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.