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"You know what? Here's the truth. I don't really give a shit what blows back on him. If he's guilty, so be it. That isn't my concern."
"Well, that's nice. You want me to pick up the phone and call Lo
"You go right ahead. Lo
TWENTY
I stopped at a pay phone and put a call through to Lo
"Why's he so worried about Jack?"
"Forget Jack for now. I'll take care of him. You better go talk to Be
"Well, that's interesting."
"Yeah, people are getting nervous. That's a good sign," he said. He gave me the address of Be
Apparently, the place had once been a retail store, part of a chain that had filed for bankruptcy. The old sign was still out, but the interior had been gutted. The space was cavernous and shadowy, the floor bare concrete, the ceiling high. Heating ducts and steel girders were exposed to view, along with all of the electrical conduit. Toward the rear, an office had been roughed in: a desk, file cabinets, and office equipment arranged in a bare-framed cubicle. The back wall was solid and through a narrow doorway, I could see a toilet and a small sink with a medicine cabinet above it. It was going to take a lot of money to complete construction and get the business on its feet. No wonder Be
To the right, a huge rolling metal door had been opened onto a weedy vacant lot. Outside, the sun was harsh, sparkling on the broken bottles while its heat baked a variety of doggy turds. There was not a soul in sight, but the building was wide open and I kept thinking Be
There was a manual typewriter sitting on a rolling cart. My gaze slid across it idly and then came back. It was an ancient black Underwood with round yellowed keys that looked like they'd be hard to press. The ribbon was so worn it was thin in the middle. I looked over at the rolling door and then surveyed the whole of the empty restaurant space. Still no one. My bad angel was hovering to my left. It was she who pointed out the open packet of typing paper sitting right there in plain sight.
I pulled out a sheet and rolled it into the machine, settling myself on the wobbly typing chair. I typed my name. I typed that old standby: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. I typed the name Max Outhwaite. I typed Dear Miss Millhone. I peered closely. The vowels didn't appear to be clogged, which (as Dietz had pointed out) didn't mean that much. This could still be the typewriter used for the notes. Maybe Be
The telephone rang.
I stared at it briefly and then lifted my head, listening for footsteps heading in my direction. Nothing. The phone rang again. I was tempted to answer, but I really didn't need to because the answering machine kicked in. Be
"Be
The machine clicked off. The message light blinked off and on. My bad angel tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. I reached out and pressed DELETE. A disembodied male voice told me the message had been erased. I headed for the front door, breaking into a trot when I reached the street. Trasatti was a busy boy, calling everyone.
A Harley-Davidson rumbled into view. Shit. Be
"I'm always working," I said.
"Did you want to talk to me?" His jacket creaked when he walked. He headed into the restaurant.
I followed. "How goes construction? It's looking pretty good," I said. It looked like a bomb crater, but I was kissing butt. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the raw concrete floor.
"Construction's slow."
I said, "Ah. What's your target for opening?"
"April, if we're lucky. We have a lot of work to do."
"What kind of restaurant?"
"Cajun and Caribbean. We'll have salads and burgers, too, very reasonably priced. Maybe jazz two nights a week. We're really aiming for the singles' market."
"Like a pickup bar?"
"With class," he said. "This town doesn't have a lot going on at night. Get some dance music in here weekends, I think we're filing a niche. A chef from New Orleans and all the hot local bands. We should pull crowds from as far away as San Luis Obispo."
"That sounds rowdy," I said. We'd reached the office by then and I saw him flick a glance at his answering machine. I was only half listening, trying to think how to keep the conversation afloat. "Any problem with parking?"
"Not at all," he said. "We'll pave the lot next door. We're in negotiations at the moment. There's room for thirty cars there and another ten on the street."
"Sounds good," I said. He had an answer for everything. Mr. Slick, I thought.
"I'll comp you some tickets for the grand opening. You like to dance?"
"No, not really."
"Don't worry about it. We'll get you in and you can cut loose. Forget your inhibitions and get down," he said. He snapped his fingers, dipping his knees in a move meant to be oh so hip.
My least favorite thing in life is some guy encouraging me to "cut loose" and "get down." The smile I offered him was paper-thin. "I hope this business with Jack has been resolved by then."
"Absolutely," he said smoothly, his expression sobering appropriately. "How's it looking so far?"
"He can't account for his time, which doesn't help," I said. "The cops are claiming they found a bloody print from his shoe on the carpet up in Guy's room. I won't bore you with details. Lo