umbrella organization. The big dogs. They made it official, so the film crew’s been setting up cameras at the Fox Theatre all day.”
The Fabulous Fox Theatre. Venerable, opulent, and capable of seating almost five thousand, it was the site for Friday’s team round and Saturday’s individuals.
Rico swirled his champagne. “Let me tell you, there’s serious money behind this, which means there’s even more serious money to be made. It’s making everyone a little crazy.”
Of course it was. Money sandwiched with fame was a performance poet’s dream come true. Let other poets have the clothbound books and juried awards. Performance poets craved the spotlight, the solo, the jazzed-up juice of a headline tour. Throw in hotels and plane fare instead of random sofa beds and packed vans, and I figured any one of them would toss his or her mother under a bus for the shot.
Even Rico.
In the corner, Lex fidgeted in his chair, his boot-clad feet stretched in front of him. His hands tapped out a drum beat on the tabletop, then played with the salt and pepper shakers, rolling them through his fingers. The backs of his hands shone with glyphic tattoos, and his nails gleamed jet black in the candlelight.
“He looks nervous.”
“He drinks too much Red Bull. Probably does other stuff too.”
“Is he good?”
“His poetry is okay. His big problem is that he wastes his energy on stage work, like eyeliner is gonna win this.”
“He keeps looking our way.”
“That’s all he’d better do.”
The acid in Rico’s voice was potent. I caught his eye.
“Something personal going on?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a team problem, and we’ll deal with it as a team. And we’ll do it tomorrow. As for tonight, drink more champagne and stop asking questions. My nine days of vacation leave started four hours ago, and I’m not wasting another second of it arguing with you.”
He tilted the Roederer bottle, and a few drops dribbled out. He started to stand, but I beat him to it.
“I’ll get another bottle. But only if you promise we’ll talk more after you perform.”
“I told you—”
“You told me part of the story, not all. You’ve still got something tucked in your back pocket, and I want the rest of it after the show. Okay?”
He didn’t contradict me. “Okay. Now go get some champagne. And maybe fix this mess while you’re at it.” He reached over and wrapped a thick finger around one dirty blond, tumbled-down curl. “You know, into a hairstyle or something.”
Chapter Three
I skipped the crowded ladies room out front in favor of the small private restroom in the back. Usually it was unmarked, but tonight it sported a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign thanks to the leaky toilet. I decided I’d take my chances. Unfortunately, when I tried to adjust the tiny French hairpins, the whole hairspray-thickened tumble fell about my shoulders.
I dropped the pins in my purse. To hell with it.
I heard the voices the second I came out of the bathroom, both male, both of them coming from the open office ten feet away. I recognized one voice immediately—Jackson Bentley, the restaurant’s current owner. A former college football player, Jackson had a voice with a built-in megaphone. He was currently wielding that voice against someone in his office, and it was a firefight, harsh words flying like shrapnel.
“—and then you show up here wearing that!” he bellowed.
“I get to wear what I want to. And I have every right to be here. I’m on the team.”
“Not for long.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“You’d be surprised what I get to decide. Now get out.”
Low laughter. “What are you gonna do if I don’t, beat me to a pulp? Go ahead. I’m sure your wife wouldn’t be too mad. Cricket understands how you get, right?”
At the mention of his wife’s name, Jackson’s voice dropped to a growl. “Get the hell out of my restaurant.”
I inched closer. Oh boy, was I not supposed to do this. I was trying to go on the straight and narrow—no more eavesdropping, no more snooping, no more glancing at e-mail when someone’s back was turned. It was part of my rehabilitation into a girlfriend, someone a secret agent boyfriend could trust to leave in his apartment with his guns and secure files.
“I’m not going anywhere until you give me my stuff back.”
“Not until you cough up that missing two grand.”
“I didn’t take that money.”
“I don’t believe you.”
More laughter. “Do you really want to play it this way, Jackson? Really? Because you know as