V had burst into Mari’s hushed lair, and she was on her second mini-bottle of tequila. In that way of siblings, Vivienne was as predictable to Mari as Mari was to herself. Mari stared into her doc with ninja-like intensity, but she hadn’t written a single word.
The neon sizzle of the Strip teasing the corners of her vision, Mari plugged her headphones into her computer, to give the illusion of focus. A text message dinged. She toggled over onto her desktop, nervous it might be from Anke. But she should have known, Vivienne:
“I don’t want to go out ALONE.”
Mari looked up. On cue, V dragged her fingers down her cheeks, mimicking the crying-face emoji, before being sucked back into her phone. Mari slammed her computer shut.
“I’m not going to some boom-chicka-boom nightclub and paying thirty dollars for a watermelon martini while some Bachelor castoff dry humps me from behind,” Mari said.
“But I have drink tickets!”
“Yeah, well, you came out of the womb with drink tickets.”
Even more maddening, V hadn’t looked up, so Mari was fighting with the crown of her head. As usual, V’s hair looked as if she had just stepped out of a salon. Mari already looked like she had just been dropped out of a plane, and she was on day one of a six-week book deadline.
“Ooh, you can’t say no if it’s research,” V said.
Mari’s computer chimed. The text was a screenshot of an ad for an event:
“Mal Walker Birthday Tribute Show!!”
“Fine,” Mari said. She wasn’t about to let V know this was exactly what she needed.
Of course V’s ever-present phone had vanished the moment it was time to order a Lyft. Mari didn’t care about paying—it was a write-off anyhow—but she had been talking herself into being more generous with V, and her current level of irritation was making her feel uncharitable and cranky. At the club, Mari eyed the twenty-person queue, wondering at her chances if she pretended her name had accidentally been left off the list at the door—an old trick from her music-journalist days. But V was already moving to the front of the line. This left Mari trapped between their Lyft and—Austin Powers. Well, not the Austin Powers, obviously. The thick, black-framed glasses and buckteeth seemed to belong to the man, who had completed his costume with a cheap white ruffly collar over a gaudy purple turtleneck.
“Yeah, baby, yeah,” he said. “Five dollars for a photo.”
“Sorry, but I never have cash,” Mari said. “Wouldn’t you have better luck over by the casinos, where there are more tourists?” Feeling the bottomless pit of his addiction and the sharp claws of his need, she moved her gaze up and down the street, unable to maintain eye contact. The club was the only obvious life in a grim neighborhood of dark, derelict warehouses.
“Um, yeah, see, baby, I’m over here meeting some associates, and I just need to—”
The words were different, but the inflection was familiar—she had heard her dad make a million excuses in just this tone. Such was the wreckage that would have consumed Mal if he hadn’t died. Such was the inevitable destination of those who couldn’t fight back from the edge.
V turned, clocked what was happening. Grabbing Mari’s wrist, V flounced back to the doorman, a tattooed linebacker type wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt, even though the desert air was cool. V put her hand on his arm, not sexually but intimately. Mari thought of Anke, and Dante, and her father (on his good days, if he still had them), and how they could make you feel like you were the only other person alive. V was talking quietly, causing the man to lean in. Mari gleaned V had been here with the club’s owner, and it gave her clout.
“Thanks, Dario,” V said. He swung open the door.
How did she know everyone’s name? Mari was more in awe of her sister than she liked to admit; it made her even more scared for V, as her powers seemed in danger of fading.
“Thanks,” Mari said. The man didn’t look up from his phone. Yep.
They pushed inside. Mari’s lungs felt constricted, like they were trying to get air in a hot sauna. She stayed close to V, even though it irritated her to rely on anyone, especially her sister.
The venue held about three hundred people, to achieve maximum exclusivity. Judging by the well-heeled, white-wine-drinking crowd, the ticket price had been high enough to dissuade most younger fans of Mal or the band. Mari craned her neck, looking for Dante in the VIP area.
