Devil's Waltz

23

I tucked her in bed and went out to the living room to wait. Milo knocked softly just before midnight. He was carrying a hard-shell case the size of an attaché and had on a polo shirt, twill pants, and windbreaker. All in black. Regular-guy parody of the L.A. hipster ensemble.

I said, “Trying to fade into the night, Zorro?”

“We’re taking your car. I’m not bringing the Porsche down there.”

I pulled out the Seville; he put the case in the trunk, got in the passenger seat. “Let’s roll.”

I followed his directions, taking Sunset west to the 405 south, merging with hurtling trucks and the red-eye crowd heading out to the airport. At the junction with the Santa Monica Freeway, I hooked over toward L.A. and traveled east in the fast lane. The highway was emptier than I’d ever seen it, softened to something impressionistic by a warm, moist haze.

Milo lowered the window, lit up a panatela, and blew smoke out at the city. He seemed tired, as if he’d talked himself out over the phone. I felt weary, too, and neither of us said a word. Near La Brea a loud, low sports car rode our tail, belched and flashed its brights before passing us at close to a hundred. Milo sat up suddenly — cop’s reflex — and watched it disappear before settling back down and staring out the windshield.

I followed his gaze upward to an ivory moon, cloud-streaked and fat, though not quite full. It dangled before us like a giant yo-yo, ivory mottled with green-cheese verdigris.

“Three-quarter moon,” I said.

“More like seven-eighths. That means almost all the nuts’re out. Stay on the Ten past the interchange and get off at Santa Fe.”

He kept grumbling directions in a low voice, taking us into a broad, silent district of storehouses, foundries, and wholesale jobbers. No streetlights, no movement; the only vehicles I spotted were penned behind prison-grade security fences. As we’d traveled away from the ocean, the haze had lifted and the downtown skyline had turned chiseled and crisp. But here I could barely make out the shapes, miragelike against the matte-black stasis of the city’s outer limits. The silence seemed glum — a failure of spirit. As if L.A.’s geographical boundaries had exceeded its energy.

He directed me through a series of quick, sharp turns down asphalt strips that could have been streets or alleys — a maze that I’d never be able to reverse from memory. He’d allowed his cigar to go cold but the smell of tobacco stuck to the car. Though the breeze streaming in was warm and pleasant, he began raising the window. I realized why before he finished: A new smell overpowered the burnt-cloth stink of cheap leaf. Sweet and bitter at the same time, metallic, yet rotten. It leaked through the glass. So did noise — cold and resonant, like giant steel hands clapping — scraping the night-lull from somewhere far away.

“Packing houses,” he said. “East L.A. all the way down to Vernon, but the sound carries. When I first came on the force I drove a cruiser down here, on the night watch. Sometimes they slaughtered the hogs at night. You could hear them howling, smashing into things, and rattling their chains. Nowadays I think they tranquilize them — Here, turn right, then immediately left. Go a block and park anywhere you can.”

The maze ended on a skinny block-long straightaway bounded on both sides by cyclone fencing. No sidewalks. Weeds erupted through the tar like hairs on a wen. Cars lined both sides of the street, pushed up close to the fence.

I pulled into the first space I saw, behind an old BMW with a K-ROQ window sticker and a rear deck piled high with trash. We got out of the Seville. The air had cooled but the slaughterhouse smell remained — dribs and drabs of stench, rather than a constant assault. Changing wind, probably, though I couldn’t sense it. The machine scrape was gone, replaced by music — electric organ elf-squeaks and a murky bass, middle-range tones that might have come from guitars. If there was a beat, I couldn’t sense that either.

“Party time,” I said. “What’s the dance of the week?”

“Felony lambada,” said Milo. “Sidle up against your partner and rifle through his/her pockets.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched forward.

We began walking up the street. It dead-ended at a tall, windowless building. Pale-painted brick walls that a couple of red lights turned pink. Three stories — a trio of successively smaller cubes stacked atop one another. Flat roof, steel doors asymmetrically placed under a random assortment of shuttered windows. A tangle of fire-escape ladders hugged the facade like cast-iron ivy. As we got closer I saw huge, faded letters painted above the dock: BAKER FERTILIZER AND POTASH CO.

The music got louder. Heavy, slow, keyboard solo. Voices became audible in between notes. As we got closer, I saw a line of people S-curved in front of one of the doors — a fifty-foot ant-trail that dipped into the street and clogged it.

