So Pretty It Hurts (16 page)

“Um—yeah, it was,” I said, faltering a little. “I needed his help—with my story on Devon. And finding out who’s been trying to sabotage me.”

“His
help
? Let me guess—did he and Devon know each other as members of the Big Hair, Small Brains Association of America?”

I almost laughed—at the absurdity of the comment and Beau’s obvious distaste for Chris—but I didn’t, which was a good thing. That would
not
have helped matters. And I could see that help was what I needed.

“Well, you’re partially right,” I said, trying to sound cooperative. “Chris used to work as a model, and I need information about modeling agencies.”

“And you had to have him up to your apartment to discuss it?”

“No, we were in the
coffee shop
. And he just dropped by for a minute, Beau—on his way someplace else. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal. Is that right?”

“That’s really funny,” I said, starting to feel a swell of anger. “I’m not supposed to mind when a girl you used to screw in Turkey calls and suggests you meet up, and yet you seem irritated by the fact that I spent thirty minutes with someone who could help save my job and my reputation.”

I had a head of steam going now, like I was Joan of Arc trying to make my case on horseback to a legion of French soldiers. To my embarrassment, I sensed that Bob, the evening doorman of my building, was watching us out of the corner of his eye.

“Isn’t it really just more payback, Bailey?” Beau demanded. I’d never seen him look so annoyed. “Like your taking off for the weekend just because I had to be out of town.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Something absurd is going on here. But I’m not the one responsible.”

With that he turned on his heels and strode off angrily, the back panels of his coat flapping in the cold night air. I just stood there, not knowing what the hell to do. For a brief moment I felt a temptation to take off after him, but I then overrode the urge. I didn’t like how Beau had managed to turn the tables so that our spat tonight had been about some totally innocent activity on my part—excluding my flashback to the night I ripped Chris’s clothes off—rather than his fling with Abigail, the dig-site slut.

As I slunk into the lobby of my building, Bob offered a rueful smile. I wondered if he sometimes went home and yammered to his wife about me over a cold Bud. “There’s this girl in the building who seems nice enough, but no sooner does she get into a relationship with some guy than she’s picking a fight with him on the curb.”

In desperation I thought of pounding on Landon’s door, but it wasn’t fair, considering his head cold, to subject him to more pathos about my love life. I thawed a chicken cutlet in my microwave and cooked it halfheartedly to within an inch of its life. A few times I felt an overwhelming urge to call Beau, but I fought it off. Why should
I
be the one trying to make things right?

At eleven I considered hitting the sack, but I knew it would be pointless. I could already envision the horrible bout of insomnia that lay ahead of me tonight. A thought suddenly snagged my brain. This might be a good time to reach Tommy. He hadn’t answered or returned my calls, but at this hour I might catch him off guard. From what I remembered from the weekend, he was nice and loose as midnight rolled around.

I was right. He answered hello with the deafening sounds of live music and bar yell behind him. And, surprisingly, he didn’t seem to mind hearing from me now;
that
was a nice change of pace.

“I’ve been wondering how you were doing,” I half shouted.

“Well, ain’t that sweet of you to be concerned,” he shouted back.

“I’d love to get together and talk—I have some information I’d like to share with you.”

“Is that right?” The music had subsided and been replaced by the sound of a car zooming by. Wherever he was, he’d managed to step out onto the street, away from the epicenter of noise.

“It’s about Devon. I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve learned.”

“No time like the present.”

“Pardon me?”

“I
said
there’s no time like the present. I’m at the Living Room. A dude I know is performing here. Why don’t you mosey that cute little butt of yours down here?”

I knew the Living Room. It was a bar on the Lower East Side, known for showcasing emerging bands in the back room. I’d been there a few times over the years, but not lately. The Lower East Side, once a ghetto for European immigrants in the 1800s, was now a hip area filled with wine bars, boutiques, and trendy restaurants, and it tended to attract mostly twenty-somethings. At my age I now felt like I needed to obtain special clearance to go down there. But that didn’t matter tonight. I was anxious to see Tommy and promised to be there within thirty minutes.

