Burn (20 page)

“Men,” Beth said. “They’re wired different from women.”

He scooted sideways on the mattress and kissed her cheek. “Thank God for that.”

With his lips still against her flesh, he felt her smile.

“Finally, Fred, we agree.”

It had rained in the early morning hours, and the sun broke through hot and brilliant enough to cause steam to rise from the damp ground. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee, Carver drove into Del Moray with the film containing the shots of Marla, dropping it off where he could get it developed and printed by noon.

Marla apparently hadn’t told McGregor she was bi or lesbian, though in a case like hers it might be considered pertinent. Carver decided he wouldn’t mention it to McGregor, either. McGregor seldom passed up opportunities for prejudice and persecution. In fact, he valued them like unexpected trinkets found on the beach.

At 11:30 Carver picked up the prints and sat in his car outside the lab to study them. He’d gotten a good, clear shot of Marla outside the liquor store. Foliage concealed her face in one of the shots taken when she was standing with Willa in front of the apartment building on Fourteenth Street, but the second shot showed both women’s faces. Marla’s expression was amused, her lips twisted in a half-smile as she spoke, while Willa seemed to be listening with an intentness that bordered on the religious.

Carver ate lunch at Poco’s taco stand on Magellan, then smoked a cigar and read the paper until almost two o’clock, when he thought some of the bars on Victor Street might be open. There weren’t that many gay or lesbian hangouts in Del Moray, only the three or four on Victor, and one that was more upscale on the east side of town. It shouldn’t take long to check them out and perhaps discover more about Marla.

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.

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.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like Carole Lombard.”

“I’m relieved,” Carver said. “You’re young and I was afraid you weren’t going to know who she was.”

“I like her old movies. She’s sexy.”

“Sure was.”

“Is,” she corrected. “Stars like that live forever through their films.”

“That’s what they say on the movie channel.” He placed the photos on the bar’s sleek gray surface. “Do you know any of these women?”

“That one used to come in here occasionally.” She pointed to Marla’s photo. “She’s pretty enough to be a star herself, isn’t she?”

“She has a certain appeal,” Carver admitted uncomfortably. He did still find himself drawn to Marla, despite her apparent sexual preference.

“I never saw the other women,” the bartender said.

“How long’s it been since you’ve seen Marla?”

“So that’s her name. Probably a good one for movies. I guess a month or so. She was usually with other people. I got the impression she was a journalist or something, doing interviews. I mean, the customers here are mostly from the east side of town and are pretty wealthy. We see more than a few designer originals in here on Saturday nights. Marla was usually stylishly dressed in a kind of funky way, but it was easy to tell her clothes weren’t expensive. You develop an eye for that kind of thing working in a place like this.”

“The other people she was with, were they usually women?”

The bartender smiled her starlet’s smile. “Always. Sometimes we get men in here, but they’re usually cops.” She winked.

Carver wondered if she assumed he was with the police or had some kind of official authority. He decided not to ask.

“I’m not a vice cop,” he said, “so I’m not clear on some things. Does Del Moray have a large lesbian or bisexual population?”

“Who knows for sure? It’s large enough to keep us in business, along with a few other places across town on Victor. But there are plenty of women who are lesbian or bi and stay in the closet and never socialize, or who travel in circles too discreet for public places.”

“Your clientele would be especially discreet, I suppose, among those who do frequent public places.”

“Ha! People with their kind of money don’t have to care as much as other folks about reputation or image. They don’t have jobs to lose, and usually they have similar friends with plenty of money and time to get into bizarre stuff with them.”

“What kind of bizarre stuff?”

“The kind straight people engage in, only with variation. Our customers aren’t sex fiends, it’s just that they’re rich. You know, the devil and idle hands, idle this, idle that.”

Carver said he knew, then ordered a beer. It was too early for happy hour and he was the only customer, so he didn’t feel at all out of place.

“You a Marlins fan?” the bartender asked.

He said that he was, and she told him she enjoyed working in an upscale lounge, but that it wasn’t the kind of place that featured a TV, and she missed seeing televised ball games and discussing them with the customers. He wondered if she was lesbian or bi herself, or if this was just a job to her. That was something else he decided not to ask.

It seemed odd to be talking baseball with Carole Lombard, but that’s what he did until he finished his beer and went back outside into the heat and the straight world.

He drove into Orlando and parked outside police headquarters on Hughey a little after five. Desoto didn’t seem surprised to see him.

“I suppose you have questions,” he said. He was seated behind his desk, listening to a Spanish music station as usual while he did the paperwork that converted the chaos of crime into the order of fact and law, so that an illusion of understanding was created and it could be dealt with like any other service or commodity.

“I have information, too,” Carver said. He told Desoto about Marla and Willa Krull’s probable sexual involvement.

“I don’t know what that changes,” Desoto said.

“That’s what Beth said. I don’t know, either, but maybe it changes something.”

“Hmm,” Desoto said, and folded his hands on the desk, his rings and gold cuff links sending light dancing over the walls. Sometimes Carver wondered if he kept the office so bright mainly so he could enjoy his jewelry, sitting there shooting his cuffs and putting it all on display. No other cop Carver knew dressed like Desoto, suave and handsome enough to be in the movies with Carole Lombard.

“Anything fresh on Charley Spotto’s murder?” Carver asked.

“Nothing resembling a clue,
amigo.
Except that his neck was broken by a powerful twisting motion, as if his head had been gripped and rotated like a cap being unscrewed on a bottle. That’s the M.E.’s description, not mine.”

“He should write mysteries, the M.E.”

“Speaking of mysteries, your giant attacker is still one. No data bank anywhere in the country seems to contain anything on an Achilles Jones. It’s an a.k.a., no doubt, though he doesn’t seem the sort to be interested in Greek legend. It’s possible, even if unlikely, that nobody has anything on him. It happens, even in the era of the information highway. This guy might have avoided any priors and recently jockeyed his Harley here from Alaska or someplace.”