"Nathan Malealani."
"Hawaiian?" Jensen asked.
"More like Samoan. By day, he tends the Oasis in Casablanca. The bar was on Weinberg's hit list. Guess I got lucky."
"Sounds like you made your own luck." Poe turned to
Jensen. "You find out anything we should know about?"
"Nothing radical." Jensen picked up a list from his desk. "I got two, three…four bellmen who threw Newel some action. No one used her as a regular—too unreliable because of her chemical problem."
"What was the split?" Poe asked.
"Fifty-fifty at first," Jensen said. "When Brittany started losing her looks, it dropped to forty-sixty. Mostly she made calls to them on the weekends when things got busy."
"Did she make enough money to carry her through the week?" Patricia asked.
"Depends on how much she made on weekends. Or maybe she simply hit Lewiston up for a loan."
Poe stuck a wad of gum in his mouth. "He denied knowing her."
The room went silent. Jensen broke it. "You actually talked to Parkerboy."
"After two hours of getting the runaround, I became bored, started wandering through the casino. Lo and behold, Laredo done got itself a new pit boss."
Patricia smiled. "You did well, sir?"
"Yes, ma'am!" Poe yanked his feet off the desk, stood up, and clapped his hands in glee. "Double-shoe decks. I fleeced the SOB. Serves Parkerboy right for keeping an officer of the law waiting."
Jensen said, "Dealers there don't believe in shuffling the cards?"
Poe laughed. "I had some lucky breaks. About an hour later, I get the familiar tap on the shoulder. I turn and smile and show Mr. Gil Lawson—probably né Guido Lombardi—my badge."
"Way to go, Poe," Jensen said.
Poe said, "Now the guy is stuck. He wants to kick me out, but I'm a cop. Doesn't know what the hell to do. So I figure I'd help him out. I'd leave the table without making a scene if I could have a word with the boss. Ten minutes later, I get a call. How's that for results?" He laughed, shook his head. "Guy's a golf fanatic. His entire office is carpeted in sod so he can take practice shots."
"Aw, c'mon," Patricia said.
"I kid you not."
Jensen said, "Doesn't he own his own private course? The one off Sahara next to the Rancho Fiesta development. I played there once for some police benefit. It's a good course."
Patricia said, "He owns his own golf course?"
"Why not?" Jensen said. "Wynn owns the course at UNLV."
"Yeah, but that one is open to the public, isn't it?" Patricia said.
Poe shrugged. "Anyway, the upshot is that Lewiston denied knowing Brittany. And I'm wondering why."
"Maybe he didn't know her."
"I don't think so," Poe said. "He used the words 'I don't recall' knowing her. Like Reagan not recalling arm sales."
"Maybe Reagan didn't," Patricia said. "He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's."
Poe said, "Everyone knows Lewiston's a major lech, that he's done tons of girls. Why would he be squirrelly knowing Brittany?"
"It doesn't mean he's involved," Jensen said. "Maybe he didn't want to get his hands sullied. You know, he starts saying, 'Yeah, I know her.' Then you start asking more questions. Easier to cut you off from the start."
Poe answered, "More like he's hiding something. I'd love to find out where he was last night."
Jensen smiled. "Why don't you question the hired help?"
Poe laughed. "Great idea, Steve. Is this before or after I get the shit beat out of me?"
"C'mon," Patricia said. "Bugsy's dead and gone—"
Jensen interrupted, "But the image lives on."
"They wouldn't do that to a cop," Patricia insisted.
"Probably not." But Poe wasn't too sure what would happen if he started stomping on toes. "So what do we have? We have a girl shredded to death by some sadistic control freak who shot her up with dope beforehand—"
"How do you know that?" Jensen asked.
"Rukmani's educated guess."
"What else did she say?" Patricia asked.
Poe paused, flipped through his notes. "No stab wounds, no gunshot wounds, bits of metal found in a few tissue samples consistent with a metal implement, bits of enamel found that were consistent with tooth enamel. But no distinct bite marks. More like teeth tearing at the flesh."
He closed his notebook, looked up.
"Dr. Kalil thinks all this was done while Brittany was still breathing. Possibly unconscious, but alive. We've got to nail this monster."
Poe started snapping his fingers and winced. His hand was still sore from Lewiston's crushing grip.
"Okay, so we know that Brittany bar-hopped. Patricia's going to check out Barry's Place…maybe she was there last night. Maybe she left there with someone in tow. She also hooked." To Jensen, Poe said, "Any of your bellmen set her up with someone last night?"
"If they did, they didn't admit it to me."
Poe said, "Go back and lean on them."
"I'll do it, Rom. But I think Newel's call girl days for the big hotels were long past. If she hooked at all, I betcha it was for pushers in exchange for drugs."
"Since Patty and you are tied up, I suppose that leaves me to check out Naked City." Poe raised his brows. "With Brittany's arrest record, I'm sure she was an honorary citizen."
TEN
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!"
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