Somehow, without ever lining up for the bar, they were each handed a glass of white wine. Mari smiled with gratitude. As they drew near the stage, Mari sipped her chardonnay. Looking up, she recognized a celebrated psych rock band, sludging its way through one of Mal’s later sitar-laced drones. She was startled to recognize Ody onstage. With a guitar in his hand, he was transformed. Head bowed, lean body taut, he radiated a youthful, animal grace. Mari could see both of his parents in him—all three of his parents, really—and she was struck by envy. Then it hit her—she knew more about his family tree than he did, and she felt the intimate gift of Anke’s secrets and the shame of her firing all over again. The thought of facing him made her queasy with nerves, but she also felt sure they had genuinely connected in Palm Springs, and she couldn’t miss the chance to see what he would say about, well, everything.
V was never satisfied until she was in the best, most exclusive place. The doorman outside the greenroom remembered V, and accepted a kiss on each cheek as she swanned inside. Mari searched for members of the Ramblers’ entourage, but she didn’t spot a single familiar face. A few minutes later, the psych rock band rolled into the room in a wash of sweat.
Mari nursed her wine, poised for when Ody noticed her. He emerged from beneath a hand towel, mopping his tangled dark curls. He didn’t smile, but he nodded in acknowledgment. Her heart bucked in her chest. V slid over, as languid as smoke. The instant a man paid attention to anyone but her, V materialized. Holding a bottle, she topped off Mari’s glass.
“You know Dante’s son Ody?” V asked. “Why didn’t you have him get us in? He’s cute.”
“Don’t,” Mari said.
Realizing Ody wasn’t coming over, V flitted off.
Thirty minutes later, Ody slouched across to Mari, who tried to channel Anke’s poise.
“Good set,” Mari said. “Is Dante cool with you playing tonight?”
“Grudgingly. Neither he nor Jack would deign to be in a room where Mal’s name is mentioned—unless they’re top of the marquee. I’m meeting Dante at practice in an hour. He’s hired me for tour, as his backup guitarist and tech. There’s a few songs he wants to go over.”
His phone buzzed in his hand.
“Anke,” he said, indicating his screen. “She’s on the fence about the new writer.”
If Mari had a normal survival instinct, she would have been glad for the easy excuse to leave Anke and her book far behind and focus on the real prize—Dante’s memoir. But their doubt in her made her want to win them over, even if it would be a meaningless victory now.
“What’s your wise counsel?”
“Do nothing until I’m back on Monday,” Ody said, typing as he spoke.
Mari tried to catch sight of Ody’s text, but he had been conditioned to be cautious when it came to his parents. Looking up, Mari counted four young women giving her dagger eyes. She was used to being envied by strangers for the company they saw her keep. She looked at Ody. Handsome. Musical. To the rock ’n’ roll manor born. Presumably rich. Yet he couldn’t see beyond the seventy-one-year-old vixen who kept him on call. He wasn’t free to revel in the full scrappy mess of life, any more than she was. Sucks to be us, she thought. Nope. Does not suck to be him.
One of Ody’s admirers had decided that, even with her recent, Anke-inspired makeover, Mari was no real competition. She glided over.
“I’m about ready, luv,” Ody said. “Maybe freshen up, and I’ll meet you by the door?”
When would Mari see Ody again? Plus, she still felt the cord of their earlier talk.
“So, you told Anke you saw me with her journal?”
“I had to, didn’t I? I’ve watched people try to take advantage of her my whole life. She deserved to know. She really liked you, but after that, and reading your pages, she freaked.”
“I get it. I’m sorry—it was fucked-up, a momentary lapse of judgment. I couldn’t even read it. I just wanted to kill it for her. I am actually good at this. That’s why I was so upset Anke wouldn’t let me rewrite. I could have nailed it for her. I was so close to getting it right.”
“I know. That’s why I asked Dante to meet you. He texted when they got your email.”
“Oh, wow, thank you. I had no idea.”
“You’re welcome. I had no clue he would hire you—can you handle it?”
His voice wasn’t teasing; it was kind. Mari sensed he was looking out for her, in a way.
“Yes? I came here to do research, at my own expense, even after Anke fired me, because I was worried for her. But what was I supposed to do when Dante wanted to work with me?”
