Devil's Waltz Part 39

"f.u.c.k him," said a voice from behind us.

"We're going in now, Spike," said Milo. "Keep those a.s.sholes calm."

The bouncer closed his mouth and breathed loudly through his nose. A bubble of snot filled one nostril.

"It's not Spike," he said. "It's James."

Milo smiled. "Okay. You do good work, James. Ever work at the Mayan Mortgage?"

The bouncer wiped his nose with his arm and said, "Huh?"

Working hard at processing.

"Forget it."

The bouncer looked injured. "Whaddya say, man? Seriously."

"I said you've got a bright future, James. This gig ever gets old, you can always run for Vice President."

The room was big, harshly lit in a few spots, but mostly dark. The floors were cement; the walls that I could see, painted brick. A network of conduits, wheels, gears, and pipes adhered to the ceiling, ragged in places, as if ripped apart in a frenzy.

Off to the left was the bar-wooden doors on sawhorses fronting a metal rack full of bottles. Next to the rack were half a dozen white bowls filled with ice.

s.h.i.+ny porcelain bowls. Raised lids.

Toilets.

Two men worked nonstop to service a thirsty throng of minors, filling and squirting and scooping cubes from the commodes. No faucets; the soda and water came from bottles.

The rest of the s.p.a.ce was a dance floor. No boundary separated the bar crowd from pressure-packed bodies writhing and jerking like beached grunion. Up close, the music was even more formless. But loud enough to keep the Richter scale over at Cal Tech busy.

The geniuses creating it stood at the back, on a makes.h.i.+ft stage. Five hollow-cheeked, leotarded things who could have been junkies had they been healthier-looking. Marshall Stacks big as vacation cabins formed a black felt wall behind them. The ba.s.s drum bore the legend OFFAL.

High on the wall behind the amps was another BAKER FERTILIZER sign, partially blocked by a hand-lettered banner tacked diagonally.

WELCOME TO THE s.h.i.+T HOUSE.

The accompanying artwork was even more charming.

"Creative," I said, loud enough to feel my palate vibrate, but inaudible.

Milo must have read my lips because he grinned and shook his head. Then he lowered it and charged through the dancers, toward the bar.

I dived in after him.

We arrived, battered but intact, at the front of the drinkers. Dishes of unsh.e.l.led peanuts sat beside toilet paper squares improvising as napkins. The bartop needed wiping. The floor was carpeted with husks where it wasn't wet and slick.

Milo managed to bull his way behind the bar. Both of the barkeeps were thin, dark, and bearded, wearing sleeveless gray unders.h.i.+rts and baggy white pajama bottoms. The one closer to Milo was bald. The other was Rapunzel in drag.

Milo went over to Baldy. The bartender jabbed one hand defensively while pouring Jolt Cola into a gla.s.s quarter-filled with rum. Milo's hand fit all the way around this wrist. He gave it a short, sharp twist-not enough to cause injury, but the bartender's eyes and mouth opened and he put the cola can down and tried to jerk away.

Milo held fast, doing the badge thing again, but discreetly. Keeping the ID at an angle that hid it from the drinkers. A hand from the crowd reached out and snared the rum and cola. Several others began slapping the bartop. A few mouths opened in soundless shouts.

Baldy gave Milo a panicked look.

Milo talked in his ear.

Baldy said something back.

Milo kept talking.

Baldy pointed at the other mix-master. Milo released his grip. Baldy went over to Rapunzel and the two of them conferred. Rapunzel nodded and Baldy returned to Milo, looking resigned.

I followed the two of them on a sweaty, buffeted trek through and around the dance floor. Slow going-part ballet, part jungle clearance. Finally we ended up at the back of the room, behind the band's amps and a snarl of electric wires, and walked through a wooden door marked TOILETS.

On the other side was a long, cold, cement-floored hall littered with paper sc.r.a.ps and nasty-looking puddles. Several couples groped in the shadows. A few loners sat on the floor, heads lowered to laps. Marijuana and vomit fought for olfactory dominance. The sound level had sunk to jet-takeoff roar.

We pa.s.sed doors stenciled STANDERS and SQUATTERS, stepped over legs, tried to skirt the garbage. Baldy was good at it, moving with a light, nimble gait, his pajama pants billowing. At the end of the hallway was yet another door, rusted metal, identical to the one the bouncer had guarded.

Baldy said, "Outside okay?" in a squeaky voice.

"What's out there, Robert?"

The bartender shrugged and scratched his chin.

"The back." He was anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. The beard was little more than fuzz and didn't conceal much of his face. It was a face worth concealing, skimpy and rattish and brooding and mean.

Milo pushed the door open, looked outside, and took hold of the bartender's arm.

The three of us went outside to a small fenced parking lot. A U-Haul two-ton truck was parked there, along with three cars. Lots more trash was spread across the ground in clumps, a foot high in places, fluttering in the breeze. Beyond the fence was the fat moon.

Milo led the bald man to a relatively clean spot near the center of the lot, away from the cars.

"This is Robert Gabray," he said to me. "Mixologist extraordinaire." To the bartender: "You've got fast hands, Robert."

The barkeep wiggled his fingers. "Gotta work."

"The old Protestant ethic?"

Blank look.

"You like working, Robert?"

"Gotta. They keep a record a everything."

"Who's they?"

"The owners."

"They in there watching you?"

"No. But they got eyes."

"Sounds like the CIA, Robert."

The bartender didn't answer.

"Who pays your salary, Robert?"

"Some guys."

"Which guys?"

"They own the building."

"What's the name on your payroll check?"

"Ain't no checks."

"Cash deal, Robert?"

Nod.

"You holding out on the Internal Revenue?"

Gabray crossed his arms and rubbed his shoulders. "C'mon, what'd I do?"

"You'd know that better than me, wouldn't you, Robert?"

"Bunch a A-rabs, the owners."

"Names."

"Fahrizad, Nahrizhad, Nahris.h.i.+t, whatever."

"Sounds Iranian, not Arab."

"Whatever."

"How long you been working here?"

"Couple of months."

Milo shook his head. "No, I don't think so, Robert. Wanna give it another try?"

"What?" Gabray looked puzzled.

"Think back where you really were a couple of months ago, Robert."

Gabray rubbed his shoulders some more.

"Cold, Robert?"

"I'm okay . . . Okay, yeah, it's been a couple of weeks."

"Ah," said Milo, "that's better."

"Whatever."

"Weeks, months, it's all the same to you?"

Gabray didn't answer.

"It just seemed like months?"

"Whatever."

"Time goes quickly when you're having fun?"

"Whatever."

"Two weeks," said Milo. "That makes a lot more sense, Robert. Probably what you meant to say. You wouldn't think of giving me a hard time-you were just making an honest error, right?"

"Yeah."

"You forgot that two months ago you weren't working anywhere because you were at County lockup on a p.i.s.santy mary-joo-anna rap."

The bartender shrugged.

"Really bright, Robert, running those red lights with that brick in the trunk of your car."

"It wasn't my stuff."

"Ah."

"It's true, man."

"You took the heat for someone else?"

"Yeah."

"You're just a nice guy, huh? Real hero."

Shrug. Another rub of the shoulders. One of Gabray's arms rose higher and he scratched the bare skin atop his head.

"Got an itch, Robert?"

"I'm fine, man."