We began passing the line. Faces turned toward us sequentially, like animated dominoes. Black duds were the uniform, sullen pouts the mask. Boot chains, cigarettes — legal and otherwise — mumbles and shuffles and sneers, an amphetamine jerk here and there. Flashes of bare flesh, whiter than the moonlight. A rude comment harmonized with the organ and somebody laughed.

The age range was eighteen to twenty-five, skewed toward the lower end. I heard a cat snarl at my back, then more laughter. Prom from Hell.

The door that had drawn the crowd was a rust-colored sheet-metal rectangle blocked by a slide bolt. A big man wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck, green-flowered surfing shorts, and high-laced boots stood in front of it. He was in his early twenties, had clotted features, dreamy eyes, and skin that would have been florid even without the red bulb above his head. His black hair was trimmed to a buzz on top and engraved with lightning bolts of scalp on both sides. I noticed a couple of thin spots that hadn’t been barbered — downy patches, as if he was recovering from chemotherapy. But his body was huge and inflated. The hair at the back of his head was long and knotted in a tight, oiled queue that hung over one shoulder. The shoulder and its mate were graveled with acne. Steroid rash — that explained the hair loss.

The kids at the head of the line were talking to him. He wasn’t answering, didn’t notice our approach or chose to ignore it.

Milo walked up to him and said, “Evening, champ.”

The bouncer kept looking the other way.

Milo repeated himself. The bouncer jerked his head around and growled. If not for his size, it would have been comical. The people at the head of the line were impressed.

Someone said, “Yo, kung-fu.” The bouncer smiled, looked away again, cracked his knuckles and yawned.

Milo moved quickly, stepping up nose to nose with him while shoving his badge in the meaty face. I hadn’t seen him remove it from his pocket.

The bouncer growled again but the rest of him was acquiescent. I looked over my shoulder. A girl with hair the color of deoxygenated blood stuck her tongue out at me and wiggled it. The boy fondling her chest spit and flipped me the bird.

Milo moved his badge back and forth in front of the bouncer’s eyes. The bouncer followed it, as if hypnotized.

Milo held it still. The bouncer read laboriously.

Someone cursed. Someone else howled like a wolf. That caught on and soon the street sounded like something out of Jack London.

Milo said, “Open up, Spike, or we start checking IDs and health codes.”

The lupine chorus grew louder, almost blotting out the music. The bouncer crunched his brows, digesting. It looked painful. Finally he laughed and reached behind himself.

Milo grabbed his wrist, big fingers barely making it around the joint. “Easy.”

“Op’ning it, man,” said the bouncer. “Key.” His voice was unnaturally deep, like a tape played at slo-mo, but whiny nonetheless.

Milo backed away, gave him some space, and watched his hands. The bouncer pulled a key out of his surf-shorts, popped a lock on the bolt, and lifted the bar.

The door opened an inch. Heat and light and noise poured out through it. The wolf-pack charged.

The bouncer leaped forward, hands shaped into what he thought were karate blades, baring his teeth. The pack stopped, retreated, but a few protests sounded. The bouncer raised his hands high in the air and made pawing movements. The light from above turned his irises red. His armpits were shaven. Pimples there, too.

“The fuck back!” he bellowed.

The wolfies went still.

Milo said, “Impressive, Spike.”

The bouncer kept his eyes fixed on the line. His mouth hung open. He was panting and sweating. Sound kept pouring out of the door crack.

Milo put his hand on the bolt. It creaked and stole the bouncer’s attention. He faced Milo.

“Fuck him,” said a voice from behind us.

“We’re going in now, Spike,” said Milo. “Keep those assholes calm.”

The bouncer closed his mouth and breathed loudly through his nose. A bubble of snot filled one nostril.

“It’s not Spike,” he said. “It’s James.”

Milo smiled. “Okay. You do good work, James. Ever work at the Mayan Mortgage?”

The bouncer wiped his nose with his arm and said, “Huh?”

Working hard at processing.

“Forget it.”

The bouncer looked injured. “Whaddya say, man? Seriously.”

“I said you’ve got a bright future, James. This gig ever gets old, you can always run for Vice President.”

The room was big, harshly lit in a few spots, but mostly dark. The floors were cement; the walls that I could see, painted brick. A network of conduits, wheels, gears, and pipes adhered to the ceiling, ragged in places, as if ripped apart in a frenzy.