“Is it really as bad as all that for Anke?” He leaned in close. She could smell cigarettes and bay-rum-and-lime cologne. She studied him, wanting to trust him, unsure if it was wise. But if there was one person who really cared about Anke’s success and happiness, it was him.
“She didn’t come right out and say it, but she blames herself for Mal’s death. She implied she drugged him, at the least. You have no idea the scrutiny she’s going to be under when her book drops, just a few weeks after your dad’s. His proposal is full of stories about her and Mal. If her version differs, the public opinion will go with Dante. He’s the bigger, more beloved star.”
“No,” Ody said.
“No? I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s how publishing works. How pop culture works. Why do you think I came to talk to Dante? Not that I’ve brought it up yet.”
“No, my dad and mum get along. They don’t see each other much these days, but he’s very loyal. He would never do anything to hurt her or make her look bad.”
“Well, then, who wrote the proposal? I read it with my own eyes.”
“I haven’t the foggiest, but I know my dad. You’re juggling a lot of fruit, luv. Are you sure you can keep it all in the air?”
“I learned to juggle before I could write. I’m ready for the big top.”
He laughed. The fact that he didn’t scoff at her bad, awkward jokes made her like him.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll take care of Anke. She’s just—she’s anxious about this book.”
“Understandably,” Mari said. “It’s her first and only chance to tell her side of things.”
“And—she told you about her diagnosis. I think she regrets it. That was part of why she had to let you go. She hated that you might think she was weak. She won’t tell the other writer.”
“Of course. Through everything, she’s maintained her dignity. She feels it’s all she has.”
“You get it. I knew you did. Not to mention—Anke is very headstrong.”
“You think?”
They laughed.
“Be careful, please. I don’t doubt your skills, but you’ve never been in a circus like this.”
She nodded, and they shared a smile. Swooping down, he kissed her on both cheeks, surrounding her in his citrusy, androgynous scent. She was well aware the kiss was a cultural habit. But still, she blushed. And still, she hoped he might turn out to be an ally.
Back at the hotel, Mari tried not to worry about V. It was Las Vegas. And Mari had so much work. She comforted herself with her swanky room, the pot of tea and fruit plate she would order, maybe even the mini chocolate torte. When writing, she was bad at saying no to herself. It was all a justifiable expense—writers needed caffeine like rock stars needed applause.
The exhaustion was brutal but worth it. There was a real life for her on the other side of all this labor and risk—one where she could decline D-list assignments; where an eight-hour day was sufficient; where she had a little extra money for V; where someone was waiting for her beyond her computer with a glass of wine, dinner, conversation not about work. There had to be.
Mari opened her door. It was like stepping into a club—pot smoke haze; Tricky’s throaty, coaxing vocals: You stare, you stare and look confused / Your fruit is slightly bruised.
On the bed, Vivienne inhaled a joint. Looking ready to eat V up, a young man with neat dreadlocks passed her a bottle. Fatigue throbbed behind Mari’s eyes like a strobe light. She wanted to cry. If she ever needed to put on a show, it was for V. She had Mari’s same supersonic powers of observation but had turned her talents to the dark arts of manipulation and survival.
Mari took the bottle from V, pouring liquid fire into her mouth, shimmying to the music. She drank more, craving its muffle—the opposite of being on.
“Who’s this, then?” the handsome Black man asked, with a British accent far posher than Dante’s. He nodded to Mari and pulled Vivienne close as V introduced her sister to Liam.
“We share the same DNA, including the back-alley blood of our Daddy dearest,” Vivienne continued. “He’s banned from Atlantic City—I mean like the whole state.”
“She means like the whole city,” Mari said. “And yet he lives there. He loves that story.”
“Mind your p’s and q’s. She’s a writer. She’ll rewrite your dialogue with her red pen.”
“Your pop is a gambler, then?” Liam asked.
“Affirmative,” Vivienne said. “And a mystic. He used his powers of divination to predict winners. He read Jack Kerouac once did it in New Orleans.”
“How did that work out for him?” Liam asked.
