Moon Music. Faye Kellerman
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“It’s on your card.”
“Still, that’s no introduction.” She stuck out her hand. “Patricia Deluca. Most people call me Fat Patty.”
Nate laughed. “How ’bout just Patty?”
“That’s fine, too. I really should talk to your friend.”
Malealani called out, “Hey, Big Ray.” Beckoned him with a finger. “Want you to meet someone.”
Big Ray stopped wiping the counter, froze, turned, stared, then lumbered forward. Not an ounce of fluidity in the man. Each physical action was done in a separate, robotic movement.
Like Nate, Big Ray was Melanesian. He wore an untucked blue rayon shirt over a pair of jeans. He looked like he was ready to bowl. He eyed Patricia, licked his lips. He nodded.
Malealani said, “This is Detective Deluca. She’s looking for someone.”
Patricia offered a handshake. “How’s it going, Big Ray?”
Ray took it, his face as animated as a tile of slate.
“Who are you looking for?”
To Patricia, Malealani said, “You have the picture, don’t you?”
Yes, Nate, I have the picture. She took out the photograph, showed it to Big Ray. “I’m with Homicide. This woman was found dead last night. Nate said you might have served her.”
Big Ray said, “Yeah, I did.”
Patricia almost fell off the stool. In the back of her cynical mind, she had suspected that Nate had been jiving her. But things were falling into place.
First the three cherries.
Now this.
Too much good luck. So when was it going to crash?
She took out her notebook. “You’re sure it was this woman?”
Without hesitation, Big Ray said he was sure. “She didn’t look this good. But the face was the same.”
“What did she look like?” Patricia asked.
“I dunno. Just not good. Young but old.” He looked around the room. “Belonged to the kind of women you’d find here. Like they’ve lived their lives in a trash compactor.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“Came in alone. But she hooked up with someone pretty quick.”
Malealani asked, “Who?”
“The young guy,” Ray answered.
“The young guy?”
“Yeah, the young guy. He was short.”
“Short?”
“Yeah, he was pretty short.”
Patricia stopped writing, looked up. “Like how short?”
Big Ray marked off an area on his chest with the side of his hand. “Came up to about here.”
Eyeballing it, maybe around five-eight or -nine. Patricia said, “What did he look like?”
Big Ray said, “Besides being short?”
“Yes.”
Malealani said, “I don’t remember no short guy.”
Shut up, Nathan! Patricia said, “What did he—”
“He drank Dewar’s straight up,” Big Ray said. “You don’t ’member him?”
Malealani scrunched up his eyes. “That guy?”
“Yeah, him.”
Patricia said, “You remember him, Nate?”
“Sorta.” To Big Ray, Nate said, “So he’s the guy who was with the girl?”
“Yeah.”
“When was this?”
“Right after she came in. Like around ten-thirty.”
Patricia asked, “Did they leave together?”
“Well, I don’t ’member if they walked out together. But both left ’round the same time.”
“And when was that?”
“I dunno exactly. Around eleven-thirty, maybe midnight.”
The body had been called in at 1:22 A.M. A small window of time to do the deed. The killer had worked quickly, raking and scooping …
From the far end of the bar, someone shouted, “Can I get a beer around here?”
Malealani was already walking away, “I’ll get it.”
Patricia glanced around. The place was filling up.
Put some lead in it, girl.
“So they both left around midnight?”
“Yeah.”
“What else can you tell me about the short guy?”
“He was skinny.”
“Short and skinny.”
“That about sums it up.”
More people were coming in. Patricia figured she had maybe five minutes more. “How about his hair, Big Ray? Was it blond, brunette, bald—”
“Not bald.” Big Ray was perplexed. “I can’t remember the color.”
“Well, was it straight or curly, wavy, thin, thick—”
“I can’t remember his hair, neither.”
Patricia’s brain was racing. “Ray, by any chance was Mr. Short Thin Guy wearing a hat?”
Big Ray raised one eyebrow. First sign of life he’d shown. “Yes. That’s it. He was wearing a hat. A black hat. Like Charlie Chaplin.” A pause. “He had a ponytail. I don’t remember the color. Just the ponytail.”
Patricia wrote quickly. Malealani returned. Big Ray said to him, “The Dewar’s guy was wearing a ponytail.” To Patricia he said, “He was clean-shaven. ’Cept he had like … this peach fuzz all over his face. Like guys get before the beard comes in. A peach-fuzz mustache, too.”
“Peach fuzz … so he was young?”
“Thirty. I checked his ID.”
Patricia felt her heart race. “You checked his ID?”
Big Ray nodded.
“Do you … happen to recall a name?”
Ray didn’t even ponder the question. “Not a clue. Just looked at his birthday. That I ’member.” He gave the date.
“You remember anything else about his features? His eyes, for instance?”
Deadpan, Big Ray said, “Yeah, he had eyes.”
Then the men laughed.
“Very funny.” But she was smiling. To show she was a good ole gal. Just keep ’em talking. “You notice the color?”
“They weren’t bright blue or green or anything.” A beat. “Maybe like light brown, but I’m not positive. I don’t stare at people unless they give me problems.”
“How about his mouth—thin lips, thick lips—”
“Thick lips.”
“And the mouth itself. Was it wide, narrow—”
“Just a mouth.”
“With thick lips.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And