Off to the left was the bar — wooden doors on sawhorses fronting a metal rack full of bottles. Next to the rack were half a dozen white bowls filled with ice.

Shiny porcelain bowls. Raised lids.

Toilets.

Two men worked nonstop to service a thirsty throng of minors, filling and squirting and scooping cubes from the commodes. No faucets; the soda and water came from bottles.

The rest of the space was a dance floor. No boundary separated the bar crowd from pressure-packed bodies writhing and jerking like beached grunion. Up close, the music was even more formless. But loud enough to keep the Richter scale over at Cal Tech busy.

The geniuses creating it stood at the back, on a makeshift stage. Five hollow-cheeked, leotarded things who could have been junkies had they been healthier-looking. Marshall Stacks big as vacation cabins formed a black felt wall behind them. The bass drum bore the legend OFFAL.

High on the wall behind the amps was another BAKER FERTILIZER sign, partially blocked by a hand-lettered banner tacked diagonally.

WELCOME TO THE SHIT HOUSE.

The accompanying artwork was even more charming.

“Creative,” I said, loud enough to feel my palate vibrate, but inaudible.

Milo must have read my lips because he grinned and shook his head. Then he lowered it and charged through the dancers, toward the bar.

I dived in after him.

We arrived, battered but intact, at the front of the drinkers. Dishes of unshelled peanuts sat beside toilet paper squares improvising as napkins. The bartop needed wiping. The floor was carpeted with husks where it wasn’t wet and slick.

Milo managed to bull his way behind the bar. Both of the barkeeps were thin, dark, and bearded, wearing sleeveless gray undershirts and baggy white pajama bottoms. The one closer to Milo was bald. The other was Rapunzel in drag.

Milo went over to Baldy. The bartender jabbed one hand defensively while pouring Jolt Cola into a glass quarter-filled with rum. Milo’s hand fit all the way around this wrist. He gave it a short, sharp twist — not enough to cause injury, but the bartender’s eyes and mouth opened and he put the cola can down and tried to jerk away.

Milo held fast, doing the badge thing again, but discreetly. Keeping the ID at an angle that hid it from the drinkers. A hand from the crowd reached out and snared the rum and cola. Several others began slapping the bartop. A few mouths opened in soundless shouts.

Baldy gave Milo a panicked look.

Milo talked in his ear.

Baldy said something back.

Milo kept talking.

Baldy pointed at the other mix-master. Milo released his grip. Baldy went over to Rapunzel and the two of them conferred. Rapunzel nodded and Baldy returned to Milo, looking resigned.

I followed the two of them on a sweaty, buffeted trek through and around the dance floor. Slow going — part ballet, part jungle clearance. Finally we ended up at the back of the room, behind the band’s amps and a snarl of electric wires, and walked through a wooden door marked TOILETS.

On the other side was a long, cold, cement-floored hall littered with paper scraps and nasty-looking puddles. Several couples groped in the shadows. A few loners sat on the floor, heads lowered to laps. Marijuana and vomit fought for olfactory dominance. The sound level had sunk to jet-takeoff roar.

We passed doors stenciled STANDERS and SQUATTERS, stepped over legs, tried to skirt the garbage. Baldy was good at it, moving with a light, nimble gait, his pajama pants billowing. At the end of the hallway was yet another door, rusted metal, identical to the one the bouncer had guarded.

Baldy said, “Outside okay?” in a squeaky voice.

“What’s out there, Robert?”

The bartender shrugged and scratched his chin. “The back.” He was anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. The beard was little more than fuzz and didn’t conceal much of his face. It was a face worth concealing, skimpy and rattish and brooding and mean.

Milo pushed the door open, looked outside, and took hold of the bartender’s arm.

The three of us went outside to a small fenced parking lot. A U-Haul two-ton truck was parked there, along with three cars. Lots more trash was spread across the ground in clumps, a foot high in places, fluttering in the breeze. Beyond the fence was the fat moon.

Milo led the bald man to a relatively clean spot near the center of the lot, away from the cars.

“This is Robert Gabray,” he said to me. “Mixologist extraordinaire.” To the bartender: “You’ve got fast hands, Robert.”

The barkeep wiggled his fingers. “Gotta work.”

“The old Protestant ethic?”

Blank look.

“You like working, Robert?”

“Gotta. They keep a record a everything.”

“Who’s they?”

“The owners.”

“They in there watching you?”

“No. But they got eyes.”

“Sounds like the CIA, Robert.”

