The Devil's Interval (32 page)

“Lots of couples come here together,” he said, giving me a little twirl, and then bringing me back quick and pulling me even closer.

“Gets the juices running again.”

“I can imagine,” I said brightly. Suddenly, I spotted Michael on the dance floor. A redhead in a hot pink halter and skirt was molded onto his body, chest to groin. As they moved by, I only had time to notice the extraordinary muscle definition in her legs, which were on very fine display, since her shocking-pink dress was slit up both sides.

“Do you think redheads should wear pink?” I asked Doc.

“Beg pardon?” he asked.

“Oh, never mind. Just making conversation,” I said, resolutely turning away from the sight of some other woman in my husband's arms. Suddenly, I began to see the point of couples coming to a place like this. Michael was looking sexier and sexier by the minute to me, and I felt a little flutter of impatience, until I could get him home, out of the station wagon, upstairs, and have my way with him. Or vice versa.

The music stopped, and the lead guitarist, who I could just make out at the edge of the slightly raised stage, leaned into the microphone. He was a vision in black leather and rivulets of sweat. “Hey, folks,” he breathed into the mike, “we're going to take five or ten. Have fun. See you in a few.”

Doc began steering me toward the couches at the edge of the dance floor. A couch didn't seem like such a good idea, even if I did have the power to do the asking. So, I began out-maneuvering him
toward the bar. “Aren't you thirsty?” I asked. “All that dancing. Let me buy you a drink.”

He followed, “Never say no to a pretty girl who asks me anything,” he said. Oh, brother, work on those lines, would you?

I got another glass of Merlot, Doc got another something on the rocks, never heard exactly what, and we turned around, each planted an elbow on the bar and surveyed the room.

“So, about my friend's girlfriend…” I began, “who was a regular here, I think. I wonder if you knew her. Since…” I glanced sideways, “you have a taste for pretty girls.”

He regarded me curiously. “Are you into girls?” he asked. “That's just damn fine with me, but I like to know going in.”

Oh, buster, you're not going into anything, I thought. “No, not that kind of friend,” I said hastily. “Or maybe she was, I don't really know. It's just that she told me about this place, and I thought you might have met her.”

He shrugged. “Lots of girls in and out of here. What made your friend so memorable?”

I took a sip of my wine. “I hear that people called her Amazing Gracie,” I said.

He put his glass down on the bar with a thud. I jumped a little.

“I don't know what kind of game you're playing, girlie,” he said. “Grace is dead. She was murdered. I didn't even know her last name until I saw it in the paper, and recognized her photo. It was all over the news a couple years ago. And this place nearly shut down, because there were cops crawling all over the joint.” He picked up his glass again. “I'll see you around. Thanks for the dance.”

I put my arm on his sleeve. “Wait, I'm not playing a game. I know she was murdered. I'm sorry, I should have been more straightforward. Just talk to me for a minute, would you?”

He regarded me suspiciously. “Why? What do you want to know?”

“Here's the thing,” I began, wishing I had thought this through a little more carefully. “I didn't know Grace, but the magazine I
work for is doing a story about her. The man who was convicted of her murder is on Death Row.”

“Where he belongs, if you ask me,” said Doc.

“Well, maybe,” I said. “If he really did it.”

“So, what are you—out playing Nancy Drew or something?”

“Not exactly,” I said, wondering if I should cross my fingers. “We're just trying to get a picture of her life.”

“Must be some magazine if you're going to publish stuff about the Crimson Club in there,” he said.

“So,” I persisted, ignoring his observation, “you did know Grace?”

“Sure, I knew her. She was sort of a regular. Sometimes with a guy, her husband, I guess from looking at the pictures in the paper, and once in a while with somebody else, sometimes alone.”

“What was she like? While she was here?”

“What happens if I tell you?”

“Nothing much. Helps me understand her more while we're doing our story. Maybe there's something more to the story. She didn't…” I hesitated. “Didn't exactly seem like the type to hang out here.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “what type would that be, Miss Priss?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don't have any idea what I'm talking about.”

He gave me a hard look. “No, you don't. Grace wasn't a special pal of mine, but I liked her. She was fun. A little wild, and sometimes things got stirred up some around her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever you think, this is a pretty classy joint. There aren't bar fights or anything here. But one night Grace was here with a girlfriend, and some tall guy came in and yelled at Grace and grabbed the other girl's arm and pretty much dragged her out the door.”

“Really?” I asked, feeling like a very alert hunting dog, every instinct on call.

“Really.”

“What did this guy look like?” I pressed him.

He shrugged, “I don't know. Big. Had on a cap, which was
strange. Usually you have to leave your hat at the door.”

“What about Grace's girlfriend?” I persisted. “What'd she look like?”

He frowned, “I don't remember. Pretty. Little. Nice boobs. Nothing special overall.”

Carol Ann, I thought. Maybe her husband came after her. But, would Grace have brought her here? Seemed too weird. Or Ginger? Maybe Frederick got pissed that they had a girls' night out. Or Bill, Ginger's husband.

“Anybody else know about this?” I asked.

“A few people,” he said. “I'm sure somebody ran his mouth about it to the cops.” He looked at me as he rattled the ice cubes in his glass. Was that code for wanting another?

“Another drink?” I asked.

“You're not here to do anything but ask questions, are you, little lady?”

I felt my breakthrough interrogation slipping away.

“I'm afraid not,” I confessed.

“Well, I don't want another drink then,” he said. He put his glass down on the bar. “Thanks for the small talk,” he said.

