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“You’re probably right. Give me a plate of ribs and dirty rice,” I said, pushing a twenty at him.
Ten minutes later, the singer with the scar like a snake wrapped around her neck sat down next to me, the double Scotch in one hand, a glass of milk in the other. She wore a black skirt and a cowboy vest and a brocaded maroon shirt and enough jewelry to rattle.
She sipped from the Scotch, her eyes fixed on me. “Thanks, baby. Where you been?”
“Hanging around.”
She touched my can of Dr Pepper. “You drink that?”
“That’s what I’m drinking tonight.”
“You go to meetings?”
“For quite a while. I’m not a good example, though.”
“Church and all that jazz?”
“I figure it beats blowing my brains out.”
“What are you doin’ in here, baby?”
“I need to know who Hilary Bienville’s manager is.”
“Ax her.”
“She doesn’t want acid in her face?”
“Don’t be shopping around for information ain’t nobody gonna give you,” she said.
“You never told me your name.”
“Bella.”
“Bella what?”
“Delahoussaye.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
She rattled her jewelry. “Know what that sound is?”
I shook my head.
“Same sound you make when you walk,” she said. “You dragging a chain, honey-bunny, just like me.”
“You read minds?”
“I can read yours.”
“I owe a debt to some people who have no voice,” I said. “That’s because they’re in the cemetery. Or buried in a body bag in a rain forest on the other side of the world.”
“You won’t do them no good by joining them.”
I pushed my plate toward her. “Want some ribs?”
“You think you’re too old?”
“Old for what?”
