Moon Music. Faye Kellerman

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       10

      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 СКАЧАТЬ