“He lost it all,” V said. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Cars. Houses. Women. Two daughters. A kidney. We’d need some coke to get into that one. So, from the perspective of a gambler, it worked out terrible. But losing everything, that’s the start of every mystic’s journey, so I’ve been thinking, maybe he was onto something after all. Not that I’ll ever tell him that.”
Mari laughed. She shouldn’t forget, V was their father’s daughter, with the same dexterous, fascinating mind, as well as his talent for trailing chaos and frustration behind him. Maybe she would ask V for his number. Or maybe not. They’d never really reconcile. She should focus on V, getting a little hot food into her. Liam smiled and sleepily inhaled the joint.
“Sure, there was the obvious fallout—no money, no safety net. Plus, his philosophical approach to life. Like the time I got arrested in New York City for solicitation—a silly misunderstanding. I was asking the gentleman for what we entrepreneurs might term a bridge loan. I called Dad, and he told me, ‘You need to interpret the hidden message from your subconscious. Then you’ll be free.’ I think that was him being too broke to get me out.”
“Who paid your bail?” Mari asked. She couldn’t resist going there, lulled into the feeling of belonging to her own life, not inhabiting the emotional viscera of others’ lives for once.
“Eight hours later.”
“Because I had to take a bus from Boston.”
“That’s my sister, she’s taking the bus, but she’ll get there eventually.”
That’s Mari, bailing everyone out, never being bailed. That’s Mari, watching from the shadows, never starring in the show. That’s Mari, writing as others, never telling her own tale.
Seeing herself through her sister’s eyes hurt, but she acted with everything she had.
“Speaking of getting there eventually,” Mari said, “I’m on deadline. Break’s over.”
Mari reached behind Liam, grabbed her computer, and powered it up. Vivienne clamored out of Liam’s eager lap, hesitated. Oh, how Mari loved to cause even this brief wobble in her sister’s glam life—maybe they were both pretending, but what mattered was pulling it off.
“Let us finish our drinks—we’re going to an after-hours that doesn’t kick off until two.”
Mari flashed her a peace sign—the passive-aggressive version of the middle finger.
“I’ll be home in a few hours,” V said, bottle in hand. “Thanks for the place to crash.”
Mari let her bowed head be her answer. She was furious at herself for slipping up like that, and she knew nothing would soothe her like work. Popping on her headphones, she let in the raw-wool scratch of Dante’s voice: “First time I saw Anke, just the sight of her was like honey. You know, the distillation of all those flowers into a sweet living drop of perfection.
“Truth was, I never thought much of Mal. He was Jack’s boy from the word go. Looked the part of some Romantic poetry twit. But once he had Anke, that got my attention. Used to gnaw at me, watching them together, how addled he was, how poorly he treated her.”
Watching from the shadows.
“I knew I wasn’t the best-looking lad in the band. I wasn’t telling anyone how things would be done, either—I’m no leader. But I had one thing that counted: I made her laugh.”
Writing as others.
Mari rewound the audio, hit pause in disgust. Who was she fooling, other than V? Mari thought of how effortless V appeared—how she made things happen. Then Ody’s revelation that he was meeting the band at a late-night rehearsal. She picked up her cell phone.
As Izzy led her into the practice space, Mari felt like she was falling back in time, into the heart of the cultural revolution that millions of people still wanted to touch. What grabbed her first was the music, a country rock ballad from the early ’70s. It sounded fresh and intense, like it had just been written. The song was so fucking magical, and sexy, and alive—just being there, she was all of those things she had felt in the music; it didn’t matter how or why.
Dante finessed his solo. The way his back arched with the energy of his playing, as much as the sound of the bent notes, was as familiar to her as an adoring John, naked and wrapped around a beatific Yoko, or a scruffy Kurt hiding behind bug-eyed white sunglasses. These were the artists who had created the emotional tone of our collective lives.
