Moon Music

Superficially, it appeared that neither robbery nor drugs had been a motive. But she knew that the whole thing could have been a setup to deflect Homicide.

Still, she had been proud of herself. Weinberg had congratulated her, slapped her back, then given her a list of bars to comb. Twenty of them.

And here she was, feeling as gritty as unwashed spinach, as dirty as a desert rat. She sat at the countertop along with a couple of pickled stragglers waiting for fresh crowds of gamblers to come and liven the evening, her eyes observing the natural ebb and flow of the casino. Cocktail waitresses with big bonkers, wearing gauzy stuff, their flat stomachs with jewels in the navels. They walked two and fro—from casino to bar, from bar to casino.

The bartender approached her. Aladdin he wasn’t. Then again, she was no Jasmine. He was Samoan or Tongan or something that screamed Pacific Islander—an extra-extra-large with frizzy black hair. He wore black harem pants and a purple satin vest over a white see-through shirt. Sandals on his feet. His name tag said Nate.

Wiping the countertop, smiling with white teeth. “’Lo.”

“Club soda,” Patricia answered.

It was now six-thirty. Two hours of scouring the bars for Brittany’s last stand had produced sore feet and a half-dozen hits—servers who somewhat recognized Newel’s face. Unfortunately, no one remembered seeing her yesterday.

Casablanca was bar number twelve on the loo’s hit list. She had consumed twenty—count ’em—twenty club sodas, which necessitated about a dozen trips to the bathroom. How she suffered for her art.

Patricia took out her badge, showed it to Nate, who looked at it without flinching. Didn’t even back away. She was encouraged. Maybe he’d talk without a cattle prod.

“You want a twist with that, Officer?”

“Detective. Homicide.”

His eyes blinked. “Would you like a twist, Detective?”

“Lime.”

“You got it.”

His eyes yo-yoed up and down over her girth, then jumped to her left hand. Patricia smiled to herself. Two humping rhinos.

Not that she was that bad.

Not like after she had left the service—honorable discharge, of course. She had thought she had it together … everything under control. But putting on those civvies, walking out of the base, feeling so dirty and violated. Then seeing him with that evil smile, giving her his famous little wave.

She had gone back to her apartment and had thrown up.

She hadn’t ever been a thin girl. But there was chunky and there was obese, and she had crossed over to the latter. Within two years, she had ballooned to 250 pounds. She had never really figured out why she had suddenly reversed her self-destructive gorging. Maybe she had been sick and tired of letting Homer get the last laugh.

She had starved herself in order to pass the department physical, surviving on air and a can-do spirit. But as soon as she made detective, she had started eating again. Stuffing her face until she had been sure that no superior could possibly be interested in her.

And no one had been. Never even a hint of sexual impropriety.

Perversely enough, the guys had been nice. Supportive. Helpful. Even a pussy hound like Steve was always available to answer questions. Slowly, the pounds started melting. She plateaued at 175. Not bad for someone who was five-eight and big-boned.

Then this whole army sexual harassment thing hit. And Homer had called her—all sweetness and light. Eating to calm her nerves, she gathered her strength, called him, then told him off in explicit terms. It felt good! Unfortunately, she was suddenly back over 200. After a steady diet she was down to 185—holding steady.

Nate placed the club soda in front of her, along with a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of chips. Patricia pushed the bowls aside, took out a picture of Brittany Newel, laid it on the countertop.

Nate turned it around, studied it. “Yeah, I’ve seen her before.”

Surprised by his honesty, she took out her notebook. “When?”

Nate shrugged. “Don’t remember. Maybe a week ago. Maybe two weeks ago.”

“Yesterday?”

Nate actually appeared to be thinking. “This is weird.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t work nights here. I work at Barry’s … a little nothing place, but you wouldn’t believe the tips.”

Patricia nodded as she wrote.

“It’s a workingman’s bar. Not like this.” He screwed up his face in concentration. “I’m not sure. But she might have been there last night.”

Patricia almost choked on an ice cube. “I see.” Calm, girl. “About what time did you see her?”

“I’m not even sure if it was last night. I see a lot of people. I don’t trust my memory.” Nate paused. “You know, I’ll be at the counter there at ten tonight. Why don’t you come down and I’ll introduce you around.”

He gave her the address. She thanked him, said she’d be there at ten.

Suddenly sweating bullets. Moist armpits. Good thing her deodorant was holding. She wiped her face with a napkin. Sand and dirt blacked the pristine white paper. She knew she was filthy. She was embarrassed.

“I need a shower.”

He cleared his throat. “You live far from here?”

She eyed him. “Why?”

“Dinner at eight?” He smiled boyishly. “I know a great Italian buffet, better than anything you can get on the Strip.”

In other words, she looked like a woman who’d eat.

Patricia said, “How about tomorrow?” By then I will have run you through NCIC. “I still have work to do tonight.”

Nate smiled wattage. “Tomorrow would be great!”

She took a final swig of her club soda. “Thanks for your help, Nate. Do you have a last name?”

“Oh sure. Malealani.” He spelled it.

“And where do you live?”

He gave her his address, along with his phone number. Shyly, he said, “I gave you mine. Can I have yours?”

“In due time. I’ll see you tonight at Barry’s.”

“Yeah! Great!”