Chapter 1

Joe had lost acquaintances and good friends to AIDS, but this was by far the worst of them all. Nigella survived a couple overdose scares, and had been just out of rehab that seemed to actually be working, when pneumonia killed her. Though she’d gotten frail towards the end, she figured it came from being a junkie. Only when she got sick did she get tested, with the positive result. A foregone conclusion, since the pneumonia was specific to AIDS. But her frailness kept her from recovering. Her body just couldn’t handle the damage.

Her death was international news. Being the Monsters’ bassist, and cowriter of many of their songs, and having a successful solo career, although selling far less than the Monsters for her unique brand of jazz fusion, or progressive eclectic jazz as she called it, and getting Grammys for it, and even, eventually, some of the more snooty jazz awards, reluctantly but eventually given to her because she was one of the greatest jazz bassists ever, her fame had fans the world over mourning. None more than the small group who stood around the marker where her body was placed to rest.

A chilly, damp and gray fall afternoon in St Paul. Completely appropriate to the mood. Any color from fallen or still hanging leaves fenced far away in the large cemetery. Just muted grass green. Famous people stood over her grave, including Joe. But this was private and secret. Exclusive to friends and family. No one else knew when or where.

Joe read her epitaph. Eddie sang her favorite song acapella, which he’d written for her years before. An appropriately loose, jazzy riff, inspired like Joe’s favorite Monsters song, No Contest, by Hoagy Carmichael’s Stardust. The two managed to get through their parts without choking up. But tears came. When Joe heard the song. When Eddie heard Joe’s poem. Not a dry eye in the house as they say. Or the gravesite.

Once interred, Eddie and Joe each took a shovel full of dirt and dumped it into the small hole. A Jewish thing, which most of the others followed.

Her father was there, a small black man with his big blond wife. And her full figured, aging, but still attractive blonde mother stood alone. Both looked devastated.

Joe’s wife gripped his hand, fingers interwoven, like normal only tighter sometimes. She leaned against Joe on one side and his unofficial wife leaned on the other. That his marriage had lasted surprised everyone but Cheryl and him. And he proved a man can have two soulmates. Their children had been left at home, a townhouse on the Upper Westside of Manhattan. The kids’ favorite cousin Essie playing babysitter. Not their actual cousin. Though they did have a half sister from the same mother, Joanne. And three other half-sisters from three other mothers. Constance, Maxine and Belle. Claire was at the funeral with the fourth in her womb, done by artificial insemination. Joe’s mom looked ambivalent between them. Sad about the occasion, but happy to have her lovers back.

Two sets of brothers attended. Randy and Paul had essentially been kicked out of the band, or kicked themselves out when they got into the scene in LA with Nigella, and unlike her, it affected their playing. Neither were all that great to begin with, and the drugs slowing down any improvement if not making them worse and Eddie expecting a lot more from his band lost them their gig.

Nigella had scored during the first tour in Seattle, The brothers didn’t join in until LA. Joe had gotten high with her both places but only once each time. The brothers stuck around to party. Hanging out with some asshole LA junkies didn’t appeal to Joe. Ironically, he went to DC instead, meeting the straight edge scene there, and never dabbled with heroin again. Not that he became drug free. Pot remained a part of his life, though not religiously like Eddie. And an occasional snort of coke.

Jim and Jeff were the other brothers. Two local boys who’d played guitar and drums with a bunch of local bands and some visiting luminaries taking part in the Minneapolis scene, and were as solid as it comes. Tall and brunette, they didn’t have the pretty boy presence of the two they replaced, but the Monsters didn’t need that. Not with Eddie shining brilliantly and charismatically out front. And Nigella and her white fright wigs of various dimensions, usually absurdly large, and her funky and sexy outfits. And Belle with her biker dyke intensity. Her scary permanent scowl. Like with Claire, who’d joined the band in Chicago, though her first concert had been the wedding reception, and stayed, musicianship mattered more than presence.

