Page 40 of Never Never

“Yes,” she says confidently, even though I feel like the information she presented was barely strung together with logic. “Basically, I’m saying maybe it’s not Michelangelo Darling who is buying these dogs, but ‘Michelangelo Darling.’” She draws quote marks in the air with her purple-nailed fingers. “If you catch my drift.”

I have to think for a half second, but then I do. “So someone’s using his identity somehow? Using it to…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. “Traffic greyhounds, or something?”

“Or something.” Zuzu shrugs. “Look, I said it was a theory, but it’s two suspicious things about the same person. He was killed, violently and with zero evidence, and yet his name is still doing business dealings, of a sort. And,” she adds, drilling a finger at the sheet of loose leaf, “it also stands to reason that our friend Wendy would have no idea about any of that. I mean, she doesn’t even know his full name.”

“Yeah,” I say. It should feel like a breakthrough, and yet I’m more confused than before. I lean into my drink again and slurp, like maybe there’s a revelation at the bottom of my tiki mug. Or maybe I just need another one.

I look up, and Diamond is just staring into the middle distance, her gaze held on a point somewhere between the DJ booth and the mirrored surface of the pole platform.

“Hey, Diamond?” I say gently. I’m not the type to snap at waitstaff. “Could I⁠—”

“Oh my God.” She jolts back to life. “I’m so sorry. Yeah, you want—of course.” She hurries around making my cocktail and delivers it so fast that a tiny bit of the rum slops over the side when she sets it down. “Sorry,” she says again. “I just spaced out, I guess. I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“Are you okay, Diamond?” I say, because mai tais or no, I’m not imagining it. Something is definitely off with her. I try to make it a joke. “If someone’s bothering you, I bet Zuzu here can take them out.”

“With pleasure,” Zuzu says, cracking her knuckles for effect.

“Oh, um, no.” Diamond shakes her head and tucks some hair behind her ear. “It’s just…um…” She folds her arms around herself and stares at the bar. No, not at the bar, at the sheet of paper—Wendy’s notes. “You guys were talking about Michelangelo Darling?”

“Yeah,” I say, surprised. “Why?”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Diamond goes on quickly. “It’s just…” She gives a short, humorless laugh. “Just not the kind of name you hear every day, you know? So you kind of…remember it when you do.” Another nervous giggle.

“Sure,” I say, ever so gently. “You knew him?”

Diamond shakes her head. “Not exactly, but…” She chews the inside of her cheek, arms still tighter on her body. “Before I worked here, I was at the casino,” she says haltingly. “And…”

Her hands are nearly shaking, I notice, and the sight of it lights something in me too. A familiar panic, a cold clutching at my stomach.

“Um, and, I just…I remember seeing that name a lot,” she says. “In the high-roller rooms. He was some kind of VIP or whale or something. They’d always bend over backwards to make stuff nice for him if he was rumored to come around, but…”

“You met him?” Zuzu interrupts bluntly. “He was…” She glances down at Wendy’s notes. “Youngish guy, white?” She glances at me for confirmation, and I nod.

“Like twenty-seven or so?” I add, still keeping my voice soft.

Diamond shakes her head, vigorously this time. “No, no, I never met him. But…” she hesitates, “I mean, pretty much all the guys in the high-roller room were older than that.” She swallows hard. “I think you had to be to get that kind of…” She trails off. “Access,” she finishes huskily.

I can’t take it. I can’t watch her relive this. Can’t bear to imagine what’s playing out in front of the eyes that are just staring down at the counter.

“Thanks, Diamond,” I say, quick but firm, hopefully reassuring. “And thanks for the drink. It’s really good,” I add stupidly, like a compliment to her bartending skills will undo her trauma.

“Oh yeah, sure, anytime,” she says, her voice airier now, almost un-moored. And as she slips back to the register, I can’t help it. I look down to her hip, and⁠—

The X.

My whole body tightens at the sight of it.

“Interesting.” Zuzu’s voice sounds tinny, far-away. “Very interesting.” She sidles a look at me. “What do you make of it?”

What I make of it could occupy two or three years of back-to-back therapy sessions. But I’m not going there now. Or maybe ever.

I grab for my cocktail and slam back half of it, not even bothering with the straw, and swatting away the mint leaves from my face.

“I think we’re good,” I say, blinking a few times as the warm burn of rum hits the back of my throat. “I think…” I close my eyes tightly, press a thumb and finger to my eyebrows to regain steadiness. I’m not drunk, but I should probably go home.

“I should probably go home,” I say out loud. “Get back, I mean, across the street. This was…” I lower my hand and open my eyes, trying to fix Zuzu in one place. “Thanks for coming. I hope it wasn’t a waste of time or anything, but for me…”

“Never,” Zuzu says and raps her knuckles against the bar. “It’s not like I go drinking out in the marina.” She gets up and untucks a wallet from some inner pocket, flipping out one, two, three twenty-dollar bills, which is way more than our tab.