I left on the jeans and V-neck sweater but added a black leather jacket. I also swiped on black eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss, hoping it would assist in the extraction of info.

I figured it would take a while to find Tommy in the dense crowd of the bar, but when my cab pulled up, he was standing out in front with the smokers, dressed in just a T-shirt and black jeans, sucking on the last of a cigarette. From the look on his face, he appeared to have a nice buzz going.

“That was fast,” he said. “You must be just dying to see me.” He flicked his butt into the street. “Why don’t we go inside, and you can buy me a drink?”

“You’ve got it,” I said. I loved the idea that the drinks would be on
my
tab. Maybe Tory was right—the last album
had
really tanked.

The place was packed and smelled of beer, sweat, and dampish wool coats. Somehow we managed to find a space to stand at the end of the bar. The band was obviously on a break, though I could see lots of people milling around in the back room.

Tommy asked for a Maker’s on the rocks, and I ordered a beer for myself. He gripped his drink with long, slim fingers that must have served him well on the guitar. Though we’d had a couple of brief conversations at Scott’s, this was the closest I’d ever been to him. He was way too bony and inked for my liking, but his gray eyes were compelling. Maybe that’s what had hooked Devon and Tory.

I flashed him a friendly smile but tried not to seem too flirty, knowing that if I gave off the wrong vibe, he’d start talking about turning me into a human hot fudge sundae.

“How do you know the band?” I asked over the din.

“What?” he asked.

“The
band
. How do you know them?”

“The drummer is the brother of a buddy of mine. They fuckin’ stink—but I promised to show tonight.”

“That’s nice. I mean, it must still be pretty hard for you right now—with Devon’s death and all. As you told me, Devon was your lady for a while.”

“Yeah, I’m a big hero, aren’t I?”

“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said. “That it was definitely Devon’s eating disorder that led to her death.”

“That’s what they tell me. But like I said to you last weekend, she never pulled any of that stuff on my watch.”

“The night she died, she was obviously suffering the side effects of losing vital nutrients—like potassium. It’s that loss of nutrients that leads to a heart failure.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m not an M.D.” I almost laughed out loud. That had to be the understatement of the year.

“When you lose potassium, it also affects your muscles,” I explained. “That was probably why she seemed dizzy before she went back to her room. And by one o’clock she would have been feeling pretty awful.”

He drew his upper body back, as if I’d just spattered something on the bar.

“I can tell you’ve got a point to make,” he said, the friendliness dissipating. “Why don’t you just come right out and make it.”

“Okay. Devon was flirting with you last weekend, and she may have even invited you and Tory up there just so she could try to win you back. I think you went to her room Saturday night.”

He smirked and shook his head.

“Who told you that—
Tory
?”

“Tory said you were missing in action for over an hour.”

“Yeah, I was missing in action. I was sick of her bony-ass whining.”

“So you went to Devon’s room. Why didn’t you notice how ill she was? Surely you must have seen it.”

“Because I didn’t go to Devon’s room. I hooked up with that little redhead waitress who helped at dinner. She was giving me the eye the whole night.”

“
Laura
?” I exclaimed, not able to contain my surprise.

“Was that the chick’s name? I didn’t ask. Anyway, I’d overheard her say something to that other woman—the one with the tooth you could carve up a cow with—about staying in the garage apartment rather than driving home. I decided to pay her a little visit.”

“Was it around one fifteen?”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t keep a log on my sex life.”

My mind raced, reviewing the details Laura had shared with me that night as well as the guilty aura she’d displayed. I’d assumed at the time that she’d felt troubled about having fallen back to sleep after Devon called, but that’s not what was nudging her conscience. She’d promised to bring water to Devon, but when the visiting Rock Star had showed up—probably moments later—she decided to attend to his randy needs instead.

“Did you call Laura’s room later—after you got back to yours?” I still had no clue who had made that second call.

“
Call
her?” he said, snickering. “You mean, like, Hey, that was special, let’s do it again sometime? I don’t
think
so. Why all the fascination with some townie? I’ve got better stories to share than that one if you want a little fun.”