Jack was small, but he took up a lot of space, like a hummingbird surrounded by an aura of its own speed and motion. His hair was spiky, his skin clean-shaven, every detail curated to look as young and vibrant as possible—and it worked. He was a live wire of virility, and it was very attractive. Still, he lacked something Mal had oozed in the endless loops of video Mari had absorbed. Mal glanced through life like he didn’t care, which was sexy as hell. Jack clearly did. That’s why she was here—to see the major players up close, in their element, and to try to figure out if any of them had helped Mal drown. Even though Dante’s book didn’t need the story of that night in the same way Anke’s had, Mari couldn’t let the mystery go now—she was too invested in solving it, not only for Anke, but also because of what it would prove about herself. If nothing else, tonight’s band practice would be a vivid scene for Dante’s book. He probably would have invited her himself if his team wasn’t on edge after the last writer went off the rails. Mari didn’t have that luxury. She always found a way to hit her deadlines.
When Jack’s gaze locked onto hers, from where he sang at the center mic, Mari smiled. His nostrils flared. He tore into the next verse, smacking a tambourine against his narrow hip, clad in a red tracksuit bottom. The less threatened Jack was by Dante’s book, the more likely he was to help the process, or at least not hinder it. Mari slowed her pace but kept moving forward.
“Hold up, hold up,” Jack said into the mic, mid-verse. “Let’s take five. Sorry. I lost my concentration there.” The band shambled to a confused halt.
Oh, fuck.
“Who’s this, then?” Jack asked. “The masseuse?” Jack’s tone was condescending, but he flashed a million-watt smile, as if she wouldn’t notice the subtext. “I’m sorry, darling, you’re an hour early, aren’t you? You’ll have to wait back at the hotel until we’re done.”
Izzy stopped dead. Mari strode right to the de facto stage. She had been throwing herself into the fire of her father’s narcissism since before she was old enough to know the word. She could handle a rock star, even the rock star. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dante and Ody watching her, but she went straight to Jack, made herself smaller, so he was almost her height.
“With my sad-banana posture?” she said. “I couldn’t be a masseuse. I’m Dante’s guest.”
Flashing her own million-watt smile, her shake extra firm, she telegraphed her insider status to Jack. No one who didn’t belong would behave that boldly. His smile transformed into something shaggier, more boyish. Satisfied she had won the moment without having to identify herself, she turned to Dante. They kissed on both cheeks. Ody nodded at her.
“Sounds incredible,” she said. “Adding the slide guitar really makes the heartache sing. Please, don’t let me stop you. I’m sorry to have interrupted.”
“Thanks for the feedback, pet,” Jack said. “I don’t know how we made it without you.”
The room erupted in laughter at her expense, and Mari stood and took it. Satisfied he was still top dog, Jack released a hiss of tambourine, returned to his mark. Mari kept her eyes down, giving him the victory. Now she could observe him, and he wouldn’t give her another thought. On an island of expensive-looking Moroccan rugs were two couches filled with (mostly young) women—it was hard to tell which were the assistants, which the band members’ third wives. So, she acknowledged each in kind, and then air-kissed Sigrid, taking the empty seat next to Izzy.
As the band members circled up, she watched Ody, wondering why he kept helping her—this time, to gain admission to practice. Was it possible he had felt the same connection she had sensed in Palm Springs? At least he seemed to trust her to help his parents. He slouched against his guitar cabinet, an acoustic Gibson across his chest. She got that he was going out on the band’s tour, which Sigrid had said would last for more than a year. It was hard to believe Anke could spare him, especially if she was sick. Mari sensed some deeper motive, other than a mother’s desire for her son to earn his keep and spend time with his father. From the side of the ad hoc stage, Simon slouched over a guitar he was tuning as if he was playing a solo. As brash and annoying as he was, she couldn’t fathom why the band had kept him around, no matter how loyal they were to insiders. Unless. Maybe he had been rewarded for taking care of a problem.
A man in pristine basketball high-tops, skinny jeans, and a giant oversized hoodie squatted down, blocking her view. Mari snapped back to the job at hand.
“Hi, miss,” he said. “Sorry, if you want to hang out during rehearsal, I’ll have to hold your phone. I can charge it for you. And if you wouldn’t mind signing this.”