Eddie would probably be as alone as Nigella’s mom if not for the presence of his best friend. Not Joe. Not anymore. Their relationship had turned antagonistic again. It swung like a pendulum for years, ever since Eddie had that bright idea to get girls via rock and roll, and the resulting success of the plan intruded into their friendship. Eddie blamed Joe for stealing girlfriends, which Joe blamed on Eddie’s sexual inadequacies. But Nigella’s death swung it further. Joe could have saved her. Instead he’d had joined her. Joe wished he could have saved her. But Nigella liked heroin. It’s like it chose her. And, unlike a lot of junkies, Johnny Thunders for instance, who’d died earlier that year, and perhaps similarly to Nigella from a weakened system rather than an overdose, though his death has never been explained, she was a functional junky, and actually played and created until towards the end when it began taking its toll.

Shawna, Nigella’s best friend growing up, mulatto like her, and inches taller than Eddie, comforted Eddie. Their intimate conversations had continued, or one very long one. His need for her had grown from not just Nigella’s death. His demons had started encroaching on him more than ever. Demons created by being molested as a child. Joe had suspected it and Shawna confirmed it. It hadn’t been his father. An uncle, his mother’s much older brother, turned out to be a pederast. Boys and girls. His mother had been his first victim, though she didn’t act victimized. She enabled his perversity, and joined in. She felt that sex was the greatest thing any human can have, even with those too young to understand and who would be scarred by it, especially when its family. It obviously scarred her, turning her into a sick bitch.

A few months before, Shawna came to Joe’s townhouse crying. Joe and his wives embraced her until she calmed enough to talk. She didn’t want the kids present, so Moe, who knew her and loved her less than Cheryl and Joe, more sexually than anything else when Shawna’s male lover and mentor and their hot and brilliant third of their threesome came over for the occasional orgy, took them into the playroom. The children’s playroom. The adults had their own. Which is where Cheryl and Joe took Shawna. The padded room. The padding keeping things from being heard.

“Fuck,” Joe said when Shawna told them what Eddie figured out. “Did he suppress the memory?”

“Yeah.”

“So how...”

“Hypnosis.”

“But,” said Cheryl, “I’ve heard someone could be manipulated. A false memory can be implanted or something.”

“Why would someone do that?” Shawna asked.

“To find a fast cure. To make a case. Publicity.”

“Or maybe being guided to it,” Joe suggested. “Maybe some memory of his mother or his uncle said something about a perverse attraction or something, and the therapist goes with it.”

“But Eddie’s so confused,” Shawna murmured. “He’s got an army of girls that want to fuck him. Boys too for that matter. He gets off with the groupies, but aside from the brief charge from cumming, it all goes to shit, really. He just wants to crawl away. And it’s only gotten worse. There’s got to be something to it. I mean it affected me. Even though my dad freaked out and stopped, not to mention my mom beating the shit out of him and us leaving him for a while, what he did still affects me.”

“He just touched you?” Cheryl asked.

“Yeah. Something bad happened to Eddie. I just know it.”

“We can find out?” Cheryl said, looking at Joe.

“Call Bill,” Joe said. Her former spy friend who got disgusted by the CIA and got out and became a private detective. A brilliant and relentless one. Cheryl used him to dig up shit for her investigative articles, for which she’d become famous. He also owned one of her favorite cocks.

She nodded. “Maybe we could talk to Eddie’s brother,” she suggested.

“You think he might have been molested too?” Joe asked.

“Or he might have seen it happen, or about to happen or something.”

“His brother was always a tough kid,” Joe nodded. “Eddie’s always been the sensitive one.”

“Always charismatic?” asked Cheryl.

“I guess I don’t have the perspective to say, but he definitely had presence when he was a kid in those amateur contests.”

“You have his brother’s number?”

“Yeah,” Joe laughed. “He’s still got the best pot in town.”

Joe’s call disturbed him. “Yeah,” said Eddie’s brother. “Uncle Fairy always gave me the creeps.”

“Uncle Fairy?” I asked.

“Forgive the pejorative,” the man said, “but Uncle Terry deserved it if anyone does the way he’d check me out.”

“What about Eddie?”

“They got on for some reason. And then they didn’t. Come to think of it, that was about the time he stopped being a mamma’s boy and turned to the dark side. Meaning me,” he laughed.

“Shit,” Joe said.

“What?”

“I think I need more information before I say anything.”

“About what?”

“I just...”

“Uncle Fairy did something, didn’t he? Eddie was different. Fuck!”

“Cheryl’s got an investigator. Don’t go off halfcocked until we know for sure.”

“That fucking cunt! Okay. I’ll wait to beat the shit out of that cocksucker.” He laughed bitterly. “Fucking cocksucker.”

