Stardust by Robert B. Parker Page B

calls?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNot on any answering machines, or anything?”
    â€œI don’t have answering machines,” Jill said. The waitress brought her a third martini. I didn’t have too much longer before talking with her would be useless.
    Jill giggled. “I don’t know how they work.”
    â€œYou get any fan letters that seem odd?” I said.
    â€œThey’re all odd,” Jill said. “I mean, for crissake, fan letters.”
    â€œAny unusually odd?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t read them. Ask Sandy.”
    â€œSandy reads them?”
    â€œSandy, or some girl in the office. I don’t have time for it. Somebody reads them and writes up a little cover, saying how they sound. You know? If there’s a trend.”
    â€œDo you read that?” I said.
    â€œNo, they send it to my agent.”
    â€œWhose name is?”
    â€œMy agent?”
    â€œUn huh.”
    â€œWhy do you want my agent’s name?”
    â€œSo I can talk with him,” I said. “See, I’m a detective. That means I make an attempt to detect what’s going on, by asking questions. By looking for, ah, clues. Stuff like that.”
    â€œYou’re making fun of me,” Jill said.
    â€œOne would have to have a heart of stone . . .” I said.
    â€œI get you in bed, I’d show you something,” Jill said. She got another cigarette and leaned toward me while I lit it, her eyes fixed on me in a look that, I think, was supposed to make my blood race.
    â€œWhat’s your agent’s name?” I said.
    She leaned back and blew smoke out at me in disgust.
    â€œKen Craig,” she said.
    â€œHe in L.A.?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow about relationships? Any that have ended lately?”
    â€œRelationships?”
    â€œYeah. Marriages, lovers, business arrangements, anybody that you’ve cut loose that might be mad at you?”
    Jill was holding the martini glass in both hands and resting it against her lower lip. She gazed at me over it, her eyes closed a little so that she had a smoky look.
    â€œThere are things a girl doesn’t talk about to a man,” she said.
    â€œAren’t you the same woman who expressed an interest in something this long?” I said. I made the measuring gesture with my hands.
    Her eyes widened and seemed to get brighter. The rim of her glass was still pressed against her lower lip; the tip of her tongue appeared above it and darted laterally, back and forth.
    â€œMaybe I did,” she said.
    â€œAnd now there’s things a girl doesn’t discuss with a man?” I said.
    She tilted the martini glass up suddenly and drank the rest of it in a long swallow. She put the glass down with a thump and stood up.
    â€œI’m going to bed,” she said.
    The brightness left her eyes and they seemed unfocused now.
    â€œI’m not saying another word to you. I’m going to bed.”
    â€œMy loss,” I said. She walked toward the elevator without another sound. I glanced at the bartender. He spread his hands, palms down in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture. I left my beer half drunk and followed her out.

9
    A T 6:10 the winter morning was as bright as a hooker’s promise and warmer than her heart. The temperature was already in the thirties and by noon the plowed streets would be dark and glistening with snow melt. I was in the lobby of the Charles Hotel, fresh showered, clean shaven, armed to the teeth, and dressed to the nines: sneakers, jeans, a black polo shirt, and a leather jacket. The collar of the polo shirt was turned up inside the collar of the jacket. I took off my Ray-Bans to see if I could catch another glimpse of myself in some lobby glass, but there wasn’t any. I’d have to live on memories till we got to a mirror. I could go outside and look at myself in the smoked glass windows of the Lincoln Town Car parked out there, but the slight