"Yeah, it's fifty-five a night. No terrorist has that big an expense account."
"How do ya know it's fifty-five?"
"I got picked up one night by some babe at The Furnace Room. She complained about how much it cost her. That was when Washington was talking about cutting Social Security checks and she didn't know if she could afford me."
"You went to a motel with a woman that's on Social Security?"
"I'm the hottest number The Furnace Room's ever seen," Lynn said. "I've put more a those old babes in bed than broken hips ever did. In fact, I sorta promised myself to the one that sings "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena" every Thursday night. Remember that one, Nelson?"
"That's sick, Lynn!"
"I know. I don't understand how you can stand me. Why don't you drop me at The Furnace Room where I can indulge my perverse desires and buy myself Wilfred's easily chewable supper, if there's any left over from the early-bird special."
"Okay, let's make a pit stop," Nelson said. "I could use a beer."
"I could use a pension," Lynn said. "And Doctor Ruth for counseling. I wouldn't be in this mess if I had any kind a sex life. It's that damn freckle."
"What freckle?" Nelson wanted to know.
Chapter 10
The dog started barking the second she stepped onto the driveway that night, frustrating her plan to force open the electric gate far enough to squeeze inside. The barking came from upstairs-front, in what Breda assumed was the master bedroom suite. Then someone, perhaps the maid, opened a downstairs door and flooded the entire property in light. Breda had to hurry back to her Datsun Z, fire it up and drive away. That goddamn slobbery brown dog!
Rhonda Devon had left a message with Breda's service that she'd expect a progress report by the weekend, but Breda knew that her client would really expect a satisfactory answer, not just a report. Breda wondered what Lynn Cutter and Nelson Hareem were up to, checked the time, saw that it was 8:30 p. M., and even though she was exhausted, decided to see if Jack Graves had been having any luck at The Unicorn. Her flagging morale required some sort of resolution to at least one of Her cases.
When she got to The Unicorn, there were no less than 150 diners being served, the foyer was packed with people waiting, and they were two deep at the bar. One of those at the bar was Jack Graves.
He was sitting quietly near the service area, sipping beer from a bottle. He wore an old Pendleton shirt, a soft tan corduroy jacket, khaki trousers and well-worn moccasins. He smiled from time to time at a guy next to him who was half bagged and loud. Breda walked up behind Jack and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Hello, Breda," he said. "Wanna drink?"
"I can use one," she said. "Chardonnay."
Jack Graves gave his stool to Breda and stood behind her. The suspect-bartender wiped the bartop and bared his tobacco-stained teeth in what passed for cordiality.
"Chardonnay, please," Jack Graves said to him.
When the bartender was gone, Breda asked, "Any luck?"
"Oh yeah," Jack Graves said quietly. "Mister Riegel was right. The bartender's supplementing his income at Riegel's expense. My guess is he makes an extra thirty or forty bucks a night, not worth firing him for. He's a very good bartender."
"Maybe he'll just warn the bartender."
"He'll put the guy in the hospital."
"What makes you say that?"
"I know your Mister Riegel from when our guys worked a deal with the Palm Springs Special Enforcement Unit," Jack Graves said. "That's when I became friends with Lynn. Riegel pals around with an Arizona crime family. See, Palm Springs is a neutral town. Mob people from Chicago or wherever, they can come here with no worries. And they do come. Palm Springs even gets some bad guys from as far away as London."
"As in England?"
"The British accent's a great advantage for con men around these parts, particularly with bankers, it seems. And cocaine sells for at least a seventy percent profit in London over what it sells for here."
"In this little city there's all that going on?"
"At your old department, at LAPD, they got fifty people doing intelligence work that one guy does in this town."
"And my Mister Riegel is active?"
"He's never gone to tea dances, I bet, but he's semilegit now. Look around. This restaurant's doing bust-out business."
"I won't be taking any more jobs from him," Breda said,"but I'll finish this one. So tell me, how's the bartender scamming his boss?"
"It's a variation of the old BYOB gag, but in this case he didn't bring his own bottle and put it behind the bar. He has some kind of container stashed back in that alcove area. He's pouring his own booze and pocketing the proceeds."