The bartender didn’t answer.

“Who pays your salary, Robert?”

“Some guys.”

“Which guys?”

“They own the building.”

“What’s the name on your payroll check?”

“Ain’t no checks.”

“Cash deal, Robert?”

Nod.

“You holding out on the Internal Revenue?”

Gabray crossed his arms and rubbed his shoulders. “C’mon, what’d I do?”

“You’d know that better than me, wouldn’t you, Robert?”

“Bunch a A-rabs, the owners.”

“Names.”

“Fahrizad, Nahrizhad, Nahrishit, whatever.”

“Sounds Iranian, not Arab.”

“Whatever.”

“How long you been working here?”

“Couple of months.”

Milo shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, Robert. Wanna give it another try?”

“What?” Gabray looked puzzled.

“Think back where you really were a couple of months ago, Robert.”

Gabray rubbed his shoulders some more.

“Cold, Robert?”

“I’m okay... Okay, yeah, it’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Ah,” said Milo, “that’s better.”

“Whatever.”

“Weeks, months, it’s all the same to you?”

Gabray didn’t answer.

“It just seemed like months?”

“Whatever.”

“Time goes quickly when you’re having fun?”

“Whatever.”

“Two weeks,” said Milo. “That makes a lot more sense, Robert. Probably what you meant to say. You wouldn’t think of giving me a hard time — you were just making an honest error, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You forgot that two months ago you weren’t working anywhere because you were at County lockup on a pissanty mary-joo-anna rap.”

The bartender shrugged.

“Really bright, Robert, running those red lights with that brick in the trunk of your car.”

“It wasn’t my stuff.”

“Ah.”

“It’s true, man.”

“You took the heat for someone else?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re just a nice guy, huh? Real hero.”

Shrug. Another rub of the shoulders. One of Gabray’s arms rose higher and he scratched the bare skin atop his head.

“Got an itch, Robert?”

“I’m fine, man.”

“Sure you’re not dope-chilled?”

“I’m okay, man.”

Milo looked at me. “Robert mixes powders as well as fluids. Quite an amateur chemist — isn’t that right, Robert?”

Another shrug.

“Got a day job, Robert?”

Shake of the head.

“Your P.O. know you’re working here?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Milo leaned in closer and smiled patiently. “Because you, as a habitual although petty felon, are supposed to stay away from bad influences, and those folks in there don’t look any too wholesome.”

Gabray sucked his teeth and looked at the ground. “Who told you I was here?”

Milo said, “Spare me the questions, Robert.”

“It was that bitch, wasn’t it?”

“What bitch is that?”

“You know.”

“Do I?”

“You musta — you knew I was here.”

“Angry at her, Robert?”

“Nah.”

“Not at all?”

“I don’t get mad.”

“What do you get?”

“Nothing.”

“You get even?”

Gabray said, “Can I smoke?”

“She paid your bail, Robert. In my book that makes her the hero.”

“I’ll marry her. Can I smoke?”

“Sure, Robert, you’re a free man. Least till your trial. ’Cause the bitch made your bail.”

Gabray pulled a pack of Kools out of his p.j. pants. Milo was ready with a match.

“Let’s talk about where you were three months ago, Robert.”

Gabray smoked and gave another foggy look.

“A month before you got busted, Robert. March.”

“What about it?”

“The Mayan Mortgage.”

Gabray smoked and looked at the sky.

“Remember it, Robert?”

“What about it?”

“This.”

Milo slid something out of his shirt pocket. Penlight and a color photo. He held the picture in front of Gabray’s eyes and shined the light on it. I stepped behind Gabray and peered over his shoulder.

Same face as in the snapshot the Murtaughs had given me. Below the hairline. Above it, the skull was flattened to something that was incapable of holding a brain. What was left of the hair was a matted red-black cloud. Eggshell-colored skin. A black-red necklace encircled the throat. The eyes were two purple eggplants.

Gabray looked at it, smoked, said, “So?”

“Remember her, Robert?”

“Should I?”

“Her name’s Dawn Herbert. She was offed near the Mayan and you told some detectives you saw her with some guy.”

Gabray flicked ashes and smiled. “That’s what this is about? Yeah, I told them. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It was a long time ago, man.”

“Three months.”

“That’s a long time, man.”

Milo moved closer to Gabray and stared down at the smaller man. “You gonna help me on this? Yes or no?” Waving the homicide photo.