“It might be better if we get him arrested.”

“No doubt. I heard prisons aren’t healthy for pederasts.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“We don’t know yet.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“Me too.”

“How did you find out?”

“It came out in hypnosis. That’s not always dependable.”

“I heard that. Okay. Find out. Please.”

“I will. I promise.”

Bill wanted Cheryl to visit him. “Me first,” said Shawna with a chuckle.

“I could always invite him over,” Cheryl offered, tongue in cheek. She knew their mostly lesbian friend.

“No thanks. One cock’s plenty,” Shawna responded, unzipping Joe. He wasn’t hard, not surprisingly. Two tongues took care of that while Joe tongued Shawna. Shawna’s and Joe’s tongues stayed where they were when Cheryl rode him. Only after Cheryl came, did she glove up his cock and he finished inside Shawna, missionary style, with Cheryl making sure Shawna came as hard as possible before Joe did. It was close. Her orgasm brought on his.

Afterwards they talked of other things. Mostly about Shawna’s mentor.

“No, not this year,” she answered the inquiry about the short list for the Nobel Prize. “Hansy told me another year of proofs might make it happen. It takes time for approval for Physics.”

She nicknamed Hans Hansy because of his use of hands on her at any and all times. But only after she seduced him and brought Heather in and made him the luckiest genius on the planet. Heather looked similar to Rachel, only hotter, and the angel look had a lot more truth to it, despite the raging libido it hid. Heather was a sweet girl.

“It’s been what?” Cheryl asked. “Five years?”

“Yeah. But it’s actually still bearing interesting fruit. And yes, he promises to acknowledge me if he wins.”

“When he wins,” Joe said.

“Whatever,” Shawna laughed. “He offered me a cut of the prize. I suppose I could just marry him.”

“He propose?” Cheryl asked.

“No. I’ll probably end up proposing when I’m ready to get pregnant. He’s pretty dense.”

“What about Heather?” Joe asked.

“She’d propose to me if we could marry,” said Shawna. Joe loved how Shawna’s confidence sustained after helping her find it ten years before.

“Not to Hans?” asked Cheryl.

“Nope,” Shawna grinned. “I’m the one who gets her hot. And yes, they both get me hot, just like the both of you do.”

“I should go,” said Cheryl. “You want me to send Moe in before I leave?”

“I’d like to be with your stud, if that’s okay?”

“Always,” Cheryl smiled and kissed her. Both Shawna and Joe enjoyed watching Cheryl dress.

When she left, Shawna sighed.

“What?” Joe asked.

“I wanted to talk to you about something else concerning Eddie. Cheryl can be a bit sardonic, and I just thought it would be best...”

“Sure.”

“Eddie’s been experimenting.”

“With what?”

“With men.”

“Like.”

“Definitely the bottom.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I know he’s usually on the submissive side of things, but wow.”

“He’s actually been involved with men since, maybe three years? It came as an accident sort of. An orgy that ended up with a boy sucking him, much to his surprise.”

“A boy?”

“Eighteen, Eddie thinks. But...”

“A lot of his fans are young.”

“Yeah.”

“How did he react?”

“At first shocked, as you would imagine. Then he checked around and figured everyone was asleep or too wasted to remember. So he went with it. Kind of gaging his reaction.”

Joe laughed. “Eddie does love his blowjobs.”

Shawna laughed too. “That he does.”

“And?”

“Usual reaction. He liked it until after he came. Then he kicked everyone out.”

“Yeah.”

“After that it was an occasional thing. Very occasional. Eventually he kissed one of them. Then tried it himself.”

“Ass fucking?”

“That came next. He preferred blow jobs. Until he got fucked.”

“He liked it.”

“He did.”

“Hunh.”

“This is where it gets weird.”

“I guess it shouldn’t be. Each to his own and all that. But it’s weird already. My best friend.”

“Then this is totally going to weird you out. You know Eddie and I get pretty deep in our talking.”

“I know. You two have an incredible relationship.”

“I agree. You know we sometimes have phone sex.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah. We actually prefer it to the real thing. For him, it doesn’t turn weird, even if we get weird. I mean, when we fucked, I’d just wait him out for his moment of upset and he’d be fine and we’d be fine. But none of that. We pretty much stopped fucking physically. When he’s in New York, I come over, and we talk and sleep. It’s actually really great.”

