“It’s not your fault,” Raines said again, working on the spinach dip.

West ate another pickle fried in beer batter as Jump Little Children began setting up all their equipment and instruments. This small place with blue plastic tablecloths and funky art in screaming colors by someone named Tryke was going to rock tonight, jam, trot out primitive ids and libidos. Raines hoped he could make West stay at least until the second set. Actually, Raines thought what had happened to her all in a day’s work was hilarious. It was all he could do to look tender and concerned.

He imagined Mungo-Jumbo swinging into the Presto to chow down. He spots a dude with a banana in his pocket who’s the head of the Geezer Grill Cartel. A task force is formed, ending with a videotape of Blondie, the King of Vice and top suspect in the Black Widow serial murders, as he cruises Five Points in his tight black jeans and reporter’s notepad. What wouldn’t Raines have paid to see a videotape of Hammer sitting in her important conference room watching this shit! Christ! He fought a smile again and was losing. His face was aching and his stomach hurt.

“What’s wrong with you?” West gave him a look. “There’s nothing fucking funny about this.”

“There certainly isn’t,” he said weakly as he dissolved into laughter, doubled over in his chair, howling as tears streamed down his face.

This went on as Jump Little Children set up amplifiers, and checked Fender electric guitars, Pearl drums with Zildjian medium crash cymbals, and Yamaha keyboards. They gave each other sly looks, flipping long hair out of the way, earrings glinting in the dim light. This guy was fried. Man, look at him go. Cool. The girlfriend wasn’t digging it, either. Him taking a trip she’s not on. Kind of weird he’s drinking chardon-fucking-nay.

West was so angry she wanted to flip over the table, cowboy style. She wanted to jump on top of Raines, flex-cuff his ankles and feet, and just leave his sorry ass in the middle of Jack Straw’s on a hot Thursday night. She halfway believed the only person Mungo was undercover for was Goode. Maybe Goode had gotten to him and promised him favors if he would set up West and destroy her credibility, her good relationship with Hammer. Oh God. When they had been sitting at that polished table and the video had flickered on, at first West was certain some mistake had been made. Brazil, big as life, was walking along to the sound of traffic, making notes, for Chrissake! How many serial killers or drug kingpins walk around in the middle of the day making notes?

As for Brazil’s physical description, Mungo-the-Woolly-Mammoth had missed that by about forty pounds and six inches, although West had to admit she’d never seen Brazil in clothes that tight. She didn’t know what to make of it. Those black jeans were so tight she could see the muscles in the back of his thighs flex as he walked, the red polo shirt fitting like paint, muscles lean and well defined, and he had veins. Maybe he was trying to blend out there. That would make sense.