“You have to dig down a bit. Financially, he’s very solvent.”
“So trash rockers make big bucks. What—”
“Many blow those big bucks on illegals, overpriced homes, and vehicles. They live carelessly, engage poor management, and so on. Take Nadine’s Jake as a yardstick.”
“I don’t know if he’s Nadine’s Jake.”
“For simplicity’s sake. He bought his mother a house—that qualifies him as a good and loving son, but also a man with enough brains not to buy her some flash jewelry, for instance. To think of her security, her future. While he certainly engages managers, he also remains involved and aware. Glazier hasn’t bought his mother a house.”
“Okay.”
“But he has purchased a condo in New York, his base in the city. And while he tosses money about, he also culls a sensible percentage out to invest, with a reputable money manager. He hasn’t, using Jake again, maintained friends and bandmates over long terms, as he’s fronted two bands prior to this, but Glaze is being handled professionally. He’s been dinged more than once for possession, and apparently developed a taste for Zeus in the last turbulent months of his relationship with this Loxie. While he has had court-ordered rehab, he entered, voluntarily, a facility in Zurich four months ago. And upon his return to New York, during the recording of a new album—with reportedly all of the songs written or cowritten by him during his treatment—he’s continued with addiction therapy and meetings.”
“Okay, good potential here. Is he in New York now?”
“He is, recording—and in the small-world department—the Glaze is using East Side Sound—that’s Jake Kincade’s studio.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
She grabbed her ’link when it chirped. “Dallas.”
“She’s here!” The harsh whisper hissed under a wall of noise. “The blue dreads. Lieutenant? It’s Brad Smithers. I just saw her.”
Eve was already up and moving. “Don’t approach. Tap your own security, have them block exits. I’m on my way.”
“To where?” Roarke asked as he grabbed a coat.
“A dive called Screw U, downtown. She’s there.”
Roarke snagged her hat and scarf, as she was already striding out the door and calling for uniforms.
16
Before she walked into the club, Loxie popped a tab of Buzz. She had a few more tabs at home, and a decent supply of Erotica. But she’d dip on Janis for the party favors, and save her own for that trip to the islands.
Her mood bounced straight up—the Buzz and the crowds, the screaming music, the flash and swirl of lights.
People, so many people who knew her, wanted her, envied her.
She made it a point to scan for Glaze, spotted him at one of the VIP booths. Not just the hos, she noted, but his bass player, his hard-eyed manager, and a third pair of tits she didn’t recognize.
The minute she saw him grin at the pair of tits, lean toward her so they could share a laugh, she decided he’d be the one to scratch her itch.
She swirled off her coat. She’d gone bare-legged with a glittery, short, snug, crotch-skimming skirt and a top that opened in a vee down to her navel. Thick chains draped into the vee and hooked to the nipple clamps clearly outlined beneath the top.
She’d damn near frozen on the trip to the club, but knew Glaze had a weakness for tits—and he’d given her the chains and clamps.
He would remember what they’d done with them.
She slithered through the crowd on chunky short boots with high, curved heels.
When he saw her, when their eyes met and held for just a couple beats, her nipples hardened against the clamps like shards of glass.
“Hey there, G-man.”
“Lox. How’s it going?”
“Up, up, and away.”