“Take it easy. It’s just a buddy of mine who I rent the darkroom to sometimes, but I don’t want him to hear us.” He examined my card again before putting it in the back pocket of his jeans. Rudy motioned me toward the front door, where the traffic would absorb the sound of our conversation. Satisfied with this arrangement, he perched on the windowsill by the doorway.

“If there’s going to be trouble, will you be able to cut a deal for me?” he wanted to know.

“The police aren’t involved. Yet. Before she disappeared, Monica hired me to prevent the cops from being called.” I quickly described to him the words painted on the dripping red walls and the torn-up clothing I had seen in her apartment earlier in the afternoon.

He drummed his fingers nervously on the windowsill as he thought about this. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not much. And I don’t know anything about Cathy Vega. I swear, nothing about Cathy Vega.”

“Go on. If you want to help Monica.” And keep your own skinny butt out of jail.

“I’ve known Monica for maybe five years. Actually, I knew her husband, her ex-husband. Cool guy, Dave. Saxophone player. Man, we used to have some kickin’ jams in here in the old days.” He sighed, flicking his hand in the direction of a conga drum in the far corner of the room. “I play the drums a little.”

I nodded encouragingly, but without interest.

“Dave and Monica had this on-again off-again thing since I’ve known them. He’s a chipper.”

“A chipper?” I interrupted. This word has always annoyed me. It sounds like it means something good. Chipper. Bright. Vibrant. A good name for a dog.

“Ok, ok. He’s a junkie. Been in and out of clinics, jail a couple times....”

Did they know Pete Manzo? Was he involved in this after all?

“Monica was always trying to get him straight. They break up, they get back together. Break up, get back together. That’s her thing; she needed him.”

“She bought drugs for him?” I cut in, wondering if this was where she had gained her experience in dealing.

“No! She wanted him to get clean and make lots of money.”

They sounded an unlikely couple. He wanted to get down. She wanted upward mobility. It sounded extremely dysfunctional. Rudy dug a bent cigarette from the pocket of his T-shirt and offered it to me. I shook my head and waited for him to light it.

“Go on,” I ordered.

“Dave could make good money if he could keep it together. Did a couple albums, but he just kept fucking up. Couldn’t stay off the shit.”

I nodded again to keep him going. “How about Monica? What’s she do?”