a small annoyance but not nearly enough to make her change course.
"One of his lawyers left me a message this morning— something about the medical bills." She was turning the tip of her right sneaker in time to the music. Back, forth, back, forth.
I waited.
"You're in my apartment for a good reason, I'm sure. Mind telling what it is?"
Allison appraised me while she bobbed her head, starting at my feet and working her way up. When she got to my eyes she locked on and smiled, approvingly.
"You look good. You should dress like that more often."
I shook my head. "This outfit reminds me of too many funerals."
"That's where you were this morning?"
"Close enough. Why are you here?"
Allison lifted her fingers off the counter. "You were listed in the book. I felt bad about you getting hit last night."
"You felt bad."
She grinned. " I'm not that terrible, sweetie. You don't know me well enough."
"The guys who know you well enough seem to get flesh wounds."
"Like I said, Tres, I grew up with four brothers."
"How many of them made it to adulthood?"
Her eyes sparkled. No making her mad today. "Maybe I was just curious. Miranda's dad called me this morning. He wanted to know if Miranda was with me last night."
"Yeah?"
She gave me a smirk. "Yeah. Seems she disappeared last night after the party. So did you, for that matter."
She waited for information.
Fortunately for me the phone rang. Allison offered to get it. I told her thanks anyway. I moved the phone to the bathroom doorway, which was as far as it would stretch, then picked up the receiver.
Erainya Manos said, "RIAA."
"Is that Greek?"
The next thing she said was Greek, and unflattering. "No, honey, I'm telling you something you never got from me. Recording Industry Association of America. When it comes to enforcing copyright laws in the music industry, they're it. They've got a branch office in Houston. For all of South Texas, they contract through Samuel Barrera."
I looked across the room at Allison. She smiled at me pleasantly, still moving her feet to the Johnny Johnson.
"That's great," I told Erainya. "I'm glad it was nothing serious."
Erainya hesitated. "You got visitors?"
"Uhhuh."
"Just listen, then. Sheckly's been in court half a dozen times the last few years, sued by bigname artists who've appeared at his place. They all claim he's taped their shows for syndication and given them no rights to anything, no percentage."
"I've heard about that."
"They also claim bootleg CDs of their shows have been turning up all over Europe.
Excellent quality recordings, made at firstrate facilities. My friends tell me it's pretty common knowledge Sheckly is the one making the tapes, getting a little extra money out of them. He speaks German, goes over to Germany frequently, probably uses the trips to strike some deals, distribute his masters, but nobody can prove it. Since the shows are taped for syndication they could've been copied and distributed at any radio station in the country, by anybody with the right equipment."
I smiled at Allison. I mouthed the words sick friend. "Doesn't sound like anything that would kill you. Just a minor annoyance."
Erainya was silent. "It doesn't sound like anything to get killed over, honey. You're right. Then again, how much money are we talking about? What kind of guy is Mr.
Sheckly? You got a sense for that?"
"I'm afraid I might. Why haven't they caught this before?"
"I hear Sheckly keeps things pretty modest. Doesn't import the music back into the U.S., which would make it more profitable but ten times easier to bust. He sticks to the European market, only live tapes. Makes him a lowpriority target."
"Got it."
"And, honey, you heard nothing from me."
"Room twelve. All right."
"If you can use this to squeeze Barrerra's balls a little bit—"
"I'll do that. Same to you."
I hung up. Allison looked at me and said, "Good prognosis?"
"You mind if I change clothes?"
She pursed her lips and nodded. "Go ahead."
I pulled a Tshirt and jeans out of the closet and went into the bathroom. Robert Johnson peeped out the side of the shower curtain.
"Not yet," I told him.
His head disappeared back into the bathtub.
I'd just taken off the dress shirt and was pulling the sleeves rightside out when Allison came in and poked her finger in my back, touching the scar above my kidney.
It took great effort to control my backward elbow strike reflex.
"What's this?" she asked.
"You mind not doing that?"
She acted like she hadn't heard. She poked the scar again, like the puffiness of the skin fascinated her. Her breath