“Truth? What’re you talking about?”
“Let’s go up to your apartment.”
Arbogast gnawed on his lower lip, little nibbling bites like a rat gnawing on a piece of cheese. “No. I had enough of that this morning.”
“Your car, then. Just so we have a little privacy.”
“I got nothing more to say-”
Fallon closed fingers around scrawny biceps, squeezed hard enough to make Arbogast wince. “Your car. Now.”
They went to the Hyundai. Arbogast unlocked the passenger door and Fallon prodded him inside, then slid in behind him. With the door shut, the car smelled of dust and leftover fast food. The grocery bag contained a six-pack of beer; Arbogast ran his hands over it, looking at Fallon’s ear again.
“You gave me the wrong phone number for Bobby J.”
“The hell I did.”
“The hell you didn’t. Let’s have the right one.”
Arbogast hesitated, but only for a few seconds. The number he recited then was close to the one that belonged to Constance Harper, but not that close.
“If that isn’t right,” Fallon said, “I’ll be seeing you again. And you won’t like what happens.”
“It’s right. I swear it.”
“Like you swore it this morning. What else did you lie to me about?”
“Nothing, for Chrissake.”
“So you told me everything you know.”
“Everything, yeah.”
“I don’t think so. I think you know or have some idea where Bobby J. lives or works or hangs out.”
“No.”
“Listen, Max. I’m going to find him one way or another, and when I do I’ll either drop your name or I won’t. Be straight with me and I never heard of you. Keep lying, and I’ll make him believe you sold him out for cash.”
Arbogast did some more lip-gnawing. The thin hands kept on moving restlessly over the bag.
“Okay. Okay. Cheyenne Street.”
“What about Cheyenne Street?”
“He’s got a place there. In back.”
“In back of what?”
“Slot machine repair business.”
“His?”
“I don’t know. His, some friend’s, I don’t know. I had to take him something there once. A package.”
“Drugs?”
“A package.”
Fallon sat looking at him for a time. All he saw was pale profile; Arbogast still wasn’t making eye contact.
“What’s the street number?”
“Nine eighty.”
“That better be right, too.”
“It is, it is. Nine eighty Cheyenne.”
Arbogast opened the driver’s door, quick, as if he were afraid Fallon might try to stop him. He didn’t even wait for Fallon to get out so he could lock the car again, he just started running for the Desert View’s entrance.
The Jeep’s GPS pinpointed the Cheyenne Street address. Northeast Las Vegas, not too many miles from the Desert View Apartments. But Fallon didn’t go that way; he went south to the Best Western instead.
Casey was at the motel, her Toyota slotted in front of the unit he’d reserved for her. He parked next to it, rapped on the door.
“How long have you been here?” he asked when she let him in.
“About two hours.” She caught hold of his arm, gripped it tightly. “What’ve you found out? Anything?”
“A few things. Getting closer.”
“To Court and Kevin? They’re still in Vegas?”
“That I don’t know yet.”
“Well, for God’s sake, what
“I’m not trying to.”
He filled her in. As much of what he’d discovered as he thought she should know at this point. She paced while she listened. Tense and restless after the long drive and long wait, but she seemed all right otherwise. She’d made an effort with her appearance, either for him or for herself: hair combed, lipstick on her scabbed lips, makeup covering the healing marks on her face. The tight-fitting blouse and skirt she wore made him aware that her figure was well-developed.
“What now?” she said when he finished talking. “Just wait for the Rossi woman to call? Suppose she doesn’t, then what?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m going out again.”
“Where? To do what?”
“To see what I can find out about Bobby J.”
“Let me go with you.”
“No. It’s better if I do this alone.”
“I did enough sitting around at Furnace Creek. I’ll go crazy if I have to keep doing the same thing here.”
“It won’t be for long. Go over to the coffee shop next door, have a drink or two at the bar.”
She started to argue, changed her mind and sat down heavily on the bed.
Fallon said, “I’ll need the keys to your car.”
“My car? What for? What’s the matter with your Jeep?”
“Nothing’s the matter with it. How much gas is in the Toyota?”
“I don’t know, I had it filled before I left. Rick…”
“The keys,” he said. “I’ll try not to be too long.”
EIGHT
A BLACK-PAINTED SIGN ON the cinder-block building at 980 Cheyenne Street said: CASINO SLOT MACHINE REPAIR AND RESTORATION. MECHANICAL AND ELECTRONIC SLOTS. ANTIQUE BALLY’S, MILLS, JENNINGS-SALES AND REPAIR. The building, in a semi-industrial area off I-15, looked to be thirty or forty years old and in need of a paint job. On one side was a parking area that extended around to a narrow loading area at the rear; another cinder-block edged over close on the far side. Two entrances were visible from the street, the main one in front and a side door off the parking area. The only car on the property, a bulky, dusty Ford Explorer, was parked twenty yards or so from the side door.
Fallon took all of this in on a slow drive-by. The place looked closed up, deserted despite the Explorer. The sun, big and hazy orange, had drifted low in the western sky; where its descent was blocked by buildings and trees, shadows gathered in pools and pockets along the cinder-block’s wall.
He circled the block. There was no rear access to Casino Slot Machine Repair from the next street over; you could see the lines of its roof, but that was all. When he turned back onto Cheyenne, he made sure there was nobody in sight and then parked the Toyota a short distance away, underneath a droopy palm tree on the opposite side of the street. Good vantage point: both front and side entrances and all of the parking area.
He picked up the 7 ? 50 Zeiss binoculars from the seat beside him, slid down to a level where he could rest the glasses on the sill, and adjusted the focus until everything over there came into sharp relief. Next to the side door was a window with blinds drawn behind it. The powerful glasses showed him bars of light between the slats.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to arouse suspicion. Just the Explorer, the otherwise empty lot, the side
