29

“All of us had to share details about our customers with a man named Grasso,” Paige said.

“By ‘all of us’ you mean?”

“The local girls, the ones they consider hot.”

“Jenine would obviously qualify.”

“Yes. She’s one of the faves.”

“What can you tell me about Grasso?”

“Not too much. He works for a major gangster. I don’t want to say who.”

I peeled off another grand and placed it in her hand. She looked into my eyes. “You didn’t get this from me.”

“Of course.”

She whispered, “Joseph DeMeo.” Then she said, “Please, mister, keep me out of this. I’ve got kids.”

“I will,” I said, “but you’ve got to find another line of work. You’re not safe doing this. We won’t repeat anything you told us, but DeMeo knows you’re friends with Jenine and Star, and they’re gone now. You’ve got to get your kids and get the hell out of town. DeMeo won’t leave any loose ends. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

I kissed her cheek and let her go.

An hour later, we pulled up to the guard station at Edwards. I flashed my credentials, and one of the guards informed me that all flights had been grounded due to the terrorist attack. I got Darwin on the phone, and within minutes the guard received orders from the base commander to open the gate. Our limo driver took us across the tarmac and parked us next to the company’s jet. Quinn reminded me to pop the trunk so he could retrieve his saxophone.

“That reminds me,” I said, and sang, “You cain’t always get h’what you wa-hant!”

Quinn’s facial deformity prevented him from smiling, but you could sometimes find amusement there if you knew how to interpret it. I was one of the few who did.

“Always figured you for a Stones fan,” he said.

The pilots, who had been glued to the TV in the auxiliary terminal, were now racing across the tarmac to open the cabin door for us.

“It’ll take us fifteen minutes to get her ready for takeoff,” one of them shouted.

Quinn and I climbed into the cabin. While he got situated, I poured us a drink. He said, “Is your cell phone broken? Reason I ask, you’ve checked it half a dozen times since the explosion.”

“I sort of thought Janet might call,” I said.

“Heard about the attack, wondered if you’re okay?” he said.

“Stupid, right?”

Quinn shrugged and held up his glass. “To ex-wives,” he said.

We clinked glasses. “I’m not sure that counts,” I said. “You’ve never been married.”

Quinn drank some of his bourbon. “Never been bitten by a yak, either.”

I held a sip of the bourbon in my mouth a few seconds to enhance the burn. “Yak?” I said.

He grinned.

I swallowed the bourbon and took another sip. “Me, either,” I said. “That strike you as odd?”

Quinn’s eyes started smiling again, or so it seemed to me. He said, “One time Coop told me he got bit by a yak. Said he was in India in a town whose name can’t be pronounced by anyone who’s not from Tibet. Said they made him drink tea made from yak butter.”

“Yak butter,” I said.

“Coop says the average man in Tibet drinks forty to fifty cups of tea every day of his life. The teapot always has a big lump of yak butter in it. You’re supposed to blow the yak butter scum out of the way before you take a sip,” Quinn said.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Same thing I told Coop!”

I nodded. “To Coop,” I said, and we touched glasses again. From the cockpit, I heard the pilots working through their preflight checklist. Quinn silently swallowed the rest of his bourbon. I followed his lead. The co-pilot opened the door and gave us a thumbs-up, and we buckled our seat belts and settled in for the long flight to Virginia. I looked out the window and for the first time it struck me that today had been clear and beautiful, just like New York City on 9/11.