I wouldn't want that bartender as an enemy, Lynn thought, then he said to the younger bartender, "Gimme another, will ya? This time not from the well. I can't drink too much pre-pubescent Scotch."
"What's that?" the bartender asked.
"Under twelve years old," Lynn answered, and the bartender shrugged and poured one that cost an extra six bits, but had pubic hair.
There was only one bit of irregular behavior going on that Lynn had spotted. The bartender with the henna rinse made trips to an alcove that was between the service bar and the kitchen. During the forty-five minutes that Lynn had sat there the guy had made three trips. But there was absolutely no way he could be carrying a container of his own liquor from the alcove to the bar, booze that he could pour instead of the house liquor. The guy would simply go to the alcove, disappear from sight for a minute, then he'd head back to the bar and wash glasses.
At last Lynn got up, pretending to be uncertain where the men's room was. He walked into the alcove "by mistake," discovering that it was a place for waitresses to take a quick break. There were folding chairs, a tiny table, an ashtray and nothing more. Lynn decided that the bartender was making those trips so he could do a few lines of blow, which he probably kept stashed in his sock.
When he got back to the barstool, Breda was sitting there ordering a Perrier, allowing Mr. Riegel to see that she was on duty.
Lynn said loudly, "Hi! What're you doing here today? Business slow?"
Breda said, "Yeah, we only moved a few units. Two Hondas and a Mazda. How about you?"
When both bartenders were at the service bar, Breda said to Lynn, sotto voce, "Baby longhair showed up at Devon's house in the old Plymouth."
"Yeah? What happened?"
"She's been there over an hour. They're swimming. I prowled along the wall and I could hear them splashing and barking in the pool."
"They bark?"
She smirked and said, "She brought her dog. And I'm positive the maid is in on the whole affair. I could hear her yelling stuff in Spanish to the girl."
"Now what?"
"We still haven't answered Mrs. Devon's big question. Why's he doing business with a sperm bank?"
"Simple," Lynn said. "He's made a deal with some white Anglo-Saxon surrogate, and when his WASP baby's born he's gonna kiss off Rhonda Devon and live happily ever after with his little Mexican hardbelly. She's gonna be an instant mommy. Then, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy's pink WASP baby and Mommy's big brown dog are all gonna live happily ever after."
"That doesn't sound right."
"Okay, let's do it this way. His little pepper pot with the long black hair is gonna be the carrier of his baby, but. . . naw, that doesn't work. He wouldn't need a storage locker. My first scenario's the right one. He wants her and a WASP baby. He's just gotta find the right WASP carrier."
She handed him a piece of notebook paper. "Can you make a call and have somebody at the P. D. run her license number real quick?"
"They sometimes do audit tracks on clerks that run license numbers. Everyone has an operator code so they can find out who ran it."
"Come on, you must have somebody that owes you a favor. We need the information right now and I don't want her or Clive Devon to find out we're running her license number."
He hesitated, but got up to go to the public phone. Before leaving he whispered, "I'm positive neither bartender's so much as pocketed a wrong tip. Your client may be giving these bartenders a bum rap."
"He says he's sure he's being jobbed," Breda said.
"Well, your client's not exactly a blithe spirit loved by all. He gets off on browbeating all these young kids named Heather and Chad. Look at his eyes. They're shiftier'n Iran."
"Run the number," Breda said. "I'll take Mr. Riegel outside and have a chat."
Breda found her client directing traffic in the foyer. She caught his eye and motioned toward the door. When he met her outside Breda said to him, "I've had a man at the bar for an hour. There's nothing going on."
A hurried conversation turned into an ultimatum from Mr. Riegel. He wanted somebody watching the bartenders that evening. He was having a private party in the banquet room, and was expecting a very large group from the convention center plus the regular in-season crowd.
"I'll try to be here for a few hours, Mister Riegel," Breda assured him.
"I want you or one of your people here from seven till eleven," he said, "or you're fired."
It was only after thinking of Lizzy's tuition, books and board that Breda showed him her pimp-killer smile and said, "Sure, Mister Riegel. I'll have somebody here all evening."
She caught up with Lynn before he'd returned from making the call, took him to the foyer and said, "You're right, he's slime. Can you come back here this evening for a couple hours?"