The Night Crew

him: nothing to see but the dirt bluff rising away from the highway into the dark. ‘‘I’ve just had other things.’’
    ‘‘Been a little lonely?’’
    ‘‘I’ve been busy,’’ she said. And after a few seconds, ‘‘Yeah, I’ve been a little lonely. Then . . .’’
    ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘Ah, there’s this guy. I went out with him years ago; pretty intense. I thought we were gonna get married, but we didn’t. I saw him the other day, at a gas station. He’s out here on a fellowship, I guess—I called a mutual friend. Anyway, it all sorta came back on me . . .’’
    ‘‘What’s he do?’’
    ‘‘He’s a composer. Modern stuff—the New York Philharmonic debuted one of his poems, ‘Sketch of Malaga´.’ ’’
    ‘‘One of his poems ?’’
    ‘‘Compositions; he calls them poems. He’s not really that arty, he just knows . . . how to work the levers on the classical music machine.’’
    Harper glanced at her: ‘‘Sounds like you might resent that, a little.’’
    ‘‘Oh, no. I guess it’s necessary. But I wasn’t good at it.’’
    ‘‘So you’re a musician.’’
    ‘‘That’s what I really am,’’ she said. Harper had a way of listening—maybe picked up when he was a cop—that seemed to pull the words out of her. He was attentive: really listened.
    She told him about growing up in Wisconsin, about her mother’s death. How she’d been the best pianist in her high school, the best they’d ever had. That she’d been the best at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, the year she graduated. That she was the one of the best two or three in graduate school.
    ‘‘Not quite good enough,’’ she told him, staring out the window at the night. Clark had also been a pianist, not quite at her level, but he’d seen the writing on the wall much sooner than she had. He’d branched into direction and composition, started working the music machine.
    ‘‘Couldn’t you have gone that way?’’
    ‘‘Nah. Performance is one thing, composition is something else. Takes a different kind of mind.’’
    ‘‘Did you ever try it?’’
    ‘‘I was never really interested in it,’’ she said.
    ‘‘So what happened?’’
    ‘‘We were living together, and he was the big intellectual and I was doing session gigs. Movie music. I don’t know; it pulled us apart. I kept thinking that if you just played well enough, practiced hard enough, you’d make it. And that wasn’t the game at all . . . So I went to Burbank, and he went to Yale.’’
    ‘‘Ah, that’s really excellent,’’ Harper said.
    ‘‘What?’’ she asked, half-smiling.
    ‘‘You do resent the mealy little poser.’’
    ‘‘No, I really don’t,’’ she protested. Then, ‘‘You’d like him. He even plays golf.’’
    ‘‘Rock bands play golf,’’ Harper said, not impressed. ‘‘So . . . are you pining for him?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘Maybe.’’
    ‘‘Shit.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, it’s sort of a problem. You know, if you’re thinking about . . . it might be sorta awkward having you stay over.’’
    ‘‘I’m gonna stay over,’’ he said. ‘‘But I won’t be rattling your doorknob in the night. Staying over is business.’’
    ‘‘Okay.’’ Was she just the smallest bit disappointed? Maybe.
    ‘‘Would you play something on the piano for me?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘If you like.’’ The car seemed hushed; the outside world away from the two of them. ‘‘What music do you listen to?’’
    ‘‘Mostly hard rock or hard classical; some old funky blues and jazz, but only for an hour or so at a time.’’
    ‘‘We like the same things,’’ she said, ‘‘except I’m not so big on rock, and a little bigger on the jazz . . . what should I play for you?’’
    ‘‘Maybe something by, I dunno . . . Sousa, maybe.’’
    He turned quickly, saw her embarrassed: ‘‘That was a joke, for Christ’s sake,’’ he laughed. ‘‘Loosen up, Batory.’’
    ‘‘So who do you like?’’
    ‘‘You could play me anything by Satie.’’
    ‘‘Satie? Really?’’
    ‘‘Really,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been listening to him a lot; he’s very delicate and funny, sometimes.’’ He glanced at her, interpreting her silence as skepticism. ‘‘I’m a lawyer, not a fuckin’ moron,’’ he said.
    She ducked her head and pointed up the hill. ‘‘Malibu,’’ she said. The house was a half-block east of Corral, on a short, hooked turnoff with a