Nothing Lost by John Gregory Dunne Page A

an acutely sensitive early warning system. J.J. normally evinced no interest in her public life. Which meant he had something on his mind. Something that would affect her. Of that she was sure. “What’s your sudden interest in the Loomis Cattle Company?”
    â€œOne Lewis Colin. Formerly Colinsky. Born in the San Fernando Valley. That’s in California someplace.”
    â€œLos Angeles.”
    He knew where the San Fernando Valley was. He just wanted to keep Poppy’s attention. When she was off balance, not in total command, she was desirable. Private time was her way of staying in charge. Controlling, not cuntable.
    He detected the slightest quiver of urgency. “Get to the point, J.J.”
    â€œLewis Colin. Owns the Loomis Cattle Company.”
    â€œSo.”
    â€œIn the world of adult cinema, Lewis Colin is known as . . .” He made her wait. “Cowboy Collins.”
    â€œShit.”
    â€œThe Trail Rider himself. The Cowboy and his trusty Chinese side-kick, Hard Ahn.”
    â€œJesus.” The morning was turning into a minefield for Poppy. “Where did you pick that up?”
    He did not offer an answer. Poppy would know he would not pass on that kind of information just to make mischief. Nor would he volunteer how he got it. She would not believe a lead from Charley Buckles. Even with Allie nailing it down. Listen to Charley when he was alive and you could get an unauthorized history of South Midland. Dead men tell tales, Charley liked to say. Don’t believe that other stuff. “Have Willie check it out. You wouldn’t want the Worm to get hold of that. Too bad Koppel didn’t have it. Been a lot more interesting than George Bernard Shaw.”
    She was already punching in a number on her cell phone.
    â€œProtector of family values like yourself, and your campaign’s being backed by the films of Cowboy Collins. You have a favorite?
Bucking Brenda
?”
    She ignored him. Insistently into the phone: “Pick up, Willie, pick up.” Finally.
    â€œWillie. What took you so long? The Loomis Cattle Company . . .”
    â€œ. . . Riding Regina
?
Cowboy and Indians . . .”
    Poppy wheeled toward him. “Will you shut up?”
    J.J. picked up the harmonic tremor of unhappiness. He rolled over contentedly, tucking a pillow under his head.
    He dozed. In the fading background he could hear Poppy ordering Willie Erskine to find out all he could about a contribution from the Loomis Cattle Company, and to figure out a way to return it quickly and quietly. In the haze of half-sleep, he wondered if Poppy had ever slept with Willie Erskine. No. Willie was double-locked and dead-bolted in the closet. And Poppy would never sleep with anyone on the payroll. Too risky. Too much economic incentive. A vineyard of extortion or exposure. No man is a hero to his valet, or whatever the female equivalent is. Even with the confidentiality clause in the employment contract she made all her staff sign. Easy to sneak around that one. No, no, no, no. If Poppy did it, she would insist on someone who regarded avoidance of risk as not just a virtue but a necessity. Probably married. Definitely someone important. Or better yet, self-important. Maybe a woman. No. Don’t think so. But. But what? There were whispers. A hint. No. Let that rest. I’m liberated. To a point.
    He turned over, fighting sleep. Why? Why these bad thoughts, like dark scudding clouds in a twister? He knew why. So he didn’t have to think about Emmett. He could scarcely remember what his brother looked like. The only photograph he still had was sealed in an unmarked envelope in a locked desk drawer at his office. Forgetting what happened was not an option. As hard as he tried. Would still try. Emmett grasping for air, going under, his spindly three-year-old arms flailing in the water, then floating, facedown under the boat dock. And up on the hill, Walter, chained to his wheelchair. Trying to