“She’s a party girl?” Ike asked. Jeff’s shoulders slumped.
“Tangerine can be a bit of a diva, that’s all,” Jeff said. An idea popped up in Ike’s mind.
“We heard she met Derek at a big fancy party for a music guy,” Ike said.
“That girl ain’t never seen a scene that she didn’t want to be seen at,” Chris said. Jeff frowned at him but Chris didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care.
“Are you talking about Mr. Get Down’s party?” Ralph asked.
“I don’t know. Who’s Mr. Get Down?” Ike asked.
“He’s a producer. Real name is Tariq Matthews. Mainly hip-hop and trance. He lives out in the West End. Huge house with god-awful flying buttresses like something out of a James Whale movie,” Ralph said. He paused, apparently hoping for a laugh.
“God, am I that old that I’m the only one who knows who James Whale is? Anyway, Tariq is a hometown hero. I taught him in the ninth grade. The year after he graduated he produced a record that went to number one in fifteen countries. Derek was in here a week before the party talking about how his company was gonna do the food for Mr. Get Down’s thirtieth. God, I really am old,” Ralph said. He laid his head on Jeff’s shoulder.
“Is that her kind of scene?” Ike asked. Chris started to answer but Jeff cut him off.
“Here’s the thing. Tangy is … a complicated girl. She’s young and beautiful and she’s finding herself. That kind of beauty and youth can get you some haters,” Jeff said, staring squarely at Chris.
“Tangerine isn’t even her real name,” Chris said. Ralph jumped into the conversation.
“Don’t be bitchy, Chris,” Ralph said. Chris crossed his arms.
“Got any idea where she might be?” Ike asked.
“You think Tangy is involved with what happened to Isiah and Derek?” Jeff asked. Ike hesitated.
“Isiah was supposed to meet her here for an interview. The day before the meet, him and Derek got shot in front of that wine bar celebrating their anniversary,” Ike said. Saying out loud that his boy had been shot made the sharp edges of Ike’s heart grate against each other.
“Tangy’s been gone since before that happened. She might be anywhere,” Jeff said. As if on cue, his right cheek began to twitch. Ike gave him the hard eyes. The scary eyes. The murder eyes.
Jeff seemed to be a really nice guy. He dedicated his life to helping gay kids. He had a nice group of friends. None of that stopped him from lying to Ike’s face. Jeff knew exactly where Tangerine was and how to find her. Ike could feel it in his guts.
Tangerine was the woman who sounded so afraid on that answering machine. Was she afraid because she knew Isiah had a hit on him? Did she set him up? Ike didn’t know. All he really knew was that nice guy Jeff was sitting here lying to him like he was big dumb black-ass country son of a bitch. Jeff with his frosted gray tips and deliberately groomed five-o’clock shadow. Nice guy Jeff, who cared more about protecting some party girl than he cared about Ike’s dead son, had a case of the city-mouse syndrome. A lot of folks that lived in Richmond liked to imagine they were smarter and more sophisticated than the people that lived in the counties. Even if most of the counties were only thirty miles past the huge illuminated RICHMOND sign that sat above the exit that took you out of the city.
Ike wondered how long it would take to get the truth out of him if he jammed his thumb into his eye and popped it like hard-boiled egg.
Jeff blinked hard. Perhaps he saw something in Ike’s face that told him his eyeball was in danger of ending up on Garland’s hardwood floor.
“Seriously, I don’t know where she is. But…” Jeff said.
“But what?” Ike asked, still giving Jeff the death stare.
“If she was at that party, it probably wasn’t her first time hanging out with Mr. Get Down. He might know where she is. That’s all I’m saying,” Jeff said. “The Man That Got Away” started pumping through Garland’s sound system over a trip-hop beat. Ike relaxed.
“Thanks,” he said. He turned and went back to the bar.
“Can I have another water? And let me settle up for me and my friend,” Ike said. Tex came over and tossed a receipt and a pen in front of Ike. Had he really called Buddy Lee his friend? He didn’t know if that was an accurate description of what they were. They’d killed a man together, so they were more than acquaintances, but he didn’t think they were quite friends. Ike signed the receipt, leaving a sizable tip, and wrapped it around his debit card. A tall thin Black man stumbled up to the bar next to him. The man stroked his bushy gray goatee as he struggled to straddle the barstool.