Chapter 5: Declined

I cancelled our joint cards from the passenger seat of Dot's truck on the way home from Marilyn's.

There were three of them.

I made one call each, and every representative said it was no trouble at all.

Dot drove with both hands on the wheel and said nothing until I hung up the last time.

"You're allowed to do that?" she asked.

"I'm a signer on every account. It's in the paperwork Beau never reads."

"What about his own card?"

"He has a card in his name only," I said. "It's tied to the account he moved the money into."

"So that one works."

"It works until he needs more than the limit," I said.

On Friday Beau booked a private room at a steakhouse in the Gulch to celebrate his two-million-dollar week and Tilly's album.

Twenty-two people came.

There were two producers from the label, the band, a radio host, and Tilly's friends in sequined jackets.

I wore black this time.

I sat at the far end of the long table beside a drummer who ate everything on my plate and wanted to talk about snare heads.

August Dane sat by the door with his back to the wall and a water glass he kept turning by the base.

Beau worked the room, table end to table end.

He ordered the good champagne and a tower of shellfish for the table, then a second round without asking anyone.

"Put it all on mine," he told the waiter when the bills came, and spun his card across the cloth with two fingers.

I had ordered sparkling water and nothing else.

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