I'd picked the place. I'd stand by it. Dammit. "Come on, Irving."
"No, let the reporter stay. He has not had his interview."
"Leave him alone, Jean-Claude, please."
"I will give him what he desires, nothing more."
I didn't like the way he said desires. "What are you up to?"
"Me, ma petite, up to something?" He smiled.
"Anita, I want to stay," Irving said.
I turned to him. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I'm a reporter. I'm doing my job."
"Swear to me, swear to me you won't harm him."
"You have my word," Jean-Claude said.
"That you will not harm him in any way."
"That I will not harm him in any way." His face was expressionless, as if all the smiles had been illusions. His face had that immobility of the long dead. Lovely to look at, but empty of life as a painting.
I looked into his blank eyes and shivered. Shit. "Are you sure you want to stay here?"
Irving nodded. "I want the interview."
I shook my head. "You're a fool."
"I'm a good reporter," he said.
"You're still a fool."
"I can take care of myself, Anita."
We looked at each other for a space of heartbeats. "Fine, have fun. May I have the file?"
He looked down at his arms as if he had forgotten he was holding it. "Drop it by tomorrow morning or Madeline is going to have a fit."
"Sure. No problem." I tucked the bulky file under my left arm as loosely as I could manage it. It hampered my being able to draw my gun, but life's imperfect.
I had information on Gaynor. I had the name of a recent ex-girlfriend. A woman scorned. Maybe she'd talk to me. Maybe she'd help me find clues. Maybe she'd tell me to go to hell. Wouldn't be the first time.
Jean-Claude was watching me with his still eyes. I took a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Enough for one night. "See you both tomorrow." I turned and walked away. There was a group of tourists with cameras. One was sort of tentatively raised in my direction.
"If you snap my picture, I will take the camera away from you and break it." I smiled while I said it.
The man lowered his camera uncertainly. "Geez, just a little picture."
"You've seen enough," I said. "Move on, the show's over." The tourists drifted away like smoke when the wind blows through it. I walked down the street towards the parking garage. I glanced back and found the tourists had drifted back to surround Jean-Claude and Irving. The tourists were right. The show wasn't over yet.
Irving was a big boy. He wanted the interview. Who was I to play nursemaid on a grown werewolf? Would Jean-Claude find out Irving's secret? If he did, would it make a difference? Not my problem. My problem was Harold Gaynor, Dominga Salvador, and a monster that was eating the good citizens of St. Louis, Missouri. Let Irving take care of his own problems. I had enough of my own.