With a practiced gesture, he pushed forward a stack of stapled papers, flipped open to the last page. As it hit her lap, he extended a pen. “Standard NDA,” he said.
She couldn’t help but be impressed with their efficiency as she nodded, reaching for her phone, while signing. She would let the publisher’s lawyers work out whether the NDA was trumped by her contract with Dante, which gave her access to his inner world, for the good of his book, for the duration of the time it took her to write it.
NDA dude scuttered off with her phone. Dante was standing next to Ody, his guitar angled away from him with practiced nonchalance, his arm slung over Ody’s shoulders. Ody was Dante’s son in all the ways that mattered. Dante had even confessed to betraying his bandmate in order to secure the fact of his paternity. So, who was lying about when they’d started their affair, and why? And did it matter if everyone was unified in their truth about Ody’s lineage?
Ody must have felt the weight of Mari’s gaze. He looked up, winked at her. She had no idea what that—or anything—meant. Mari had to be careful not to let her personal feelings cloud her judgment. Even so, there was something so nice and normal about seeing Dante and Ody together. Who was Mari to fuck that up? She’d better be sure of what she was doing, and why, before she made any moves that might change the story. Very sure.
It was two a.m. when the band hit the lobby and scattered like champagne corks—the other members off to their hotels with their wives; Ody to his sleek BMW motorcycle, before Mari could say thank you or goodbye; and Dante to his own black Mercedes Sprinter amid the purring fleet.
Dante seemed to be talking to his wife on the phone. Mari gave him space while standing near the open door, at the ready. For once, Sigrid wasn’t glued to Dante’s side. After the other cars pulled away, one other van was left idling. She realized she hadn’t noticed Jack emerge.
Mari leaned toward Izzy, seated in front of Dante, working her phone. He had wrapped up his call and was meditatively reshaping a joint.
“Should I call an Uber?” Mari asked.
“Nah, I mean, I don’t see why we can’t run you back to the hotel. It’ll give you a few minutes with Dante. I’ll clear it with Sigrid when she’s here.”
“Thanks,” Mari said. “I’ll just pop into the bathroom.”
“Ah, yeah, but hurry. Dante has an event.”
“That Sigrid scheduled for me,” Dante said. He was laughing, but the fact that he’d mentioned it suggested he didn’t like to be kept waiting. Of course he didn’t.
An awkward silence fell. Mari nodded and rushed into the lobby. She was brought up short by Jack and Sigrid huddled inside the door.
“Well, if our first date is in Los Angeles, maybe her ticket should be to—”
“Berlin?” Sigrid said. They both laughed, then noticed Mari.
There was something guilty in the way they sprang apart. If they had been anyone else, she would have thought one word: “affair.”
“Ja?” Sigrid said, her bearing nonchalant, her voice genial as ever.
“I don’t want to be any trouble, but is there a bathroom I could use?”
“There is a bathroom at the hotel,” Sigrid said.
Without a farewell to Jack, Sigrid herded Mari out into the car, filling Mari with relief.
Dante had slid into the back row, with Sigrid next to him. Mari sat down beside Izzy. She was still getting used to the unsettling directness of Dante’s gaze, which was pointed straight at her. During their hours together, he’d picked up his ringing phone a few times—because it was his wife or one of his kids. Other than that, he didn’t have much use for the screen, making him remarkably present, even if he was cloaked in a pungent funk of marijuana smoke. Mari would have accepted a toke, if invited, but Dante kept his joint to himself.
“Is Jack upset you’re publishing a memoir?” Mari asked.
“Dunno, never asked him. Even though we lurch out of our castles every couple of years to go on tour, I think the last real conversation we had was in 1971.”
“The year he and Anke got together.”
“The year he stole her from me,” Dante said. “Time is a river, and the tiniest violins play the sweetest melodies and all that, and of course I love my wife, been with her thirty-five years now, if you can believe it. Clearly she’s the only woman mad enough to stand me for the long haul. Oh, pardon me, and Siggi, of course—”
He nodded in the direction of his girl Friday, who answered with a smile.