He straightened his bolo with one hand, and put the other firmly in the small of my back, as if we were going to dance again, and pulled me closer. “Just watch yourself, asking all these nosy questions, missy. Not everyone's going to be as friendly as me.”

He held me to him another minute and scanned the room. “You'll excuse me,” he said. “The night's still young.” I saw his eyes narrow, and then brighten a moment. He released me, and sidled off across the room, just another snake with prey clearly in his sites.

I leaned back on the bar and scanned the room. This detecting stuff was getting easier. Tomorrow, I'd call Lt. Moon and find out what he knew about this little dustup with Mr. Mystery. I was so lost in my private, self-congratulatory reverie that I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I turned to see Puck, lounging against the bar, and watching me.

“You look like you're unraveling string theory,” he said.

“Oh, like you know what that is,” I sniffed.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Most musicians are math-nerds in their hearts. I think the string theory is all bullshit. But guitar players like it because maybe the universe does go ‘twang' like a bunch of guitar strings resonating in space.”

“I believe the strings are virtual, not real, Mr. Morris. And they have to be Planck length. Planck, as in Max, not as in walk the plank.”

Puck shook his head. “It's a wonder you ever got laid, Maggie. Talking physics theory is not a reliable turn-on.”

“Speak for yourself, little man,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I'm just celebrating the fact that I've turned up an interesting bit of information.” I filled him in, as he signaled one of the Nordic princesses behind the bar for another beer. When it arrived, he took a swig, and shook his head.

“Not bad, Mags. Turns out it's kinda useful to be such a nosy parker, huh?”

I frowned. “Okay, you're the second person in five minutes who's called me nosy.”

Puck used his pilsner glass to indicate the whole room. “Let's take a poll, Maggie. I bet we can get a dozen people to call you nosy in under ten minutes.”

“Yeah, well, what'd you turn up, Mr. Detective?”

Puck made a circle with his hand. “Goose egg.”

I scrutinized him. “So, why do you look so satisfied with yourself?”

He drained the last of the beer. And set the glass down on the bar. He was practically preening. “Oh, no reason in particular,” he said. “Except…”

“Except what?” I asked, impatiently, starting to scan the room for Michael. Seemed like a good idea to at least have a vague notion where he was.

He cocked his finger like a gun and shot it at a tall brunette across the room. “She's just a little bit smitten,” he said, slyly.

I narrowed my eyes to bring the brunette, dancing in a little
circle all by herself, into focus. “Geez, Puck, she's got to have a foot or so on you.”

He bridled, “So what? She's not auditioning me to play forward on her basketball team.”

“She's got a basketball team?”

“Maybe. She's got a Lakers logo tattooed on her right breast.”

“Really? That must have been quite a dance if you were able to check that out.”

“I just saw the top of it,” he said. “Kinda peeking out. But later, who knows?”

Who did know? Later arrived in fairly short order, as our little group reconvened, out on the sidewalk, waiting for the PUP squad to bring our cars around. It was 2 a.m., and we were drooping. And I was feeling oddly cranky. No one could find Michael when it was time to go, so Puck and I had formed a search-and-rescue posse and toured the nooks and crannies of the Crimson Club. When we got to the last room, we'd found Michael dancing with the redhead. Or, rather, just swaying to the music. Pelvis to pelvis, with Michael holding her around the waist. She'd draped her arms around his neck, and although there were other couples on the dance floor, and one highly enmeshed trio of two women and a man, all I saw was Michael and the redhead. Puck started toward them, and I put a hand on his arm to stop him. For a moment, I just stood and watched. My face grew warm, my heart sped up as if I'd downed three cups of coffee and run up two flights of stairs. I felt Puck reach over and gently unclench my fingers on his arm.

“Come on, Maggie,” he said. “It's time to go.” I stood silent. He leaned close and whispered in my ear, “Whatever you're doing, this is not a cool idea, babe.”

He walked onto the dance floor and tapped Michael on the shoulder. Michael turned, startled, and let go of the redhead. She kept one arm draped around his neck, slowly shook her head, as if she was just coming awake. Michael listened to Puck, glanced over at me, and completed disentangling himself from the redhead. He offered her his hand and she brought it to her mouth, and put
her lips on his palm. Oh, for heaven's sake. What a softcore porn cliché that was! Michael and I walked briskly to the front door, nobody touching; Puck elected to stick around a bit longer. In a few minutes, Michael and I were back out on the street.

We compared notes with Calvin and Andrea. Turned out my little discovery about the confrontation between Grace and the mystery man was fairly common knowledge at the Crimson Club. Michael had heard about it from his hot-pink redhead, and Calvin had talked to a guy in the men's room who knew someone who knew someone who was there that night. I was crestfallen.

“So, that's it?” I said. “All we get for our night of debauchery.”

“Maybe all
we
get,” said Michael. “Since Puck's still in there, maybe he'll turn up some other intelligence.”

Andrea laughed, “Oh, yeah, I know that's just what he's trying to turn up in there…intelligence. I think he's looking for something else entirely.”

“A little slap and tickle with the basketball-playing brunette,” Calvin offered.

“All that height,” mused Michael, “won't you just bet she's able to contort herself into some interesting positions?”

Andrea and I exchanged glances, equal mixtures of exasperation and pity. “Hope springs eternal,” she said. She tucked her hand into Calvin's arm. “Honey, don't you wish I had a few extra inches on you?”

“Oh, you're perfect,” he said reassuringly. “And I think with a few remedial gymnastics classes, you'll be able to twist yourself six ways to Sunday.”