George got into the Lincoln beside him and told him about the wiretap.

Jasper said: “I’ll have to take the phone to pieces, and remove the bug.”

George shook his head. “If you do that they’ll know, because they won’t get any transmissions.”

“So what?”

“So they’ll find another way to bug you, and next time we might not be so lucky as to find out about it.”

“Shit. I take all my most important calls at home. What am I going to do?”

“When an important source calls, say you’re busy and you’ll call back; then go out to a pay phone.”

“I guess I’ll figure something out. Thanks for the tip. Does it come from the usual source?”

“Yes.”

“He’s well informed.”

“Yes,” said George, “he is.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Beep Dewar came to see Dave Williams at Daisy Farm, his recording studio in Napa Valley.

The rooms were plain yet comfortable, but there was nothing plain about the studio, which had state-of-the-art equipment. Several hit albums had been made here, and renting the place to bands had turned into a small but profitable business. Sometimes they asked Dave to be their producer, and he found that he seemed to have a talent for helping them achieve the sounds they wanted.

Which was just as well, for Dave was not making as much money as he once had. Since the breakup of Plum Nellie there had been a greatest hits album, a live album, and an album of outtakes and alternate versions. Each had sold less than the previous one. Solo albums by former members had done modestly well. Dave was not in trouble, but he was no longer buying a new Ferrari every year. And the trend was down.

When Beep called and asked if she could drive up and see him the next day he had been so surprised that he had not asked whether she had some special reason.

That morning he shampooed his beard in the shower, put on clean jeans, and picked out a bright blue shirt. Then he asked himself why he was making a fuss. He was no longer in love with Beep. Why did he care what she thought of his appearance? He realized that he wanted her to look at him and regret jilting him. “Bloody fool,” he said aloud to himself, and put on an old T-shirt.

All the same, he wondered what she wanted.

He was in the studio, working with a young singer-songwriter making his first album, when the gate phone flashed silently. He left the artist working on the middle eight and stepped outside. Beep drove up to the house in a red Mercury Cougar with the top down.

He expected her to have changed, and was intrigued to see what she would look like, but in fact she was the same: small and pretty with an impish look in her eye. She hardly seemed different from when he had first met her, a decade ago, when she had been a disturbingly sexy thirteen-year-old. Today she wore blue matador pants and a striped tank top, and her hair was cut in a short bob.