“Partly because you’re more stimulated by women.”

“Partly. Except you, because you’re the best muff diver I ever met.”

“Really? Better than a woman?”

“Yeah. It’s like ... you read me better or something. And then you fuck me like no man ever has or ever will. I mean I haven’t had all that much variety. I just know it’s true. Again because you read me. And you let go just when I want you to. You know, get selfish like we all do. I guess I’m avoiding this.”

“That weird.”

“Not to me. But definitely to you. To me it makes total sense. Anyway, when we have phone sex, we can get into these really dark fantasies. The kind that dwell in the mind, but you would never admit to. Of course we’re willing to admit to anything. No matter how fucked up it is, we let it out. Utter trust. It can get pretty sick and twisted, but we actually can both get off on it. It’s kind of liberating. Anyway. Get to the point Shawn. Okay. One time, after he admitted to himself he’s at least bisexual, he started this fantasy. With you. Tying him up. Whipping him. Making him suck you. Fucking his ass really hard. Telling him you wouldn’t stop until he admits that he loves you.”

“Fuck.”

“Not going to happen?”

“What? No.”

“Not even a little curious.”

“Maybe a little.”

She laughed and felt his groin. “Nope.”

“So,” Joe sighed, “You...”

“Played you.”

“And? Did he admit he loves me?”

“Yeah. When he came.”

“Holy shit!”

“Too much?”

“No actually. It’s kind of revelatory.”

“I totally agree.”

“If incredibly disturbing.”

“To tell you the truth, it’s kind of hot, the thought of you two getting it on.”

Joe laughed. “I get that. Kind of the id and ego coming together or whatever we are. Me your favorite man to fuck. Eddie your best friend.”

“Speaking of fucking.”

“You just felt how unready I am.”

“That’ll change,” she said and laid out, legs wide.

“Just don’t pretend you’re Eddie,” Joe said, bringing his mouth to her cunt.

“Even forcing to admit that I love you?”

“I already know you love me,” Joe said before diving in.

“And I know you love me too,” she moaned.

Once he’d tongued her to orgasm and crawled over her, letting her lick her cream off his face, he asked, “Does Eddie know you’re telling me?”

“Yeah,” she said, taking his cock and bringing it to her very ready hole.

“Condom?”

“Just fuck me, Joe.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smiled.

After a couple more cums for her, and one that seemed to continue or was several, Joe felt his balls ready to release dangerous microscopic tadpoles into her unprotected womb.

“I better pull out,” he warned her.

“No,” she moaned. “Inside.” And her long legs wrapped around him to insure it.

“Not going to tell your genius it’s not his?”

“Maybe.”

“Not going to get genius genes of the male variety.”

“I am. Just fuck me.”

“Fuck,” he growled moments later, giving his all for fertilization.

She received it just as enthusiastically.

“If this takes,” he said once he could speak.

“Imagine a mathematical genius who can write,” she smirked.

Joe laughed.

He thought about what Hans would think, and decided he’d be okay with it. They liked and respected each other, despite Hans having his girlfriend and future wife in love with Joe.

“Heather,” Joe said.

“What about her?”

“Her baby can have his genes.”

They laughed.

Months later, Eddie came to Joe once the funeral ended. “We need to talk,” he said.

That surprised Joe.

Then they did what they’d done for years. Walked and talked. Joe told the ladies they could head over to the CC Club, the infamous bar about which Paul Westerberg of the Replacements wrote Here Comes a Regular. Diagonal from the intersection in which the Replacements’ first manger worked and lived. The sight of the wake. He and Eddie would get a ride from the limousine that drove Eddie around. He never drove.

“I thought you hated me,” Joe said as they walked past gravestones.

“I’ve hated you for a while,” Eddie said. “But you’ve always been my best friend.”

“I thought Shawna was.”

“She is,” he laughed through pain. A sort of hiccup of a laugh. “She told you.”

“About what?”

“About my fantasy.”

Joe didn’t bother asking which one. “Yeah,” he said.

“Did it freak you out?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

“It sort of makes sense though,” Joe said.

“Tell me why it makes sense.”

“A couple ways. It illustrates our relationship from your view. That I’ve been fucking you over or fucking with you or even fucking you up.”

“And?”

