"Mister," Eileen said, "you're askin' for more shit than you're worth."
She swung off the stool, long legs reaching for the floor, picked up her bag, shouldered it, and swiveled toward the phone booth. Watching her, Annie thought God, she's good.
In the phone booth, Eileen dialed the hot-line number at the Seven-Two.
Alvarez picked up.
"Tell Robinson to get back here," she said. "The bartender's hassling me."
"You got him," Alvarez said, and hung up.
Detective/Second Grade Alvin Robinson worked out of the Seven-Three, near the park and the County Court House. The team at the Seven-Two was certain he wouldn't be made for a cop here in the Canal Zone, and were using him tonight only to establish Eileen's credentials as a bona fide hooker. He wouldn't be part of the backup team, though Eileen might have wished otherwise. She was still annoyed that he'd hit her that hard mdash;even though she knew he'd been going for realism mdash;but in the Caddy on the way over he'd sounded like a tough, dependable cop who knew his business.
He walked into the bar not ten minutes after she placed her call. Eyes challenging, sweeping the room under the wide brim of his hat, everyone in the joint looking away. He did a cool pimp shuffle over to where Eileen was sitting, and put his hand on her shoulder.
"That him?" he asked, and cocked his head to where Larry was filling a jar with tomato juice. Eileen merely nodded. "You," Robinson said, and pointed his finger. "Come here."
Larry took his time ambling over.
"You givin' my fox trouble?" Robinson said.
"You got a phone in that pussy wagon of yours?" Larry said, toughing it out though he'd never seen a meaner-looking black man in his life. Everybody in the bar was looking at them now. The guys at the tables, the one who'd been watching television a minute earlier.
"I ast you a question," Robinson said.
"I read her the rules, pal," Larry said. "The same rules hellip;"
"Don't palme , pal," Robinson said. "I ain't your fuckin' pal, and I don't live by no rules. If you never heard of Torpedo Holmes, then you got some quick learnin' to do. Nobody cuts my action, man. Nobody. Less he's lookin' for someother kinda cut I'd be mighty obliged to supply. You got that?"
"I'm tellin' you hellip;"
"No, you ain'ttellin' me nothin', mister. Youlist'nin' is what you doin'." He reached into his wallet, took a frayed piece of glossy paper from it, unfolded it, and smoothed it flat on the bar. "This's fromL.A. Magazine ," he said. "You recognize that picture there?"
Larry looked down at a color photograph of a big black man wearing a red silk lounge robe and grinning cockily at the camera. The room in the background was opulent. The caption under the picture read: Thomas "Torpedo" Holmes at Home.
>
Robinson thought the resemblance was a good one. But even if it hadn't been, he firmly believed that most white men mdash;especially a redneck like this one mdash;thought all niggers looked alike. Thomas "Torpedo" Holmes was now doing ten years at Soledad. The article didn't mention the bust and conviction, because it had been written three years earlier, when Holmes was riding too high for his own good. You don't shit on cops in print, not even in L.A.
"I'm assumin' you don't know how to read," Robinson said, "so I'll fill you in fast." He snatched the article off the bartop before it got too much scrutiny, folded it, put it back into his wallet again. Eileen sat looking bored. "Now what that article says, man, is that not even L.A.'s finest could lay a finger on me, is what that article says. An' the same applies right here inthis city, ain't no kinda law can touch me, ain't no kinda shitty bartender hellip;"
"Iown this place!" Larry said.
"You list'nin' to me, man, or you runnin' off at the mouth? I'm tellin you I don't cut my action with nobody, not the law, not nobody else runnin' girls, and most of all notyou ."
"This ain't L.A.," Larry said.
"Well, no shee-it?" Robinson said.
"I mean, I got rules here, man."
"You want me to shove your rules up your ass, man? Together with that jar of tomato juice? Man, don't tempt me. This little girl here, she's gonna sit here long as she likes, you dig, man? An' if I'm happy with the service she gets, then maybe I'll drop some other little girls off every now an' then, give this fuckin' dump some class." His wallet came out again. He threw a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. "This is for whatever she wants to drink. When that's used up, I'll be back with more. You better pray I don't come back with somethin' has a sharp end. You take my meanin', man?"
Larry picked up the bill and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He figured he'd won a moral victory. "What's all this strong-arm shit?" he asked, smiling, playing to the crowd now, showing them he hadn't backed down. "We're two gentlemen here, can't we talk without threatening each other?"
"Was you threatenin' me?" Robinson said. "I didn't hear nobody threatenin' me."
"What I meant hellip;"
"We finished here, man? You gonna treat Linda nice from now on?"
"All I said to the lady hellip;"
"What you said don't mean shit to me. I don't want no more phone calls from her."
"I don't mind a nice-looking girl in the place," Larry said.
"Good. An' I don't mind her bein' here," Robinson said, and grinned a big watermelon-eating grin. He put his hand on Eileen's shoulder again. "Now, honey," he said, "go easy on the sauce. 'Cause Daddy got some nice candy for you when the night's done."