Читать книгу Moon Music - Faye Kellerman - Страница 16

Nate hadn’t been kidding when he said it was a workingman’s bar. No pretense of attracting the tourist trade. The place was dark, smoky, and smelled ripe. Roomy, though. A horseshoe-shaped wood-laminate counter with red Naugahyde stools, plus about twenty tables and scattered chairs. A separate area for playing pool. Occupancy ran about a third full, but the night was young. Most of the drinkers were men, but there were some big-haired forty-plus women. To pass the time, they schmoozed or played the countertop slots and poker machines. A live poker game was going down in one of the corners.

Taking a moment to adjust her eyes, Patricia chose a seat at the far end of the counter. Six stools away sat two women in tight jeans and plaid shirts, drinking beer and flirting with the hired help.

Strangely, she felt at home. The place seemed friendly and everyone was behaving himself. And if anyone acted up, Patricia was sure that Nathan Malealani and his coworker—a man resembling a sumo wrestler—could take care of any situation. Nate had wetted and combed his unruly Brillo locks, had donned a shocking-pink Hawaiian shirt printed with palm trees and woody station wagons. Their eyes met; he waved her over, his bright smile luminescent across the room. Without thinking about it, Patricia found herself smiling back. She sat in front of him, then absently dropped three quarters into one of the slots. Pressed the button that said “play three.” The barrels stopped at three cherries, her profits announced with dings and dongs.

Malealani said, “A good start.”

“If I stop now, I’ll stop a winner.”

The bartender said, “That’s the key … knowing when to stop.” He pushed a button, removing the winning receipt from the machine. “I’ll keep this for you.”

“Thanks.” Patricia studied the bartender with a cop’s eyes. His name hadn’t turned up a yellow sheet anywhere in the West, so she hadn’t bothered with NCIC. That could be a mistake. But she knew she hadn’t pursued it because she hadn’t wanted to look too hard.

“I like the shirt.”

His smile widened. “Thanks. It’s one of my favorites.”

Favorites? How many does he have? “Shows individuality.”

“That’s me. Can I get you a beer? Or is it still club soda with a lime twist?”

“I’m still working, so it’s still water.”

Malealani’s smile dimmed at the mention of the word “work.” Surely he didn’t think she was here on a social visit.

Then again, she was wearing perfume.

He poured out a tumbler of club soda, his manner more reserved. “Guy working the bar with me?” He cocked his head to the right. “His name is Raymond Takahashi. We call him Big Ray.”

“Makes sense. He’s a big guy.”

“Six-six. Mr. Bennington likes us big. You know, it’s a psychological edge when things get hairy. Anyway, I think you should talk to Ray. I think he served the girl you’re looking for.”

Patricia sipped her water. “Did you ask him about her?”

“No. I didn’t want it to come out wrong, so I didn’t say anything. Besides, you know how it is. You mention cops, some people get nervous. I didn’t want him to rabbit before you had a chance to talk.”

“Smart thinking.”

“Just common sense. Should I bring him over now?”

“That would be great.” Patricia smiled. “Hey, thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”

Malealani ran his fingers over the countertop. “Are we on for tomorrow night?”

Patricia shrugged. “How could I go wrong with an Italian buffet?”

The bartender tried to hide his glee. “Or if there’s something else—”

“Italian sounds fine, Nathan.”

Two girls roosted next to Patricia’s right. She moved three stools over. “Better if people don’t hear us.”

Malealani said, “It’s past ten. Gonna start to get crowded. I guess I should let you do your thing.”

But he paused.

Not wanting to let her go.

She said, “I don’t think I ever told you my name.”

“It’s on your card.”

“Still, that’s no introduction.” She stuck out her hand. “Patricia Deluca. Most people call me Fat Patty.”

Nate laughed. “How ’bout just Patty?”

“That’s fine, too. I really should talk to your friend.”

Malealani called out, “Hey, Big Ray.” Beckoned him with a finger. “Want you to meet someone.”

Big Ray stopped wiping the counter, froze, turned, stared, then lumbered forward. Not an ounce of fluidity in the man. Each physical action was done in a separate, robotic movement.

Like Nate, Big Ray was Melanesian. He wore an untucked blue rayon shirt over a pair of jeans. He looked like he was ready to bowl. He eyed Patricia, licked his lips. He nodded.

Malealani said, “This is Detective Deluca. She’s looking for someone.”

Patricia offered a handshake. “How’s it going, Big Ray?”

Ray took it, his face as animated as a tile of slate.

“Who are you looking for?”

To Patricia, Malealani said, “You have the picture, don’t you?”

Yes, Nate, I have the picture. She took out the photograph, showed it to Big Ray. “I’m with Homicide. This woman was found dead last night. Nate said you might have served her.”

Big Ray said, “Yeah, I did.”

Patricia almost fell off the stool. In the back of her cynical mind, she had suspected that Nate had been jiving her. But things were falling into place.

First the three cherries.

Now this.

Too much good luck. So when was it going to crash?

She took out her notebook. “You’re sure it was this woman?”

Without hesitation, Big Ray said he was sure. “She didn’t look this good. But the face was the same.”

“What did she look like?” Patricia asked.

“I dunno. Just not good. Young but old.” He looked around the room. “Belonged to the kind of women you’d find here. Like they’ve lived their lives in a trash compactor.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“Came in alone. But she hooked up with someone pretty quick.”

Malealani asked, “Who?”

“The young guy,” Ray answered.

“The young guy?”

“Yeah, the young guy. He was short.”

“Short?”

“Yeah, he was pretty short.”