“You being submissive and me being dominant.”

“You figured that out. That I’m submissive.”

“A long time ago.”

“Sex shows a lot of things.”

“It does.”

“Thanks for nailing my uncle.”

“That was Cheryl’s friend.”

“But you started it.”

“You started it,” Joe said. “Giving Shawna permission to tell me about your revelation.”

“I guess. Somehow I knew I needed you for this. It helped. Talking to him. Talking to my mother. She still doesn’t understand how fucked up it made me.”

“She only equates sex with good things,” Joe said.

“It didn’t look like rape to her,” Eddie explicated. “Maybe if she could see herself. That it fucked her up when he raped her. I don’t know. It must not have confused her like it confused me. Having someone you trust use that. Abuse that. Abuse me. Two someones actually.”

“You’re okay talking about this?”

“I am. Not cured but okay. Such a memory, I don’t think there’s a cure. Is there any cure for mental illness? Maybe some palliative, but like Nige or any junky I suppose, it’s always present. You can do the best you can to try to forget it. Get drunk enough so no thought exists in your muddled brain.”

“Maybe your attraction to Rachel?”

“That mad cow?” he chuckled. “Probably. You know she’s off the sauce.”

“I didn’t.”

“Me too. A day at a time as they say. For her, I think she took a good look at herself. Saw herself getting fat. Saw her face etched by a dissipated life.”

“I can see that, her being a narcissist. I always worried that she’d do you in whenever I saw you with her.”

“Like another MTV bio about the degeneration of a rock star.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d kick her out when it got to be too much. Either Nige or Belle would kick my ass about what a shit show I just did. How I staggered through it. I actually missed that bit where I pretend to collapse. Because sometimes I’d be lying there realizing how fucked up I was. And how I couldn’t wait to be done so I could get fucked up some more. Then I’d realize, not enough times but eventually, that I had this job that I loved, and all I seemed to want was to be lost in drunkenness and the rush of snorting cocaine. Not even enjoying this gift I have that made people want to watch me and hear my songs and that enabled me to do the one job I can do and that I love to do, and even having done songs to death, I still loved singing them, and what I was doing to fuck that all up not only wasn’t nearly as enjoyable, it really wasn’t enjoyable at all. I just felt dizzy, like you do when you’re sick. And I understood what they mean by a crutch. It felt like I was wanting to walk around on crutches. Who’d want to do that?

“So I’d kick Rachel out of my life. I’d sober up. Just got more stoned on pot. And after the tour I’d become a recluse. Except Nige when she wasn’t doing her own thing. Joanne would find me a place where it was peaceful and beautiful and rent it for a few months and only her and Nige would know where I was, because I certainly didn’t want Rachel to know.”

“When Nigella was there?”

“She’d bring stuff. Then stop for a week or two, sometimes longer. I actually didn’t know how she did it. Maybe Percodan or methadone. Something to take the edge off. We did get pretty high though. Eventually she’d go off and come back. It was stupid to blame you. But I had my demons. My own addictions. So I guess I’d have felt the hypocrite. Or maybe, because she remained lucid and brilliant, I made myself believe it did her no harm.

“Did you ever do it with her? I mean smack?”

“Rarely, but yeah. Sometimes I asked and she’d say no. She didn’t have enough to share. I think it offended her that I never injected the shit. Just smoked it sometimes or snorted it. Somehow I knew, with that speedball with Stefan, that I’d like it too much. That I’d get strung out and get Rachel strung out so she could enable me. And I’d remember Johnny Thunders. My go to preventative,” he laughed.

“After putting together a bunch of songs, with or without Nige,” he continued, “I’d get the gang together and we’d turn them into the next record. Did you know Belle was my beautiful angel regarding that?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’d tell me what was shit and what were gems. I’d fight her on some. She’d shrug and give in. But almost always she was right. And even the ones she didn’t go for that worked, we’d have to change. Slow them down or speed them up. Or verses would change, or the bridge. Sam was so wrong about her. Is that when you figured out I’m a pussy?”

Joe laughed. “I prefer submissive, but yeah.”

“Weirdly counterintuitive. Pussy being less sexual than submissive.”

They both laughed.

“So Rachel would inevitably return, bringing coke and booze, and it’d start all over again.”

“You never kept her permanently kicked out?”

