“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can you tell me if she left on her own?”
He licks his lips and shakes his head. “Not if you’re going to put it in the newspaper.”
I realize he must think I work for theTimes.I don’t correct him. Instead, I turn to face him and press my palms into the bench.
“I’m not looking for a sensational story,” I say. “I just want to know that Julie’s okay.”
Damn. I realize I mean it. I really am past that blind, limiting need to help my aunt avenge my cousin. I’ve been all the way out, and now I feel I’m part of the way back.
“I think she is. Julie’s a fighter.”
“What’s she fighting?”
“Do I look likeUnsolved Mysteriesto you?” He gets up, impatient, I can see, to be out of here, away from me. “I can’t tell you much about her, couldn’t if I wanted to. That’s because I don’t know her that well, not that I didn’t try.”
There’s no mistaking the gleam in his inky-blue eyes.
“You were interested in her?” I ask.
“Interested, shit. I dug her, okay?” The gleam disappears into pools of anger. “I’m good at my job, you know? Maybe twice I got interested, as you put it, in someone I was training. Walked away from more than most men get in a lifetime.”
“Was the interest returned?”
“Not in Julie’s case.” He sits back down on the far end of the bench. “That’s okay with me, though, because I got myself something better out of it. I got myself a friend.”
“You consider Julie Larimore your friend?”
“Damned straight.” He lifts his chin, threatening me to challenge him. “I helped her, and she helped me. We’re friends. Best thing for her if she doesn’t come back.”
“Why not?”
“Too much pressure,” he says quickly. Then, more slowly, “Can you imagine what a bitch it is to be in the spotlight like that, day and night, not to mention at old Bobbo’s beck and call?”
“You don’t like Mr. Warren?”
“I love the guy, but, hey, he’s a tyrant.”
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and turn away, but not before I realize I need to make an appointment with a real hairdresser instead of my own scissors. Damn, how do these people live with the constant self-scrutiny?
“Julie obviously had great respect for you,” I say. “Don’t you know where she is?”
“I don’t, and I don’t want to. It’s her business. When she’s ready—ifshe’s ready—she’ll come on back.”
Our exchange is so rapid, and his staccato responses so distracting, that I’m unable to detect how much is honesty and how much is him blowing smoke.
“Do you know where she was from, what her real name is?”
His sweet little face caves in. “What do you mean herrealname?”
“That’s all I know for sure. Her real name is not Julie Larimore.”
“But it was on her checks. Printed right there, with her address and phone number.”
“Doesn’t matter. You can sign your checks Elmer Fudd, if you’re not doing it with criminal intent. Doesn’t bother the banks in the least.”
“No shit?” He rests his chin in his left hand, raking his thumb across his lower lip, left to right, left to right.