“What happened to the other cops? One a them was a beaner, I think.”

“They took early retirement.”

Gabray laughed. “Where? In Tia Wanna?”

“Talk to me, Robert.”

“I don’t know nothing.”

“You saw her with a guy.”

Shrug.

“Did you lie to those poor hardworking detectives, Robert?”

“Me? Never.” Smile. “Perish my thoughts.”

“Tell me what you told them.”

“Didn’t they write it down?”

“Tell me anyway.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Three months.”

“That’s long, man.”

“Sure is, Robert. Ninety whole days, and think about this: Your record, even a little weed could put you away for two, three times that long. Think of three hundred cold days — that was a lot of grass in your trunk.”

Gabray looked at the photo, turned his head, and smoked.

“It wasn’t mine. The weed.”

Milo’s turn to laugh. “That gonna be your defense?”

Gabray frowned, pinched his cigarette, sucked smoke through it. “You’re saying you can help me?”

“Depends on what you come up with.”

“I seen her.”

“With a guy?”

Nod.

“Tell me the whole thing, Robert.”

“That’s it.”

“Tell it like a story. Once upon a time.”

Gabray snickered. “Yeah, sure. Once upon a time... I seen her with a guy. The end.”

“In the club?”

“Outside.”

“Where outside?”

“Like... a block away.”

“That the only time you saw her?”

Gabray contemplated. “Maybe I seen her another time, inside.”

“Was she a regular?”

“Whatever.”

Milo sighed and patted the barkeep’s shoulder. “Robert, Robert, Robert.”

Gabray flinched with each mention of his name. “What?”

“That’s not much of a story.”

Gabray ground out his cigarette and produced another. He waited for Milo to light it and when that didn’t happen, pulled out a book of matches and did it himself.

“I seen her maybe one more time,” he said. “That’s it. I only worked there a couple of weeks.”

“Trouble holding down a job, Robert?”

“I like to move around, man.”

“A ramblin’ guy.”

“Whatever.”

“Twice in a couple of weeks,” said Milo. “Sounds like she enjoyed the place.”

“Fuckheads,” said Gabray with sudden passion. “All a them, rich dumb fucks, coming down to play street-life, then running back to Rodeo Drive.”

“Dawn Herbert come across as a rich bitch?”

“They’re all the same, man.”

“Ever talk to her?”

Alarm in the barkeep’s eyes. “Nah. Like I said, I only seen her once, maybe twice. That’s it. I didn’t know her from shit — I had nothing to do with her and nothing to do with that.” Pointing at the photo.

“You’re sure about that.”

“Real sure. Really real sure, man. That is not my thing.”

“Tell me about seeing her with this guy.”

“Like I said, once upon a time I was working there and once upon a time I went to take a smoke and seen her. Only reason I remembered was ’cause a the guy. He wasn’t one a them.”

“One of who?”

“The fuckheads. She was, but not him. He, like, stood out.”

“Stood out how?”

“Straight.”

“Businessman?”

“Nah.”

“What then?”

Gabray shrugged.

“Was he wearing a suit, Robert?”

Gabray smoked hard and thought. “Nah. Kinda like you — Sears Roebuck, that kind of jacket.” Drawing his hands across his waist.

“A windbreaker?”

“Yeah.”

“What color?”

“I dunno — dark. It was a long—”

“Time ago,” said Milo. “What else was he wearing?”

“Pants, shoes, whatever. He looked like you.” Smile. Smoke.

“In what way?”

“I dunno.”

“Heavyset?”

“Yeah.”

“My age?”

“Yeah.”

“My height?”

“Yeah.”

“Same hair as me?”

“Yeah.”

“You have two dicks?”

“Ye — Huh?”

“Cut the crap, Robert. What was his hair like?”

“Short.”

“Bald or a full head?”

Gabray frowned and touched his own bare dome. “He had hair,” he said grudgingly.

“Beard or mustache?”

“I dunno. It was far.”

“But you don’t remember any facial hair?”

“No.”

“How old was he?”

“I dunno — fifty, forty, whatever.”

“You’re twenty-nine and he was much older than you?”

“Eight. Next month I’m twenty-nine.”

“Happy birthday. He was older than you?”

“A lot older.”

“Old enough to be your father?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Nah — not old enough. Forty, forty-five.”

“Hair color?”

“I dunno — brown.”

“Maybe or definitely?”

“Probably.”

“Light or dark brown?”

