When it appeared Daisy was waiting for me to confirm this information had sunk in, I nodded and Daisy continued,
“He reeled back, landed on her couch, blood everywhere.
She’s pissed. She loved that couch.”
“Did he shoot at her?” I asked.
“Yeah, she ain’t stupid,” Daisy kept talking but her attention went back to her nails. “With her history, no way she’d shoot someone, even an intruder, without him shootin’ first. Got three bul et holes in her wal but that’s okay, just needs a little spackle.”
Her history?
A little spackle?
Effing hel .
“He dropped the gun when she nailed him,” Daisy went on. “Problem is, she’d disarmed him but she was so pissed about him bleedin’ on her couch, she cold-cocked him with her gun butt anyway. She’s gonna have a bit of a problem explainin’ that.”
Oh my Lord.
“Anyway, they’l be here soon,” Daisy said, her eyes moving from her nails back to me. “And you and me got to talk about Dixon Jones.”
Nope.
No way.
Not gonna happen.
I pul ed a chair toward the couch and sat down. Juno decided to make the rounds and began doing person-to-person greetings. That was to say sniffing everyone.
“Maybe we can talk about Dixon Jones when people aren’t breaking into houses and bleeding on couches,” I said to Daisy.
“Life goes on, sugar,” Daisy returned on a shrug. “I cal ed him last night. He had to leave town after your last gig. He’s comin’ back to Denver, gonna be at your gig on Thursday.
He wants a meet then. I suggested we do it beforehand, seein’ as most of the times you get kidnapped or shot at or jump audience members is after the gig. When I explained this to him, he agreed.”
I decided to ignore Daisy reminding Dixon Jones about the mayhem in my life considering he’d witnessed most of it and even if it wasn’t hard to forget, it’d been in the papers.
I was saved from having to retort when the door opened and Shirleen stormed in.
The girls weren’t wrong, she was fine but she was pissed.
“Who’s gonna pay for my couch, hunh?” She was yel ing at a man who was walking behind her. He had light brown hair, the cut expensive, and he was wearing a suit which also looked expensive. He was tal -ish and slight but stil fit maybe late thirties, early forties. His face was tight and, if anything, he looked even angrier than Shirleen. “Who’s gonna pay for therapy for Roam and Sniff?” she demanded.
Roam and Sniff, her teenaged foster kids, fol owed her in. Roam was a handsome, tal , gangly black kid, the gangly part beginning to fil out wel . Sniff was a smal , skinny white kid whose acne was healing and who was hilarious.
Something I’d learned during their first guitar lesson yesterday evening.
Neither of them looked like they were in need of therapy.
“Hey, Stel a,” Sniff cal ed, his face forming a goofy grin as he waved at me.
Roam gave me a chin lift, his eyes shifted to Jules and he muttered, “Hey, Law.”
Jules got up to greet the boys as the room fil ed with the Hot Bunch (al of them, every last one), Tex and Duke.
Body language, incidental y, screamed unhappy.
I looked at Mace but he didn’t look at me. I knew this was an act for the benefit of the Rock Chicks but it stil sucked.