Moon Music

“When was this?”

“Right after she came in. Like around ten-thirty.”

Patricia asked, “Did they leave together?”

“Well, I don’t ’member if they walked out together. But both left ’round the same time.”

“And when was that?”

“I dunno exactly. Around eleven-thirty, maybe midnight.”

The body had been called in at 1:22 A.M. A small window of time to do the deed. The killer had worked quickly, raking and scooping …

From the far end of the bar, someone shouted, “Can I get a beer around here?”

Malealani was already walking away, “I’ll get it.”

Patricia glanced around. The place was filling up.

Put some lead in it, girl.

“So they both left around midnight?”

“Yeah.”

“What else can you tell me about the short guy?”

“He was skinny.”

“Short and skinny.”

“That about sums it up.”

More people were coming in. Patricia figured she had maybe five minutes more. “How about his hair, Big Ray? Was it blond, brunette, bald—”

“Not bald.” Big Ray was perplexed. “I can’t remember the color.”

“Well, was it straight or curly, wavy, thin, thick—”

“I can’t remember his hair, neither.”

Patricia’s brain was racing. “Ray, by any chance was Mr. Short Thin Guy wearing a hat?”

Big Ray raised one eyebrow. First sign of life he’d shown. “Yes. That’s it. He was wearing a hat. A black hat. Like Charlie Chaplin.” A pause. “He had a ponytail. I don’t remember the color. Just the ponytail.”

Patricia wrote quickly. Malealani returned. Big Ray said to him, “The Dewar’s guy was wearing a ponytail.” To Patricia he said, “He was clean-shaven. ’Cept he had like … this peach fuzz all over his face. Like guys get before the beard comes in. A peach-fuzz mustache, too.”

“Peach fuzz … so he was young?”

“Thirty. I checked his ID.”

Patricia felt her heart race. “You checked his ID?”

Big Ray nodded.

“Do you … happen to recall a name?”

Ray didn’t even ponder the question. “Not a clue. Just looked at his birthday. That I ’member.” He gave the date.

“You remember anything else about his features? His eyes, for instance?”

Deadpan, Big Ray said, “Yeah, he had eyes.”

Then the men laughed.

“Very funny.” But she was smiling. To show she was a good ole gal. Just keep ’em talking. “You notice the color?”

“They weren’t bright blue or green or anything.” A beat. “Maybe like light brown, but I’m not positive. I don’t stare at people unless they give me problems.”

“How about his mouth—thin lips, thick lips—”

“Thick lips.”

“And the mouth itself. Was it wide, narrow—”

“Just a mouth.”

“With thick lips.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And his face? Was it long or short?”

“Longer than shorter.” Big Ray looked around. “Uh, things are gettin’ a little busy.”

“I know. Can you give me another minute?”

“As long as you make it a fast one.”

Patricia organized her thoughts. No name, but a birth date. A short and skinny man with a hat and ponytail. A peach-fuzzed Dewar’s drinker with brownish eyes and thick lips. Not a photographic description, but it could have been worse.

“Big Ray, if you have about an hour tomorrow, I’d like you to talk to a police artist. Between the two of you, maybe we could draw up this guy.”

The Melanesian shrugged. “All right.”

A loud crash. The sounds of shattering glass. Someone yelling, “Yeah, well, chuck you, Farley!”

Big Ray peered over Patricia’s head, shouted, “What’s going on over there?”