Laura Lippman - In Big Trouble

" Rick Trejo," he said, holding his hand out to Tess. "And as long as we're having this little Spanish lesson, I wish I could introduce Kristina as mi novia , my betrothed, which sounds far more elegant than girlfriend or old lady, but she keeps refusing my pleas to make her an honest woman."

" Enrique ." Kristina punched him on the arm-not some little fake girl punch, but a good, solid thump. "Don't involve strangers in our private life."

"Excuse me, but who brought this woman over to me? Miss, Miss-what is your name?"

"Tess Monaghan."

"Miss Monaghan, can you imagine why any woman in her right mind wouldn't marry me? I'm an attorney-"

"Well, there's one reason," Tess said.

"I'll ignore that. Lawyer jokes demean only those who tell them. As I said, I'm an attorney, with a thriving practice and the best winning streak of any criminal lawyer in the county. I'm handsome. Not being vain, just stating the facts of life as my mother has explained them to me."

"She does," Kristina put in. "She almost swoons every time he stops by. ‘ Oh Ricky, que guapo .' She calls me la flaquita-the little skinny one. And I'm not even skinny by most people's standards. She thinks he can do much better than some Wisconsin gringa."

"And yet I don't want to do better," Rick said, pulling Kristina into his lap. "I'd settle for you, sweetheart. So what do you say? Say yes right now, and I'll let you have this goddamn punk conjunto music at the reception and you can walk down the aisle in one of those stupid Oaxacan dresses you love so much. I'll wear a guayabera, I'll let you fill our house with crap from your gallery. But you have to say yes right now."

"Shhh." She clamped a hand over his mouth, but she was laughing. Tess had never seen a more mismatched couple, or a happier one. "They're about to start."

The band emerged from the building at the edge of the vast patio. They had shucked their eighties costumes from the Morgue, and their eighties ennui along with it. This was an inspired, revved-up group, and the audience fed its energy. Emmie was right-the accordion, as wielded by the keyboard player, reinvented old songs and made the new ones soar. Tess felt a strange surge of pride, watching the couples get up to dance, hearing the slap of tapping feet on the poured concrete floor. Poe White Trash had never been this good. Crow had found his muse in Texas. Or in Emmie .

For she was the one everyone watched. She wasn't holding anything back and her full voice proved a huge, powerful thing with a life of its own. Tess finally understood why the voice was spoken of as an instrument. This was a separate entity that happened to live inside Emmie. As the set progressed, the voice seemed to grow stronger and stronger, while Emmie looked frailer. Her voice was like an incubus, drawing all the strength from her and she surrendered to it gladly, joyously.

After a fast thirty-minute set, the band broke, and while Crow disappeared inside Hector's, Emmie mingled with the crowd. With the men in the crowd, at any rate, flitting from table to table, bumming smokes from surly biker types. The surlier, the better.

Tess spotted the same moon-faced security guard from the Morgue, puppy eyes fixed on Emmie. He had it bad, she could tell-his dark skin was flushed with his yearning, his eyes had the same fixity of purpose that Esskay brought to a biscuit. Tess caught his eye and, feeling sorry for anyone lost in such a hopeless crush, waved for him to join them. He hesitated, then starteu walking over, keeping his gaze on Emmie as long as possible.

"Tess Monaghan," she reminded him. "I saw you last night."

"Steve," he said, stopping as if he smelled something very bad, then jerking his chin toward Rick Trejo. "I didn't know you were with him."

"We just met. They kept the bartender from gouging me for a generic cola."

"Yeah, Mr. Trejo is a real stickler for legal technicalities. It's the big issues he's not so good on. I gotta get back to work. Enjoy the rest of the show." And he shouldered his way back through the crowd, until he was back at his post near the stage.

"What was that about?"

"He's a cop," Rick said. "Steve Villanueve."

"A rent-a-cop, you mean. I met him at another club last night."

"No, he's a city patrolman. A lot of them do security work for extra dough. Mr. Villanueve is a good cop, but he's young, and he takes things personally. A guy he pulled over for speeding last year ended up getting popped in a sexual assault. It's not my fault the judge threw out the case when he found out the victim had seen the suspect on television before the police brought her in to see a line-up."

"He raped a woman," Kristina said, her voice small and tight.

"He was suspected of raping a woman. Hey, I did it pro bono, sweetheart. Doesn't that make me a good guy?"

"He got arrested two months later for another attack."

"The band's starting," Rick said, his tone resigned. The happy couple suddenly seemed less happy. "Let's just listen to the music, okay?"

While the first set had been revved up and fun, a dancing set, Las Almas Perdidas was quieter and more contemplative this time around. Music to go to bed by, and you could define that anyway you wanted. These songs were slow, bittersweet. They could put you in the mood to grab a stranger, but they also provided a suitable soundtrack for going home alone.

After five songs, Crow spoke from the stage. His face was flushed from exertion, his voice ripe with what could only be called pride. No wonder he and Emmie phoned it in at the Morgue, Tess thought. They were saving their energy for their real music.

"We're going to close with something a little different, but give it a chance," he said. "We call this medley Sondheim con salsa."

He didn't even like the Broadway composer , Tess recalled, a little miffed. Sondheim was her passion, and Crow had often mocked her for it, damning it as too clever, the kind of music where the smart lyrics were there to form a barrier between the listener and the composer. Of all the things Crow might have carried out of the burning house of their relationship, Sondheim would have been her last pick.

Maybe it was intended as parody instead of tribute. The medley Crow had concocted drew on the considerable number of songs Sondheim had written for those on the verge of a nervous breakdown, thanks to love. "You Could Drive a Person Crazy." "Losing My Mind." "Not a Day Goes By." Was he making fun of the words by setting them to these new rhythms? No, with the help of Emmie's heartrending voice, he was making them sadder still. Especially on the last, "Every Day a Little Death"-a song about surviving betrayal in a marriage. But the song could have been about any broken relationship, with its incantatory accounting of how lost love turns up everywhere in one's life. In buttons, in bread. In a sweater the color of sauteed mushrooms. In a greyhound's breath. In a bagel. In a neon Domino's sugar sign, blazing red across the harbor. No, that had belonged to her and Jonathan.

Tess wanted to turn away, embarrassed by the nakedness of Emmie's yearning, but it was impossible to take one's eyes from her face. As she rasped out the final words, her head dropped and her knees buckled a little, and it appeared she might faint. Out of the corner of her eye, Tess saw Steve start to move toward the stage. Crow was watching, too, but he didn't seem quite as concerned. Another second passed, and Emmie lifted her head, blew a kiss to the audience, and waved good night.

The patio lights came up and the audience erupted into a standing ovation. Without thinking, Tess jumped to her feet with the others, managing to upset the small metal table at which they sat. The resounding crash seemed to echo forever across the patio, and the people in the audience ducked reflexively. The sound of an overturned table was not unknown at Hector's, Tess thought, although it probably signaled the beginning for a fight, not some dumb woman's clumsiness. She was now the center of attention, and when Crow saw her, a smile broke over his face-a sunny, guilt-free grin, as if he had no memory of the trick he had played on her just that afternoon. He put down his guitar and the crowd parted, allowing him to walk straight to her.