“She was my way of celebrating. We’d have a night of it, getting completely wasted. Finding some groupie to screw. I’d sober up and put my foot down. Less lines. Less booze. Another tour. More lines. More booze. And repeat,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“She’s really off the stuff?”

“She’s not here. I plan to get wasted tonight.”

“It’s not like her and Nigella got along.”

“It wouldn’t have been about Nige. It would have been about getting wasted with me. She’s been my partner in waste for a long time,” he chuckled.

“True.”

“Can you do something for me?”

“Anything?”

He laughed. “You sure about that?”

Joe laughed too, remembering the fucked up fantasy. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. But I did play it out. Have played it out. With a substitute you.”

“With Shawna,” Joe nodded.

“No. For real.”

“The ‘I love you’?”

“That rang a bit false,” he admitted with a smirk. “Until it didn’t.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“To Rachel’s annoyance, but yeah.”

“He’s...”

“Completely gay. He’s my driver.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Did you have a look at him?”

“Not really.”

“It’ll be like looking in the mirror, Joe. Only one like in Sleeping Beauty, making you prettier and younger.”

“On purpose?”

“Yeah. Not the boyfriend part. That ended up being a major perk. He’s clever like you. Clever Trevor like the Ian Dury song. Trevor Hoffman. But he’s not going to steal my girls.”

“I didn’t...”

“No. I finally figured it out. Cheryl was never mine. A weird gift, which I admit I enjoyed thoroughly. I suppose I never thanked you.”

“You should thank her. I’ve never been her pimp.”

“You suggested it.”

“I suppose I did. But it’s not like I insisted. We both thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“I guess I thought so too,” he chuckled.

“You know she fucks around. Like me, but for different reasons.”

“I didn’t. What reasons?”

“For me, I guess I want a woman to get something better than she’s gotten. To fulfill a fantasy or to find a way for her to really enjoy sex. Trying not to be selfish as men tend to be.”

“Like me?”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“Why not if it’s true? Who was it? That hot dark haired dancer?”

“Simone.”

“Yeah. And it could have been Rachel if you’d succumbed to her teasing.”

“Why would I fuck someone I don’t like and wouldn’t enjoy? Although I’ve thought about fucking the bitch out of her a few times. But I’m sure it wouldn’t take.”

“It wouldn’t, but she would have enjoyed it.”

“Probably.”

“And Joanne.”

“Yeah.”

“I think that hurt the most, but it’s the one I completely got.”

“The difference between dominance and submission.”

“Yeah. It did leave a bad taste that lingered. A woman leaving my bed to go to you because she needed it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, fuck me.”

“I wish.”

“I thought you wished the reverse,” Joe pointed out.

“I don’t know. Maybe a revenge fuck?”

“I don’t think my ass could take it.”

They laughed.

“You ever get fucked there?” he asked. “I mean by a dildo?”

“I tried it once. Freaked me out.”

“Nige?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I accidently found her array of dildos and strap ons. She’s very proud of her collection. Or was.”

Sadness overwhelmed them. But it passed. Or became less.

“What do you want me to do?” Joe reminded Eddie.

“I want you to publish your first novel.”

“I promised...”

“I know you did. And I appreciated that.”

“It’s pretty close to me too.”

“But you’re okay with that.”

“I guess I am. I never gave a shit what people think.”

“Me neither, except I have to. The whole gay thing I’m keeping in the closet.”

“Joanne?”

“Yeah, but it makes sense.”

“I do suggest it in the book.”

“But never more than a suggestion or possibility. And it is fiction. Your Ireland, Boston, Minnesota sagas are done. Best sellers all, and even a National Book Award. And your kid’s book with Freddy’s amazing illustrations getting the Newbury medal. I suppose you’re working on something else?”

“Yeah. Someone I met when I helped Cheryl with one of her investigations.”

“Pretty dark then.”

“Yeah.”

“Junkies?”

“A lot worse than that. It’s about how people can forgive themselves their trespasses by otherwise choosing what seems like a moral life.”

“Kind of like my mom?”

“Kind of.”

“You should finish that one too.”

“The one about my mom and your mom?”

“Yeah. I think that has some of the best stuff you’ve written.”

“Cheryl said the same.”

“Joanne?”

“You know her.”

“So she was against it.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were her dominant, Joe.”

“She was my boss. She is my agent. In those things, no.”