alone in the crowd near the altar with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and looking furious. Someone tried to hug her and she shrugged him off.
Anthony Gides, a music critic who had been a big fan of Paul’s, brought the music to a close and stood near the tree and started to talk. He talked about Paul’s music; about his mentorship of other bands, his study of Roma guitar, his passion for Haitian drums and Cuban claves. About how empty the music world would be without him. About—
But then the band started playing again, suddenly doing “Brother, Can You Can Spare a Dime.” The crowd, now several hundred, cheered. Nancy O’Brien, a keyboardist who played with Paul sometimes, came over and hugged me. She looked exhausted and we didn’t say anything. Josh Rule, another guitar player Paul was friends with, also came over and hugged me.
“You know he was fucking crazy about you,” Josh said.
I shrugged. Now that he was gone I guessed it seemed like he’d been crazy about everyone. Death erased complications.
“I want to go,” Josh said. “This feels weird.”
“Me too,” I said. We left the park and started walking down the hill. The crowd was hundreds strong by now. Soon someone would do something stupid and someone else would call the cops and it would all be in the papers tomorrow.
“This is completely fucked up,” Josh said. “I can’t believe neither of us were invited to the funeral.”
I told him it didn’t bother me. Family was family.
“
Family?
” he said. “
We
were his fucking family.
We
were.”
I didn’t argue. I drove Josh back to his place in Albany, north of Berkeley. When we got to his house he asked if I wanted to come in for a drink and I said yes. Everyone wants to have sex after a funeral. The sex was okay and we ordered pretty good Nepalese food afterward and then fell asleep watching
Naked City
on TV. I left as quickly as I could the next day, leaving Josh naked and asleep and alone.
Josh was a sweet, quiet sleeper, a man who would make someone a good husband one day. But as I got dressed and hooked my bra behind me in the hushed bedroom I felt the cold winter sun in my eyes and a shiver up my spine and a thick spill of shame in my solar plexus and I knew: This case was going to be complicated.
11
“H EY. IT'S CLAIRE .”
When I left Josh I swallowed two Valium I’d stolen from his bathroom and drove around the city. But even with the gentle numbing of the diazepam I felt something sick and painful where my chest met my belly. Back at home I took a Percocet out from my stash of painkillers I had squirreled away for actual pain and crushed it with the handle of a knife on a cutting board in the kitchen. I snorted half the Percocet and felt a little better, or at least like there might be a cure for the sickness. I called Andray.
“Just wondering if you were okay. If you were busy or working or, I don’t know. If you need anything. You know.”
I’d met Andray in New Orleans on the Case of the Green Parrot. Andray was a born detective, like Tracy and Constance. Unlike them he was alive, although just barely. He could be working for any detective in the world. Even the very best. Instead he was drowning in New Orleans, selling drugs and guns and getting high. He’d been shot at least once since I’d seen him last.
I’d had Constance, sober, wise, and in her own way loving and pure, to guide me to dry land. Andray had me, Claire DeWitt, who despite being the very best detective in the world was at this moment snorting a crushed painkiller off her kitchen counter.
I hung up. Andray didn’t call me back. The sickness, which had abated for a minute, came back. It didn’t feel like it was leaving anytime soon.
“All these fucking missing girls,” Silette, bitter and old, wrote to Constance, “and the one I can’t find is my own. If it were a detective novel it would be too utterly stupid to read.”
“As a wise man once told me,” Constance
Anthony Gides, a music critic who had been a big fan of Paul’s, brought the music to a close and stood near the tree and started to talk. He talked about Paul’s music; about his mentorship of other bands, his study of Roma guitar, his passion for Haitian drums and Cuban claves. About how empty the music world would be without him. About—
But then the band started playing again, suddenly doing “Brother, Can You Can Spare a Dime.” The crowd, now several hundred, cheered. Nancy O’Brien, a keyboardist who played with Paul sometimes, came over and hugged me. She looked exhausted and we didn’t say anything. Josh Rule, another guitar player Paul was friends with, also came over and hugged me.
“You know he was fucking crazy about you,” Josh said.
I shrugged. Now that he was gone I guessed it seemed like he’d been crazy about everyone. Death erased complications.
“I want to go,” Josh said. “This feels weird.”
“Me too,” I said. We left the park and started walking down the hill. The crowd was hundreds strong by now. Soon someone would do something stupid and someone else would call the cops and it would all be in the papers tomorrow.
“This is completely fucked up,” Josh said. “I can’t believe neither of us were invited to the funeral.”
I told him it didn’t bother me. Family was family.
“
Family?
” he said. “
We
were his fucking family.
We
were.”
I didn’t argue. I drove Josh back to his place in Albany, north of Berkeley. When we got to his house he asked if I wanted to come in for a drink and I said yes. Everyone wants to have sex after a funeral. The sex was okay and we ordered pretty good Nepalese food afterward and then fell asleep watching
Naked City
on TV. I left as quickly as I could the next day, leaving Josh naked and asleep and alone.
Josh was a sweet, quiet sleeper, a man who would make someone a good husband one day. But as I got dressed and hooked my bra behind me in the hushed bedroom I felt the cold winter sun in my eyes and a shiver up my spine and a thick spill of shame in my solar plexus and I knew: This case was going to be complicated.
11
“H EY. IT'S CLAIRE .”
When I left Josh I swallowed two Valium I’d stolen from his bathroom and drove around the city. But even with the gentle numbing of the diazepam I felt something sick and painful where my chest met my belly. Back at home I took a Percocet out from my stash of painkillers I had squirreled away for actual pain and crushed it with the handle of a knife on a cutting board in the kitchen. I snorted half the Percocet and felt a little better, or at least like there might be a cure for the sickness. I called Andray.
“Just wondering if you were okay. If you were busy or working or, I don’t know. If you need anything. You know.”
I’d met Andray in New Orleans on the Case of the Green Parrot. Andray was a born detective, like Tracy and Constance. Unlike them he was alive, although just barely. He could be working for any detective in the world. Even the very best. Instead he was drowning in New Orleans, selling drugs and guns and getting high. He’d been shot at least once since I’d seen him last.
I’d had Constance, sober, wise, and in her own way loving and pure, to guide me to dry land. Andray had me, Claire DeWitt, who despite being the very best detective in the world was at this moment snorting a crushed painkiller off her kitchen counter.
I hung up. Andray didn’t call me back. The sickness, which had abated for a minute, came back. It didn’t feel like it was leaving anytime soon.
“All these fucking missing girls,” Silette, bitter and old, wrote to Constance, “and the one I can’t find is my own. If it were a detective novel it would be too utterly stupid to read.”
“As a wise man once told me,” Constance
Similar Books
