“It’s one that works, anyway.” She turned her attention back to her coffee cup, holding it with both hands as if it were a holy chalice and she feared harm might come to it.
Carver finished his beer, then tucked the photographs back into his pocket. He thanked the bartender and placed some bills on the bar, leaving a tip twice as generous as etiquette required.
“It’s people like Marla that usually win the lottery,” the redhead remarked bitterly as he was leaving.
28
A waitress at Lip Gloss said she thought she recognized Marla, but not Willa Krull or Portia Brant, which left Carver still only 90 percent sure that Marla and Willa shared a romantic relationship.
There was no dance floor at Lip Gloss, and only soft, piped-in music that sounded vaguely Middle Eastern to Carver. Art Deco was the theme. In the corners were large, curved banquettes that looked as if they’d been bought when the Stork Club closed. There were Egyptian murals on the walls, and the bar was constructed of glass bricks with glimmers of light inside them. Centered on the ceiling was an ornate silver-and-crystal chandelier. Small silver candelabra sat in the center of each white-clothed table, echoes of the chandelier.
Carver walked over to the woman behind the bar, a petite blonde who was wearing brilliant red lipstick to exaggerate a cupid’s-bow mouth and who looked like a 1930s Hollywood starlet.
“You look like Carole Lombard,” he told her.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like Carole Lombard.”
“I’m relieved,” Carver said. “You’re young and I was afraid you weren’t going to know who she was.”
“I like her old movies. She’s sexy.”
“Sure was.”
“Is,” she corrected. “Stars like that live forever through their films.”
“That’s what they say on the movie channel.” He placed the photos on the bar’s sleek gray surface. “Do you know any of these women?”
“That one used to come in here occasionally.” She pointed to Marla’s photo. “She’s pretty enough to be a star herself, isn’t she?”
“She has a certain appeal,” Carver admitted uncomfortably. He did still find himself drawn to Marla, despite her apparent sexual preference.
“I never saw the other women,” the bartender said.
“How long’s it been since you’ve seen Marla?”
“So that’s her name. Probably a good one for movies. I guess a month or so. She was usually with other people. I got the impression she was a journalist or something, doing interviews. I mean, the customers here are mostly from the east side of town and are pretty wealthy. We see more than a few designer originals in here on Saturday nights. Marla was usually stylishly dressed in a kind of funky way, but it was easy to tell her clothes weren’t expensive. You develop an eye for that kind of thing working in a place like this.”
“The other people she was with, were they usually women?”
The bartender smiled her starlet’s smile. “Always. Sometimes we get men in here, but they’re usually cops.” She winked.
Carver wondered if she assumed he was with the police or had some kind of official authority. He decided not to ask.
“I’m not a vice cop,” he said, “so I’m not clear on some things. Does Del Moray have a large lesbian or bisexual population?”
“Who knows for sure? It’s large enough to keep us in business, along with a few other places across town on Victor. But there are plenty of women who are lesbian or bi and stay in the closet and never socialize, or who travel in circles too discreet for public places.”
“Your clientele would be especially discreet, I suppose, among those who do frequent public places.”
“Ha! People with their kind of money don’t have to care as much as other folks about reputation or image. They don’t have jobs to lose, and usually they have similar friends with plenty of money and time to get into bizarre stuff with them.”
“What kind of bizarre stuff?”
“The kind straight people engage in, only with variation. Our customers aren’t sex fiends, it’s just that they’re rich. You know, the devil and idle hands, idle this, idle that.”
Carver said he knew, then ordered a beer. It was too early for happy hour and he was the only customer, so he didn’t feel at all out of place.
“You a Marlins fan?” the bartender asked.
He said that he was, and she told him she enjoyed working in an upscale lounge, but that it wasn’t the kind of place that featured a TV, and she missed seeing televised ball games and discussing them with the customers. He wondered if she was lesbian or bi herself, or if this was just a job to her. That was something else he decided not to ask.
It seemed odd to be talking baseball with Carole Lombard, but that’s what he did until he finished his beer and went back outside into the heat and the straight world.
He drove into Orlando and parked outside police headquarters on Hughey a little after five. Desoto didn’t seem surprised to see him.
“I suppose you have questions,” he said. He was seated behind his desk, listening to a Spanish music station as usual while he did the paperwork that converted the chaos of crime into the order of fact and law, so that an illusion of understanding was created and it could be dealt with like any other service or commodity.
“I have information, too,” Carver said. He told Desoto about Marla and Willa Krull’s probable sexual involvement.
“I don’t know what that changes,” Desoto said.
“That’s what Beth said. I don’t know, either, but maybe it changes something.”
“Hmm,” Desoto said, and folded his hands on the desk, his rings and gold cuff links sending light dancing over the walls. Sometimes Carver wondered if he kept the office so bright mainly so he could enjoy his jewelry, sitting there shooting his cuffs and putting it all on display. No other cop Carver knew dressed like Desoto, suave and handsome enough to be in the movies with Carole Lombard.
“Anything fresh on Charley Spotto’s murder?” Carver asked.
“Nothing resembling a clue, amigo. Except that his neck was broken by a powerful twisting motion, as if his head had been gripped and rotated like a cap being unscrewed on a bottle. That’s the M.E.’s description, not mine.”
“He should write mysteries, the M.E.”
“Speaking of mysteries, your giant attacker is still one. No data bank anywhere in the country seems to contain anything on an Achilles Jones. It’s an a.k.a., no doubt, though he doesn’t seem the sort to be interested in Greek legend. It’s possible, even if unlikely, that nobody has anything on him. It happens, even in the era of the information highway. This guy might have avoided any priors and recently jockeyed his Harley here from Alaska or someplace.”
“Or Atlantis,” Carver said.
“Your friend in Miami, Lloyd Van Meter, is plenty pissed about Spotto being killed. He’s leaning on us for action.”
“He’s probably frustrated. He has contacts outside the regular lanes of law enforcement, and apparently he’s had the same luck as you when it comes to finding anything on the goon who worked me over.” Carver thought about mentioning to Desoto that he’d glimpsed a huge motorcycle rider in his rearview mirror, but decided against it. There was probably nothing to it other than imagination and the fear that had been instilled in him when he was beaten. It would pass with time, like the pain in his ribs and his occasional headaches. “Are there any lesbian hangouts around Marla Cloy’s old apartment on Graystone?” he asked.
“Sure. The corner of Graystone and Zella. Place called Lari’s. Gays hang out there, too. Rough trade. It’s kind of a dive. We get peace disturbance calls there every month or so. Nothing serious, just misunderstandings that turn into assaults.” Desoto unclasped his hands and rested his elbows on the desk, releasing more shimmers of light. “Have you told Mc shy;Gregor about any of this?”
“Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Desoto rubbed his chin, thinking it over. “Wise choice,” he said. “What’s his take on the assault in your office? He come up with any information?”