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guess. Real worried. Like he always gets this time of year.”
    “Worried?”
    “Yeah. Like he just knows he can’t get everything done. He gets like a permanent crease between his eyes.”
    “Okay, I guess that’s it for now. May I call you if I have more questions?”
    “Sure.”
    Skip was halfway back to the house, intending to get Andy Fike’s address from Ti-Belle’s Rolodex, when she heard a kind of collective gasp, followed instantly by an excited buzz. Wheeling, expecting the worst, she saw only a gray-haired man in jeans and tank top getting out of a double-parked car. The car was a Jaguar and the man had a certain seen-it-all look. Who was he? And then a name floated up from the crowd, repeated over and over: “Nick Anglime, Nick Anglime.”
    He stood uncertainly, as if afraid to go any farther, and it looked as if he had good reason. Already people were starting to approach—neighborhood kids, mostly, the bolder ones. But, setting his lips, he apparently made a decision, moved forward. Ignored the kids. And Skip noticed for the first time how tall he was. It was easy for him to ignore people—he simply stared out over their heads. She remembered the phrase, “A giant of his generation.” Apparently it had meaning beyond his talent.
    “Officer,” he shouted. “Officer!” Obviously he meant one of the uniformed ones—Skip was wearing the linen shirt Jimmy Dee had picked—but his voice was so imperious she nearly answered anyway. His tone was that of a man calling for a waiter. But intimidation gave way to amusement—and an idea. She was about to meet the American Mick. She hoped Steve Steinman was watching.
    A uniformed policeman strode importantly in Anglime’s direction, but Skip headed him off. “It’s okay, officer. I’ll talk to him.” His face fell like a kid’s. Skip almost laughed.
    She pulled out her badge and approached Anglime, stood close to him and looked up, mentally measuring him. She was six feet, and he was about six inches taller; quite possibly the tallest man she’d ever seen, except for Hulk Hogan, whom she’d once glimpsed in the Dallas airport.
    “Skip Langdon,” she said. “Can I help you?”
    “What’s happened? Is someone hurt?”
    Behind him, Skip saw the coroner’s wagon arriving—everyone would know soon. “I’m afraid so. The party’s canceled.”
    “But—what’s happened?”
    A kid grabbed at him. “Hey, Mr. Anglime. Do you really live in New Orleans?”
    “Later, please,” he said.
    Emboldened, two more kids came close. “Hey, Nick. Hey, Nick, how ya doin’?”
    He looked as if he’d like to swat them like so many gnats.
    What, thought Skip, am I doing here? Starfucking? Disgusted with herself, she went back to tell Steve Steinman good night. He happily lent her his rental car, saying he thought he could get a ride with Ariel. Declining the bait—for some reason she hadn’t yet figured out, she trusted Steve—she went back to work.
    At the moment she couldn’t really tell who was a neighbor and who wasn’t—certainly couldn’t see who lived where—so she decided to save the block canvassing for later. She went back in the house to check some things—yes, there was an unopened package of tasso in the refrigerator, and yes, Ham’s T-shirt said “Radiators” on it, obviously a promotional item for a local band.
    And Paul Gottschalk was through with the purple backpack. Eagerly, Skip opened it. It contained books, notebooks, pencils, pens, and money. Every book and notebook had the name “Melody Brocato” neatly printed on it.
    She left to interview Blair Rosenbaum, the kid Melody had visited the day before. As it turned out, she could have walked and probably should have—Blair lived about a block and a half away, in a neat brick house with an oak tree in front. It was almost fifties, it was so wholesome. Blair’s mom would have been a pretty blonde—someone who worked on it a lot, but still handsome—if it hadn’t been for