Patricia stopped writing, looked up. “Like how short?”

Big Ray marked off an area on his chest with the side of his hand. “Came up to about here.”

Eyeballing it, maybe around five-eight or -nine. Patricia said, “What did he look like?”

Big Ray said, “Besides being short?”

“Yes.”

Malealani said, “I don’t remember no short guy.”

Shut up, Nathan! Patricia said, “What did he—”

“He drank Dewar’s straight up,” Big Ray said. “You don’t ’member him?”

Malealani scrunched up his eyes. “That guy?”

“Yeah, him.”

Patricia said, “You remember him, Nate?”

“Sorta.” To Big Ray, Nate said, “So he’s the guy who was with the girl?”

“Yeah.”

“When was this?”

“Right after she came in. Like around ten-thirty.”

Patricia asked, “Did they leave together?”

“Well, I don’t ’member if they walked out together. But both left ’round the same time.”

“And when was that?”

“I dunno exactly. Around eleven-thirty, maybe midnight.”

The body had been called in at 1:22 A.M. A small window of time to do the deed. The killer had worked quickly, raking and scooping …

From the far end of the bar, someone shouted, “Can I get a beer around here?”

Malealani was already walking away, “I’ll get it.”

Patricia glanced around. The place was filling up.

Put some lead in it, girl.

“So they both left around midnight?”

“Yeah.”

“What else can you tell me about the short guy?”

“He was skinny.”

“Short and skinny.”

“That about sums it up.”

More people were coming in. Patricia figured she had maybe five minutes more. “How about his hair, Big Ray? Was it blond, brunette, bald—”

“Not bald.” Big Ray was perplexed. “I can’t remember the color.”

“Well, was it straight or curly, wavy, thin, thick—”

“I can’t remember his hair, neither.”

Patricia’s brain was racing. “Ray, by any chance was Mr. Short Thin Guy wearing a hat?”

Big Ray raised one eyebrow. First sign of life he’d shown. “Yes. That’s it. He was wearing a hat. A black hat. Like Charlie Chaplin.” A pause. “He had a ponytail. I don’t remember the color. Just the ponytail.”

Patricia wrote quickly. Malealani returned. Big Ray said to him, “The Dewar’s guy was wearing a ponytail.” To Patricia he said, “He was clean-shaven. ’Cept he had like … this peach fuzz all over his face. Like guys get before the beard comes in. A peach-fuzz mustache, too.”

“Peach fuzz … so he was young?”

“Thirty. I checked his ID.”

Patricia felt her heart race. “You checked his ID?”

Big Ray nodded.

“Do you … happen to recall a name?”

Ray didn’t even ponder the question. “Not a clue. Just looked at his birthday. That I ’member.” He gave the date.

“You remember anything else about his features? His eyes, for instance?”

Deadpan, Big Ray said, “Yeah, he had eyes.”

Then the men laughed.

“Very funny.” But she was smiling. To show she was a good ole gal. Just keep ’em talking. “You notice the color?”

“They weren’t bright blue or green or anything.” A beat. “Maybe like light brown, but I’m not positive. I don’t stare at people unless they give me problems.”

“How about his mouth—thin lips, thick lips—”

“Thick lips.”

“And the mouth itself. Was it wide, narrow—”

“Just a mouth.”

“With thick lips.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And his face? Was it long or short?”

“Longer than shorter.” Big Ray looked around. “Uh, things are gettin’ a little busy.”

“I know. Can you give me another minute?”

“As long as you make it a fast one.”

Patricia organized her thoughts. No name, but a birth date. A short and skinny man with a hat and ponytail. A peach-fuzzed Dewar’s drinker with brownish eyes and thick lips. Not a photographic description, but it could have been worse.

“Big Ray, if you have about an hour tomorrow, I’d like you to talk to a police artist. Between the two of you, maybe we could draw up this guy.”

The Melanesian shrugged. “All right.”

A loud crash. The sounds of shattering glass. Someone yelling, “Yeah, well, chuck you, Farley!”

Big Ray peered over Patricia’s head, shouted, “What’s going on over there?”

Malealani was already at the scene. Big fat guy, but fleet-footed. His big, booming voice rang out, “Too much to drink, pal?”

“Fuck you—”

“Let me help you to the bathroom.”

“I said—”

“Better yet, let me help you through the back door.”

“Get your fuckin’—”

“Yeah, yeah!” Malealani started dragging some loud-mouthed jerk in a red shirt across the floor. Opened the back door and away he flew.

Big Ray laughed. “They never learn.” To Patricia, he said, “I gotta go mind shop.”

He turned and lumbered away. Malealani came back a moment later, wiped his hands on his pants. “You want a refresher on that club soda, Patty?”

“No, I’m okay.” Patricia slipped her notebook into her purse. “Actually, I think I’d better head back to the station. Write all this up before I forget.”

“So I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. I hope that’s not too early. We gotta fit dinner in between my gigs.” He waited a beat. “I’m off on Sunday. We can have a longer dinner then. There’s this great Thai place about an hour out of the city. You never tasted anything so good.”

Patricia said, “Uh, let’s see how tomorrow goes.”

Malealani scratched his head. “I’m being pushy. Sorry. Don’t mean anything by it. I just get so tired of desperate people. Especially women. So many desperate women in this city. I guess you see that in your work as much as I do.” He licked his lips. “All I’m saying is you really seem to have your act together.”

Patricia wanted to scream, Who? Me? Instead, she chuckled, politely thanking him.

Maintain the image, maintain the pretext.

Because that’s what Vegas was all about.