“Why my fascination? I’m just a little surprised—I could have sworn things were starting to heat up with you and Devon again,” I said, refocusing. “I heard she’d been pretty upset when you two broke up, and it looked like she was hatching a plan to get back together again.”

“I guess she was bummed. But I wasn’t interested in having a ball and chain wrapped around my dick.”

“You met last February?”

“That’s when we hooked up. But we’d actually met a few months before at some party.” He shrugged. “She told me later that it was like being hit by a thunderbolt when she met me. We got into a serious make-out session, but she was a little coy about going any farther. Then she secretly hatched this big plan to meet again, like, two and a half months later—she got friends to bring her backstage after a concert.”

“Do
you
think she wanted to restart things last weekend?”

“Like I told you before, Devon was a real mind fucker. Who knows what she was thinking?”

“Did that make you mad?”

“
Mad
? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, she was kind of toying with you. That couldn’t have been much fun.”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with you. I had plenty of action last weekend.”

“By the way, did you know Devon had a miscarriage around the end of last year?”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

“Well it wasn’t mine. Like I said, we didn’t get down and dirty until February. Besides, I don’t
do
kids. Can’t stand the little bastards. . . . Look, I thought you wanted to have a nice friendly conversation. You’re starting to sound like a cop or something.”

Suddenly there was the discordant sound of electric guitars being tuned in the back. Tommy craned his neck in that direction.

“I’m sorry if I’m tossing lots of questions at you,” I said, attempting not to lose his interest. “But there’s a reason for it. I think someone might have caused Devon’s death—by aggravating the symptoms of her anorexia.”

That had his attention. He spun back in my direction.

“Is that what the cops are saying?”

“No. It’s just a theory
I
have. Any ideas?”

“Read my lips,” he said. “I don’t know anything about eating disorders or any shit like that. As far as I’m concerned, I’m never hooking up with another model. I want a chick with some meat on her bones. That redhead didn’t have a clue what to do in the sack, but at least there was something to hold on to.”

“Okay, so you don’t know anything about eating disorders, but Tory might. Do you think she wanted Devon dead? Because Devon was after you again?”

He started to do the shoulder shrug again, but I saw the idea snag in his brain. He took a long swallow of his drink, staring into the glass.

“You’re gonna have to ask Tory that,” he said. “But keep it short so she can understand what you’re saying.”

“I—”

“I gotta get back there. I’d ask you to stay, but you don’t seem like the type who can just chill and listen to music.”

“One more thing,” I said, as he slid off his stool. “Do you know Sherrie Barr?”

“Devon’s old lady? Yeah, I had the unfortunate experience of meeting her once—and I’m really not looking forward to watching her slur her words on Saturday. Look, I
really
need to get back there.”

He started off and then unexpectedly turned back to me, his gray eyes boring into me. “Be careful getting home,” he said. “It gets a little sketchy down here late at night.”

Oh, thanks, I thought. Mr. Chivalry. I snaked my way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cold night air.

Though the bar had been mobbed, the street outside was deserted and most of the lights in the converted tenement buildings were off now. With no traffic at the moment and none of the usual hip crowd spilling out into the street, it wasn’t hard to imagine the pushcarts and carriages that had once rumbled along here.

What I needed at the moment, though, was a cab, not a pushcart, and I could sense right away that it was going to be tricky to find one. I gave it a minute, though, hoping there might be some canvassing the area even at this hour, but no such luck. Stupidly, thinking I’d be out for only a short time, I hadn’t even bothered to wear gloves, and my fingers would soon be freezing.

Just as I was about to bag the location for another, a gypsy cab pulled up, the kind that patrolled late at night when there was a scarcity of regular taxis. Gypsy cabs were unlicensed car services, but because they fulfilled a need, there was a live-and-let-live attitude toward them. I’d taken them on several occasions when I was desperate, but I didn’t feel
that
desperate at the moment. The driver made eye contact and raised his chin, as if asking if I needed a ride. I shook my head, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and started to walk, headed north.