“Your loyalty has surpassed any woman I’ve known,” Dante said, puffing his joint. “Plus, you’re the only day-to-day manager I know of who can make a proper margarita.”
“It has been the ride of a lifetime,” Sigrid deflected.
Mari surveyed Sigrid, who watched Dante as if he were a child prone to wandering off. When Anke had left the band’s orbit, Sigrid had been an assistant. To graduate to a manager, even on the day-to-day level, which didn’t require industry contacts and business acumen like the band’s broader management, she must have made herself indispensable. Mari was intrigued.
Dante seemed more subdued than usual. Maybe it was all the talk about Anke, or maybe he was susceptible to the late hour and the marijuana, just like mere mortals.
“You’ve never forgiven Jack,” Mari said, sliding out her mini-recorder.
A burst of rainbow neon lit up Dante’s face as they reached the Strip and passed one of the endless casinos. She was always running out of time.
“Maybe not, but also, maybe he was what Anke needed,” Dante said.
Mari processed this, clocked what she assumed was his allusion to Anke’s heroin habit, which Jack had helped her to curb, if not kick completely. Even though Anke had clearly loved Dante, she had loved Mal before him, and she had nearly self-destructed after his death.
“Although from what everyone says, Mal was very unkind to Anke, she loved him,” Mari said. Watching Dante wince, she pushed on anyhow, or maybe because of it. “She did. He made his mark on her. Did you worry about her after he died?”
“Anke may come off like an Italian greyhound, but she’s a sheep dog—wants everyone to be all right—and she felt bad about what happened to Mal. Took too much responsibility, which I told her time and again.”
Mari bolded her notes, in order to go back to them, as his words were warmer than what Dante—or someone—had written in Dante’s proposal. He was a great talker. Sentences rolled out of him with a wild variety and brash color that would read well. But there was something detached, Zen even, about how he’d recounted such painful events. Maybe because of the many years that had passed. Maybe he was flattened out from decades of heavy drugs. Or maybe, just maybe, he was distanced from the story because it was made-up, with no real emotional stakes.
Lifting her head, Mari reconnected with what Dante was saying:
“Mal was dark, a nutter, a one-man A-bomb waiting to detonate. But she felt guilty. After Ody was born, it got heavy. She went very far away from me, from this world, even.”
“Dante, do not protect her,” Sigrid said. “Anke has made her own choices.”
Once again, Mari felt how little she understood Sigrid and Dante’s relationship, and wondered if they shared the same goals for his book.
“Anke was a good girl,” Dante said.
Sigrid didn’t respond. Instead, she returned to work on her phone—or pretended to.
“Anke went deep into her own darkness. The strong hand she reached for on the other side wasn’t mine, to my great disappointment. But that’s her story. And it was a lifetime ago. I have always wished her well. She’s one hell of a woman. And a bang-up mother.”
Now Mari was sure they were both alluding to Anke’s drug use, which had been very bad until she’d landed with Jack and had, publicly, gotten her act together. To speak about it felt like a betrayal of Anke, especially when any conversation they had now could be expected to end up in Dante’s book. They were idling at the back entrance to the Wynn. Before Mari could come up with her next question, Dante leaned in to kiss her cheeks.
“My better half awaits,” he said. “Until tomorrow, Little Marie.”
With surprising agility, given his age and blood alcohol level, he slid from his seat. Dante blew the ladies a kiss, sauntered off, singing Chuck Berry’s “Little Marie,” to his waiting wife.
Sigrid and Izzy said quick, business-like goodnights. Mari matched their tone and body language, staring into her phone. She had a missed call from Ezra, but it was too late to call back. She didn’t know how much Sigrid micromanaged Izzy, so she kept her text neutral:
“Hi Izzy, fancy a nightcap in the lobby bar? My treat x Mari.”
Deciding to be optimistic, Mari found a table in the darkest corner. The waitress approached. Mari wanted a drink, felt like she should wait, but then couldn’t.
“I’ll have a glass of red. Pinot if you have it.”
“You got it, doll,” the woman said.
Izzy approached the table. Mari nodded for the waitress to take her order.
