“Our names, or the podcast name?” I asked in order to buy time.
“The podcast name.”
“We haven’t settled on it yet,” Jack said smoothly.
“We’ll be on Spotify eventually,” I added.
“I’m not going on any podcast.” Farah picked up a napkin holder sitting on the bar and set it down with a thunk.
“That’s OK. We only wanted to know what you thought of Gene.”
She pressed her full lips together. “He was a total loser. I hated him and his racist friends, and every time he walked through that door, my night was a thousand times worse. He never took no for an answer. Hated Black people but always lusted after me. Dick.”
I had to admit that if we did have a podcast, I would have wanted that quote. “Did you consider him dangerous? Did he ever try to hurt you?”
She fixed a hard stare on me. “Yes, and yes.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
“One time he waited for me outside after closing and tried to get me into his car. He was pretty drunk and uncoordinated, so I made a break for it and got away. After that, the owner showed up every night I worked to walk me to my car at closing. I was terrified of him. And his friends? Don’t get me started. If you’re going to keep talking about him, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Jack let out a long whistle. “He sure does sound like a jerk.”
“I’d prefer not to hear his name ever again in my bar. Good luck with your podcast, I don’t think I can help anymore. Let me know if you need another beer.” She walked away to help a couple who had just entered the bar.
Jack and I turned to each other and leaned in close. “Wow,” he hissed.
“I feel like she knows more, but she’s not willing to talk. If he treated her like that, I can’t blame her.”
He nodded. “We can’t push her. I got the impression she was about five seconds from throwing us out.”
“What do we do now? I have so many questions. Who were his friends? When was the last time she saw him? Where was she the night he died?”
Jack sipped from his beer. I did the same, lost in thought.
Just then, I felt a presence appear behind us. I swiveled my barstool and gasped. It was the woman and the monkey in the red vest.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I love podcasts.” Her voice was a smoker’s rasp, and I noticed that her nails were painted coral and decorated with little monkey faces. Her hair was an odd shade of orangey-red, and her lips matched her hair. She wore a blue muumuu. She appeared to be around sixty, and I wondered if she was new in town—certainly I would’ve remembered someone this eccentric around Wahoo.
She had a similar vibe to my Aunt Lolo, who also wore muumuus (except when she was on her adult tricycle).
Jack and I stared, open-mouthed. Now the pair were closer, I noted that the monkey wore a diaper. Mötley Crüe’s “Home Sweet Home” wafted over the speakers. Maybe I’d stepped into some alternate reality. Wahoo had always been weird, but I didn’t recall it being quite this surreal. I glanced around for TV cameras, wondering if this was a prank.
“Oh, this is Jane.” She stroked the animal’s foot.
“Hi Jane. You’re beautiful,” I said. It was the truth. I wasn’t a fan of wild animals like monkeys being kept as pets, but even in the smoky bar her fur was glossy, and she looked like a healthy animal. She grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth, and I burst out laughing.
“Listen.” The woman leaned in, and a strong scent hit me. It was a mix of hay, whiskey, and rose perfume. “Jane and I have been coming here almost every night for two years. Gene was absolutely up to something shady.”
Jane reached out her little hand—paw?—and set it on Jack’s shoulder.
“She likes you,” the woman chuckled. The monkey started to stroke Jack’s dark hair.
“What was Gene up to?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. It has something to do with politics. You might want to ask his wife. She came in here one night last week and ripped him a new one. Was screaming about his TV show and how he’d helped some powerful people and how he was in way over his head. That’s what she said. ‘You piece of shit, you’re in way over your head.’” The woman shook her finger in the air. “It didn’t make sense. But I think it’s all tied to his death.”
“Do you think his wife killed him?” I asked.