I’m so taken aback by this advice that I just stare back at her, mute.
“You two make a lovely couple,” Sally goes on. “Plus, Nadine’s about the only lawyer in this town who’d stand a chance against Jet in a courtroom. And I’m including you, Arthur.”
As Pine gives an obsequious laugh, I realize Jet is one of the few members of this set who hasn’t drifted over to listen.
“Oh, Sally,” says Nadine, “Marshall’s just using me as his ticket to see Jerry Lee Lewis. No romance here.”
Sally shakes her head like a matchmaker of long experience. “You can’t fool me. Go ahead, play charades if you must. But I’ll have the last laugh when I throw rice at your wedding.”
In the surprised pause that follows this pronouncement, it strikes me how odd it feels to think of this group as a gang of killers. But that may be the reality. The men in this genteel cabal may have met over a card table and condemned Buck to death without a moment’s hesitation.
“So,” I say to Paul, “is Jerry Lee coming or not?”
He grins and pumps a tanned fist. “You better believe it! His driver just pulled up with him. I just got the text. We’re about to hear some bona fide boogie, boy. I’d better run down and bring him up here.”
“Hot damn!” exults Blake Donnelly. “I brung him a special bottle of Calvert Extra. I’m gonna go get it.”
For two minutes the orbiting planets came together, and now they fly apart once more. Paul squeezes my shoulder like he used to on the basketball court, then he and Max spin off in Blake Donnelly’s wake. Wyatt Cash and Tommy Russo fade a few feet away and begin talking among themselves. Only Arthur Pine moves closer to me. The tanned, gray-templed attorney leans in and says, “It really would be regrettable to publish anything that could upset the Chinese at this juncture. Don’t you agree?”
“Mr. Pine, the Watchman is a newspaper, not a propaganda organ. We don’t consider public reaction when making editorial decisions.”
Pine actually laughs at this. “You’ve obviously forgotten how well I used to know your father.”
My back stiffens. “What do you mean by that?”
“Only that Duncan knew part of the job of a small-town daily is boosterism. That’s always been the deal, in every small town in America. It’s part of the compact of capitalism.”
“Is that so?”
Pine nods with unreflective confidence.
“Well . . . I never signed that compact.”
With Nadine still talking to Sally Matheson, I turn and move back into the crowd. Five seconds later, Jet brushes against me as though by accident, then laughs and catches my wrist. She chose her spot well: we’re surrounded by a ring of people three bodies thick.
“We need to talk,” she says softly, leaning in close.
Her breath carries the sweet scent of alcohol, and she’s wearing the same sapphire earrings she had on this afternoon, though the silver pendant has disappeared.
“Should we dance?” I ask.
“With Paul here? Check your phone.”
Then she’s past me, swept onward by another current of the party.
After a backward glance at Nadine, I take out my burner phone. Jet’s text reads: We have to talk. Meet me by the wall of the penthouse. Not many people that side of the roof. See if Nadine can run interference 4 us. If Paul moves our way, she can head him off for a minute or two. Maybe dance with him. If she loses him, she should text us a warning.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Nadine would just love that. Jesus.”
But Jet wouldn’t have asked me to risk a public conversation unless not talking would pose a greater danger. I see Paul in my mind, laughing as he talked about Jerry Lee Lewis. And Max defending me from Beau Holland’s drunken assault. They can’t possibly know about Jet and me. Where is the danger at this moment?
We have to talk . . .
Christ, I think, looking around for Nadine. The things you do when you’re in love.
Chapter 20
Walking through the crowd toward Nadine and Sally, I hear a commotion over by the Aurora’s double doors. Voices rise, then spontaneous applause rolls across the rooftop. The star attraction must have arrived at last.
“What was that about?” Nadine asks, suddenly at my side again. “I saw Jet go after you.”
“She needs to talk to me about Buck’s death. Do you think you can run interference for us for a couple of minutes?”
Nadine opens her mouth but no sound comes out. From her eyes I can see that I’ve profoundly disappointed her, maybe even hurt her. So far as I know, she suspects nothing about Jet and me sleeping together, at least not in the present. She does know we had a relationship during high school.
“Listen,” I start, but she shakes her head and says, “Just make it quick, okay? We don’t need a fistfight up here tonight. You and Beau Holland came close enough.”
“There won’t be any fight,” I assure her.
“Then why do you need me ‘running interference’?”
I concede her point with a silent plea for understanding.
“Is Paul Matheson on the wrong side of Buck’s death?” she asks. “Potential suspect?”
I glance over at Paul, who has reappeared beside the stage and looks to be pounding straight whiskey with Blake Donnelly. “I hope not. But I honestly don’t know. He’s acting a little paranoid today.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Nadine says with a hint of Dorothy Parker in her voice. “Just be quick, Marshall. Seriously.”
“I will. Text me if he gets away from you, okay?”
She shakes her head in frustration. “Just get going.”
As casually as possible, I make my way over to the old penthouse suite and walk around the corner. Jet is waiting there, twenty yards away, leaning on the balustrade of the roof.
“Here you are,” she says, turning back over her shoulder.
As I walk closer, she looks past me, then pops up on tiptoe and kisses me on the mouth.
I pull away. “Shit, are you drunk? Anybody could walk around that corner.”
“A little tipsy. But I have a surprise for you.”
“Good or bad?”
She points to a forest-green door set in the stucco wall. “That leads into the penthouse. They’re using it to store booze for the party.”
“So?”
“I want to see the rest of the hotel.”
“Jet . . . you’re crazy. This isn’t the time. Besides, they’ve got it sealed up tight.”
She rolls her eyes like I’m being a spoilsport. “Come on! Just the lobby. I’ve heard it’s unbelievable, all the Egyptian stuff.”
I wonder if somebody slipped a drug into her glass. “The lobby’s seven floors down,” I remind her. “Even if we were crazy enough to go, it would take way too long.”
“The Nefertiti Lounge, then. It’s right in there. Just a few yards away.”
“It’s blocked off, Jet. Everybody wants to see the reno—” Another roar of applause drowns my voice, then rises into the night sky.
“I’d say the headliner just hit the stage,” she says with a smile. “Come on!”