Rough Trade

me worry about how I’m going to look and you just tell me where he is?”
    “He’s in Los Angeles on business.”
    “What about his wife? Is she with him?”
    “No. She’s in Chicago with me. She and I are spending the weekend at my parents’ house.”
    “When the cat’s away, the mice will play, is that it?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You know, you’re not doing yourself any favors by hustling the husband out of town. No judge is going to grant him bail after he knowingly attempted to flee the state.”
    “Oh, come on,” I shot back. “No matter what you think he did or did not do, Jeffrey Rendell is not some crackhead that you’re trying to make for a back-alley shooting. He’s the owner of a National Football League franchise, and he’s in L.A. on team business.”
    “Is he coming back, or am I going to have to get an extradition order?”
    Suddenly I’d had enough of his tough-guy routine. My whole body still ached from my encounter with the Jester, and I was in no mood to put up with this kind of bullshit.
    “You’d better go ahead and get an extradition order,” I said, hoping that when I hired a criminal attorney for Jeff he wouldn’t skin me alive when he found out what I’d done. “My client was originally scheduled to return to Milwaukee tomorrow, but I’m afraid that under the circumstances I’m going to have to advise him to remain out of state.”
    “I don’t care who you think you are,” spat the detective angrily. “If you’re helping your client avoid arrest, I will have you behind bars faster than—”
    “I don’t want him coming back to Milwaukee because your department can’t or won’t protect him,” I interjected. “Or didn’t you hear about the little hostage drama that got played out at the Rendells’ house on Friday?”
    “Yeah. I heard about that. A bunch of us went down to the lock-up to get the guy’s autograph. You know, that Jester guy is really funny.”
    “I know. I still have bruises from laughing so hard,” I said, right before I slammed down the phone.
     
    Paul Riskoff’s apartment was only two floors below the one that I’d been foolish enough to buy with Stephen, but as soon as you stepped off the elevator it felt as if you’d landed on a different planet. In the entrance hall a crystal chandelier as big as the Macy’s Christmas tree hung above an erupting fountain, and you had to squint against the glare of all the mirrors.
    Riskoff, looking bemused, was waiting for me himself. He was wearing a navy blue blazer with a gold crest on the pocket, gray pants, Gucci loafers, and no socks. Every strand of the dry pompadour with its telltale absence of gray was exactly where he wanted it to be.
    “Welcome, neighbor,” he said without irony, extending his hand.
    “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I said. “I know that your time is very much in demand.”
    “Shhh,” he replied with a conspiratorial wink, “or my wife, Tiffany, will hear us and think we’re up to something. The woman has the ears of a bat.”
    I wanted to add, “and the IQ, too,” but under the circumstances it seemed mean-spirited. Tiffany Riskoff was the real estate developer’s second wife, and she was nothing if not a tabloid cartoon of the Other Woman, a blond bombshell you could throw the cliché manual at. We’d ridden the elevator together once, I in my jeans and sweatshirt on my way to check up on the construction, she on her way back from shopping in a hot pink Escada suit. She had a Versace bag in one hand and a yappy, useless, powder puff of a dog in the other. I remember what really got to me was that the dog’s toenails were painted exactly the same shade as Tiffany’s.
    Without prompting, Riskoff led me into the apartment and gave me the tour, pointing out the highlights— the onyx columns that had come from a castle in Italy, the neo-Romantic frescoes in the guest room, the semi-pornographic carved ivory frieze in the dining room. The ivory was a bit of a no-no, he admitted, sounding like a man who’s used to being forgiven.
    He ushered me into a room that looked like it had been decorated from a fire sale at Buckingham Palace. Everything was overstuffed, draped, tasseled, swagged, and smothered with throw pillows. There was a Renoir on one wall and a view of the lake from the window.
    “This is my favorite view,” he said, gesturing toward the window, “but then, of course, you’re already familiar with