by Mike Dennis
"Yeah. Forensics is back there right now gathering evidence. The coroner's on his way. Probably be another four or five hours before we clear out. My partner's questioning your employees in the bar area."
"Okay for me to go in?"
He looked straight at me.
"Robbie?"
"Yeah."
"You got any idea who did this?"
"How the hell would I know?"
Ortega shifted his weight to his right leg, his good one.
"Well, she did work for you." His tone suggested she did something else, as well.
"That's all she did, Lieutenant."
"Nothing more? No … girlfriend-boyfriend kind of thing? Nothing on the side, hm?"
His black eyebrows raised as far as they would go, which on his forehead wasn't too far.
My jaw tightened. I spoke slowly, deliberately, so he would get the point.
"She only worked for me."
"I hear Victor might've had something to do with this."
"I didn't hear about that."
His eyebrows shot up again.
"But you would tell me if you knew."
See, this is one of the downsides of living your whole life in a small town. The cop knows what happened, and he knows that I know. Pretty soon, it'll be in the fucking paper.
"Yeah, I'd tell you."
Sure I would. In your fucking dreams.
"Okay, okay. I had to ask, you understand."
"Now can I go in?"
He nodded. "James," he signaled to the uniform with the tape. "Let Robbie in. He's the owner."
James pulled the tape aside, and I went in.
The customers were all gone, of course, and the lights were turned up full. White and bright inside a saloon. Not pretty.
The employees, which amounted to my night manager, bartender, two waitresses and three musicians, gathered together on one side of the room. They sat at tables, all of them impatient, all of them wanting out. Ortega's partner, a guy I knew from around, but couldn't come up with his name, sat at a table on the far side of the room, grilling one of the waitresses. He had his notebook in front of him, scribbling stuff into it as she spoke.
I made my way back to the dressing room.
Well, it started out as a storage room, about eight-by-twelve. But since Olivia started singing here six months ago, I made a half-assed attempt to convert it.
I'd shoved a few boxes aside and put a makeup mirror with a table and chair against one wall. A couple of light fixtures, a portable clothes rack, and bingo! A dressing room. Hey, she brought in a lot of the better trade right away — you know, whiskey drinkers and frozen drink people instead of beer guzzlers — so I thought she deserved this little retreat.
I couldn't get in. The forensics boys had just arrived, and they were poking around everywhere, while the photographer snapped pictures.
Two uniforms guarded the open door to the small room. As I neared them, I picked up a hard, metallic odor. Kind of like sour armpits, only worse. I knew this smell, and it wasn't armpits. It was blood.
I peeked around one of them, catching a fast glimpse of the carnage: a thick, red river soaked the floor around the entrance.
It was her blood. Olivia's.
And less than an hour ago, it gave her life, flowing through her body. Through her so-easy-to-look-at body.
The sight and smell of it unsettled me plenty. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the squeamish type. I've seen a lot of bad things in my time, and I have to admit, I may have even caused a few.
But this … this got to me. All the way down to my core.
Because even though I never would've done anything like this to her, I had a part in it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Years ago, when I was playing music for a living and without any aspirations to writing whatsoever, it was Marda Burton, New Orleans writer, who convinced me I could become a novelist. At her urging, I sat down and began the terrifying task of putting a made-up story on paper. Setup On Front Street isn't my first novel, nor my last, but Marda is just as responsible for this one as she has been for every one that I will ever write.
Thanks to so many successful independent authors who have finally opened my eyes to the realities of publishing. Without their trailblazing efforts, I'd still be sending out query letters to uninterested agents.
Thanks to Wes Hunter of Truman-White Chevron in Key West for the info on the big Buick Electra 225. I needed a car like that for a situation in this book and Wes was kind enough to explain it all to me.
And speaking of Key West, I want to thank all my friends here on this beautiful island for their support and encouragement, and a big thanks to Key West itself for being a great noir city. You won't find any of the clichéd Margaritaville stereotypes in these pages.