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” Mari said. “I would have guessed a gin martini, but—”
“Fuck me, long day,” Izzy said, sitting. “A martini might just do it. Gin is grand, thanks.”
“I know you’re probably immune by now, but wow, it was cool to see the band practice.”
“They are a force indeed,” Izzy said. “Still gives me a thrill, I must admit.”
Their drinks arrived, and Mari clinked her wineglass against Izzy’s cocktail before taking a sip. Izzy was reaching for her purse, but Mari had her card at the ready.
“Thanks, pet,” Izzy said. “But the band still gives their staff an expense account. They’re old-school. Just ask me a question for Dante’s book, and it’ll be a write-off.”
“Cheers,” Mari said. “Were Dante and Jack ever friends, like back when Mal was alive?”
“Well, they definitely weren’t friends with Mal, and I think Jack hated him most of all.”
Mari weighed her response, surprised Izzy had been so bold. But everyone knew Jack was in conflict with Mal at the end. Still, was Izzy alluding to something deeper than a simple tussle for control of the band? Izzy seemed direct, so Mari decided to see how far she could get.
“What do you mean Jack hated Mal—like he was jealous of him?”
“That was before my time,” she said. “Anyhow, Jack’s name had better not darken the pages of Dante’s memoir.”
“You’re suggesting I write an entire book that doesn’t mention Dante’s bandmate?”
“Tell me that’s the craziest suggestion you’ve ever heard. Now, please excuse me.”
Mari laughed as Izzy pried off her narrow, spike-heeled shoes. “Another reason I have a job where ninety percent of my time is spent in yoga clothes.”
“Sounds lovely,” Izzy said. “Thing is, I’m a singer. I couldn’t travel when I was pregnant with my daughter. So, the band switched me to office work, and now they rely on me. But I can’t ever let them stop picturing me under that spotlight—I’ll get back out there, you watch.”
Izzy seemed inclined to candor, but Mari had found direct questions could end that fast.
“The band seems very loyal,” Mari said. “It’s refreshing.”
“Here’s the thing. Loyalty goes both ways, and I don’t fancy you hanging our dirty knickers out for everyone to see.”
“Dante hired me. Besides, that’s not how memoirs work.”
The two women sized each other up, wavering between potential friendship and professional caution.
“What are you here for, then?” Izzy said.
“I’m after the truth,” Mari said. “But the truth doesn’t necessarily belong in the book, at least not all of it. There are many ways to tell a story.”
“I get that. Just, tread gently. I don’t wanna see Dante, or anyone, get hurt. Except for maybe Simon. He can rot.”
“I noticed his charm,” Mari said. “Got the impression he thought he was the next Mal.”
“He’s stroppy all right. I’m sure he thinks a lot of things. There the band goes with that old-fashioned loyalty again. We’re family. Overall, I’m grateful. It’s a lot worse out there as a female performer, flying solo in a universe of perverts.”
They laughed. Mari liked Izzy’s dark wit and was impressed by how deftly she filled her professional role, while keeping sight of her own opinions and goals. She hesitated, not wanting to blow their burgeoning bond, but also short on potential allies and time. Often, for the length of projects, her clients’ assistants were tasked with helping her out a bit.
“Oh, hey, this may be beyond your job duties. If so, please, tell me to back off, ’cause you certainly don’t owe me any favors.” Mari made a face and was relieved when Izzy laughed. “But could you please look this up for me?”
Mari had scribbled her questions on one of her business cards. Izzy glanced down.
“For Dante’s book?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mari said. Then, realizing the info she was after might not all end up in Dante’s book, she added, “It will help Dante.”
“You got it, toots,” Izzy said. “I would love four more of these, but I’ve got work.”
After Izzy had air-kissed her good night and gone to her room, Mari lingered over her last sip of wine. She didn’t have any time to waste, but she was afraid if she rushed herself she might miss something important, blow up this insane opportunity she had created. Mari knew how to do her job, but she wasn’t sure how anything else was supposed to go anymore. By coming to Vegas, she had stepped outside her normal role as ghostwriter. She was in the story now.