“I dunno. It was nighttime.”

“What color was her hair?”

“You got the picture there.”

Milo shoved the photo in the barkeep’s face. “Is this what she looked like when you saw her?”

Gabray pulled back and licked his lips. “Uh-uh — it was... her hair was different.”

“Sure it was,” said Milo. “It was sitting on an intact skull.”

“Yeah — no — I mean the color. You know, yellow. Real yellow — like scrambled eggs. You could see it in the light.”

“She was under a light?”

“I guess... yeah. The two a them were — a streetlight. Just for a sec, till they heard me and split.”

“You didn’t tell the other detectives about any light.”

“They didn’t ask.”

Milo lowered the picture. Gabray smoked and looked away.

Milo said, “What were Ms. Herbert and this straight-looking guy doing under the light?”

“Talking.”

“His hair wasn’t blond?”

“I told you, hers was. You could see it, man — it was like a... banana.” Gabray chuckled.

“And his was brown.”

“Yeah. Hey, if this is so important, how come you’re not writing it down?”

“What else do you remember about him, Robert?”

“That’s it.”

“Middle-aged, dark windbreaker, dark hair. That’s not much to trade with, Robert.”

“I’m telling you what I saw, man.”

Milo turned his back on Gabray and looked at me. “Well, we tried to help him.”

“You got someone, like tight?” said the bartender.

Milo kept his back turned. “What do you mean, Robert?”

“Tight case, man. I don’t want to be telling you something and have some dude walk on some Miranda or something and come looking for me, you know?”

“You haven’t told me much, Robert.”

“You got someone tight?”

Milo pivoted slowly and faced him. “What I got is you, Robert, trying to jerk me around, withholding evidence on top of that brick in your trunk. I figure six months minimum — get the wrong judge, you might even be talking a year or so.”

Gabray held out his hands. “Hey, I just don’t want someone walking and coming after me. This guy was...”

“What?”

Gabray was silent.

“This guy was what, Robert?”

“A con — okay? He looked like serious business. A hard-case.”

“You could tell that from far away?”

“Some things you can tell, okay? The way he stood, I dunno. He had these shoes — big and ugly, like you get in the joint.”

“You could see his shoes?”

“Not up close — the light. But they were big — I seen shoes like that before. Whaddya want from me — I’m trying to help.”

“Well, Robert, don’t you worry. There’s no one in custody.”

“What if?” said Gabray.

“What if what?”

“I tell you and ’cause a that you bust him? How do I know he’s not gonna get out and come looking for me?”

Milo held up the photo again. “Look what he did, Robert. What do you think? We’re gonna let him walk?”

“That don’t mean nothing to me, man. I don’t have confidence in the system.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. I see guys all the time, do bad stuff and walk on technos.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Milo. “What’s this world coming to? Listen, genius, we find him, he won’t walk. And you tell me something that’ll help me find him, you’ll walk too. With brownie points. Hell, Robert, all the points you’ll have, you’ll be able to screw up a couple more times and coast.”

Gabray smoked and tapped his foot and frowned.

“What is it, Robert?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Ah.” To me: “Let’s be real quiet.”

“His face,” said the bartender. “I seen it. But just for a second.”

“That so? Was he angry or anything?”

“Nah, just talking to her.”

“And what was she doing?”

“Listening. I thought when I saw it: this punk cunt’s listening to Mr. Straight. Don’t make sense.”

“Mr. Con.”

“Yeah. But he still didn’t fit the scene — all you see down there at that hour is freaks and beaners and niggers. And cops — I thought first that he was a cop. Then I thought that he looked like a con. Same difference.”

“What was he talking to her about?”

“I couldn’t hear it, man! It was—”

“Was he holding anything?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything.”

“You mean like to hurt her with? Nothing I saw. You really think he’s the one did her?”

“What did his face look like?”

“Regular... uh, kinda... square.” Gabray put the cigarette in his mouth and used his hands to frame a wobbly quadrangle. “A regular face.”

“Complexion?”

“He was white.”

“Pale, swarthy — on the dark side?”

“I dunno, just a white guy.”

“Same color as her?”

“She had on makeup — that real white shit they like? He was darker than that. Regular white. Normal.”

“Eye color?”

“I was too far away for that, man.”

“How far?”

“I dunno, half a block.”

“But you could see his shoes?”

“Maybe it was closer... I seen ’em. But I didn’t see no eye color.”

