He was driving toward Victor when he noticed a motorcycle in his rearview mirror. No sooner had he seen it than it turned right onto a cross street. It had been a block behind him, yet there was something about cycle and rider that had held his gaze and caused a spur of fear and rage to dig into his stomach.
Probably nerves, he decided, but he realized with regret that he’d left the Colt beneath his underwear in his dresser drawer.
Most of the bars on Victor did their main business in the evenings, and only two of them were open. The first one had a lunch trade and was still serving. Neither the bartender nor the waitress recognized Marla or Willa when Carver showed them the photographs.
Halfway down the block he entered the other open bar, which had a red-and-blue neon sign out front that identified it as Spunky’s. It was decorated in a way that reminded Carver of a funeral parlor with a dance floor. There were a few plush velvet chairs at round marble tables, and there were two small sofas as centers for a cluster of small wing chairs and coffee tables. The bar was polished walnut. Leaded-glass doors sheltered the shelves of bottles behind it. Near the back of Spunky’s was a slightly raised stage containing a large amplifier, a microphone, and a set of drums. The sign behind the stage advertised a group called the Bobbitts. Two women dressed in business clothes were seated at one of the marble tables, discussing papers spread before them. Another woman sat on a stool at the bar, drinking coffee. The bartender was an attractive woman wearing no makeup and with her sleek black hair pulled back and woven in a braid that reached to her waist. With the addition of Carver, an unknowing customer walking in might think it was a straight bar.
Then he noticed two restroom doors close together along the back wall. One was labeled GODDESSES. So was the other.
The braided bartender looked at him and smiled a barkeep’s amiable greeting.
Carver ordered a Budweiser. No one seemed to wonder or care if he knew that men weren’t the usual run of customer in Spunky’s.
The bartender, who was quite beautiful close up and was possibly a Native American, set his beer mug on a coaster. She was wearing a black vest over a white blouse. There was a red AIDS ribbon pinned in a brilliant little V on the vest.
Carver reached into his sport-coat pocket and withdrew the photos of Marla alone in front of the liquor store and with Willa outside the apartment. He placed them on the bar so they were right side up to the bartender.
“Do you recognize either of these women?” he asked.
Her gaze traveled to his cane, hooked over the edge of the bar, then to his face. “Are you police?”
“No.”
“We don’t usually give out information about our customers.”
“Then these two are your customers?”
She grinned with strong white teeth. “You’re not very slick,” she said.
“You should see me when I’m trying to be.”
She laughed and said, “Is this where I ask you for money in exchange for information?”
“Only if your information’s for sale.”
“Why do you want to know about these two?” She waved a hand above the photographs as if she were a conjurer trying to make the two-dimensional subjects spring to life.
“I’m trying to locate them to tell them they’ve won the lottery.”
“I’m not very slick, either,” she said, pulling the old Carver leg. “I don’t sell information about people who come in here. But on the other hand, I wouldn’t want to see anybody miss out on millions in lottery money. Dream of a lifetime.” She tapped a clear-lacquered fingernail on the photograph of Marla. “The other woman I don’t recognize, but that one’s been in here several times.”
“Lately?”
“Now you mention it, no. I haven’t seen her for about a month.”
“What do you remember about her?”
“Not much. She sits and drinks, mostly turns away any advances by other customers.”
“That’s what somebody told me about her in a straight bar.”
“I said ‘mostly.’ She’s gotten friendly and left with someone at least once that I can recall. A woman I hadn’t seen before. But they might have gone out mall crawling, for all I know. People come here mostly to drink, socialize, and listen to good music. It isn’t like some of the other places on Victor.”
Carver had an idea and unfolded the copy of Portia Brant’s newspaper photo and spread it out on the bar. “What about her?”
“Never seen her.”
“You sure?”
“I’d remember. I’m sure.”
“Did the woman you recognized frequent any of the other bars on the block?”
“Probably. But I’ve been in most of them and don’t remember seeing her anyplace other than here. I do recall seeing her over in that chair sitting with her eyes closed, her body swaying slightly with the music. Whenever somebody asked her to dance, though, she always refused. Maybe she’s a little bit prissy, or maybe that’s her act. You might try Lip Gloss, over on the east side. It’s upscale and expensive, but she’s been well dressed when she’s been in here. I can picture her in Lip Gloss.”
“Would you describe her as a lipstick lesbian?”
The bartender grinned. “My, my, aren’t you informed? Yes, I’d say she fits the label.” The grin got wider and whiter. “The connection you make between Lip Gloss and the expression ‘lipstick lesbian’ isn’t quite accurate, though.”
The woman drinking coffee a few bar stools away looked over at Carver. She was grinning, too. Carver wanted to get out of there.
“That’s Marla in that photo,” the woman said. She was in her forties, with short red hair. She had freckles even on her ears. “I can recognize her from here.”
“Do you know her well?” Carver asked.
“Just talked to her a few times. She isn’t very nice.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She thinks her shit don’t stink, is why.”
The bartender smiled and shrugged at Carver.
“Know anything else about her?” Carver asked the redhead.
“No. Only that she isn’t very nice. That’s all I need to know about anybody.”
“Seems a simple-enough philosophy,” Carver said.
“It’s one that works, anyway.” She turned her attention back to her coffee cup, holding it with both hands as if it were a holy chalice and she feared harm might come to it.
Carver finished his beer, then tucked the photographs back into his pocket. He thanked the bartender and placed some bills on the bar, leaving a tip twice as generous as etiquette required.
“It’s people like Marla that usually win the lottery,” the redhead remarked bitterly as he was leaving.
28
A waitress at Lip Gloss said she thought she recognized Marla, but not Willa Krull or Portia Brant, which left Carver still only 90 percent sure that Marla and Willa shared a romantic relationship.
There was no dance floor at Lip Gloss, and only soft, piped-in music that sounded vaguely Middle Eastern to Carver. Art Deco was the theme. In the corners were large, curved banquettes that looked as if they’d been bought when the Stork Club closed. There were Egyptian murals on the walls, and the bar was constructed of glass bricks with glimmers of light inside them. Centered on the ceiling was an ornate silver-and-crystal chandelier. Small silver candelabra sat in the center of each white-clothed table, echoes of the chandelier.
Carver walked over to the woman behind the bar, a petite blonde who was wearing brilliant red lipstick to exaggerate a cupid’s-bow mouth and who looked like a 1930s Hollywood starlet.
“You look like Carole Lombard,” he told her.