“How tall was he?”

“Taller than her.”

“Taller than you?”

“Uh... maybe. Not much.”

“What’re you?”

“Five ten.”

“So he was what, five eleven or six feet?”

“Guess so.”

“Heavy build?”

“Yeah, but not fat, you know.”

“If I knew I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“Heavy — big — you know — like from working out. On the yard.”

“Muscular.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you remember this guy if you saw him again?”

“Why?” Another alarm flash. “You do got someone?”

“No. Would you remember him if you saw his picture?”

“Yeah, sure.” Flippantly. “I got a good memory. Put him in a lineup and I’ll give you a beaucoup ID, you treat me good.”

“You trying to hustle me, Robert?”

Gabray smiled and shrugged. “Taking care of biz.”

“Well,” said Milo, “let’s take care of some now.”

We took Gabray across the rear lot, walked through a rubble-filled ditch on the east side of the building, and got back on the street. The line at the front door hadn’t shrunk much. This time the bouncer noticed as we walked by.

Gabray said, “Yo, fuckin’ King Kong,” under his breath.

Milo said, “The guy with Ms. Herbert as big as James?”

Gabray laughed. “No — no way. That’s not human. That they got outa the fuckin zoo.”

Milo pushed him forward, questioning him all the way to the car without extracting anything further.

“Nice wheels,” said Gabray when we stopped at the Seville. “Get it from impound or something?”

“Hard work, Robert. That old Protestant ethic.”

“I’m Catholic, man. Used to be, anyway. All of that religion shit’s bullshit.”

Milo said, “Shut up, Robert,” and opened the trunk.

He removed the hard-shell case, put Gabray in the rear seat of the car, and got in next to him, leaving the door open for light. I stood outside and watched him open the case. Inside was a book that said IDENTIKIT. Milo showed Gabray transparencies with facial features drawn on them. Gabray selected some and put them together. When he was finished, a bland-looking Caucasian face gazed up. A face out of a Dick and Jane primer. Someone’s dad.

Milo stared at it, fixed it in place, wrote something down; then he had Gabray designate spots on a street map with a yellow marker. After a few more questions, he got out of the car. Gabray followed. Despite the warm breeze, the barkeep’s bare shoulders were fuzzed with goose bumps.

“Okay?” he said.

“For the time being, Robert. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but I’m gonna anyway: Don’t change addresses. Stay where I can reach you.”

“No prob.” Gabray started to walk away.

Milo blocked him with a straight-arm. “Meanwhile, I’m gonna be writing letters. One to your P.O. saying you worked here without telling him, another to Mr. Fahrizad and his buddies informing them you finked on them and that’s why the fire department’s closing them down, and a third to the IRS telling them you’ve been taking cash for God knows how long and not declaring it.”

Gabray bent at the waist as if seized by a cramp. “Oh, man—”

“Plus a report to the prosecutor on your weed thing, letting him know you were uncooperative and obstructive and a poor risk for plea bargain. I don’t like writing letters, Robert. Writing letters makes me grumpy. If I have to waste my time looking for you, I’m gonna get even grumpier and all of those letters get hand-delivered. You behave yourself, I tear them up. Comprende?”

“Aw, man, that’s rude. I been strai—”

“No problems if you behave yourself, Robert.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

“Will you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Can I go now? I gotta work.”

“Are you hearing me, Robert?”

“I’m hearing. Stay in one place, be a fucking boy scout. No jamming, no scamming. Okay? Can I go?”

“One more thing, Robert. Your lady.”

“Yeah?” said Gabray, in a hard voice that turned him into something more than a sniveling loser. “What about her?”

“She’s gone. Flew the coop. Don’t even think about going after her. And especially don’t think about hurting her for talking to me. Because I woulda found you anyway. You’ve got no gripe with her.”

Gabray’s eyes widened. “Gone? What the — whaddya mean?”

“Gone. She wanted out, Robert.”

“Aw, shit—”

“She was packing her bags when I spoke to her. Pretty shaken up by your approach to domestic life.”

Gabray said nothing.

Milo said, “She had enough of being pounded on, Robert.”

Gabray dropped the cigarette and stomped it out hard.

“She lies,” he said. “Fucking bitch”

“She made your bail.”

“She owed me. She still owes me.”

“Let it go, Robert. Think of those letters.”

“Yeah,” said Gabray, tapping his foot. “Whatever. I’m cool with it. I got a good attitude about life.”