Tim knew.
"He did this two weeks ago, too. A no-show Saturday and Sunday. Cutting out at four forty-five Friday afternoon, leaving the rest of his team to cover those last fifteen minutes. He claimed to have gotten sick with the flu, but that's the shortest flu I ever heard of. I'm thinking he had the hungover flu, if you catch my drift."
Tim did indeed.
"Plus," Ken continued, with mounting outrage, "not even a phone call so I could cover the shift. I told him one more time and-"
"Two weeks ago," Tim interrupted. "He didn't come to work the weekend after the Friday he got paid. July twenty-seventh."
"Right, that's right."
"You pay biweekly."
"Correct. So when he doesn't call…" It took a moment for the quarter to drop, and then Ken's eyes widened, and he fussed with his polyester tie indignantly. "This is the weekend after a Friday payday also. A pattern. You think he goes on a binge of some sort? After getting paid?"
"I'm thinking precisely that." Tim slid his card across the table to Ken, who regarded it as if assessing the corporate logo. "Next time he comes in, please give us a call. Before you fire him and send him on his way."
They stood at the curb in the unseasonably crisp night air, staring out at the strip of Century Boulevard and its host of vivid signage advertising burrito shacks, banks, tattoo parlors, pubs, auto detailers, gentlemen's clubs, window tinters, and all order of strip-mall industry. Cars and LAX shuttles clogged the streets even at this hour-travelers who'd stumbled off red-eyes or bleary partiers chasing the last-call schedule all the way to the seedy after-hours joints by the airport. Bear munched a Big Mac, which he'd paid for himself; he'd shot Tim the evil eye as he'd slid the bills across the molded counter with his index finger.
"All right," Tim said. "It's payday Friday. You get your check. No autodeposit. You don't have a car. You're a binge drinker. Your home life is not altogether pleasant. Where do you go?"
Bear guided the last double-decker wedge of beef and patty into his mouth and pointed at the bus stop a few storefronts up before something made his jaw halt midchew. He made some sort of sound around the mouthful of Big Mac.
"What?"
Bear's Adam's apple jerked once, and then he said, "Four forty-five. Friday. That's when Freddy left."
"Right. What are you…?"
Bear gestured at the sign, barely in view above the bus-stop shelter: FIRST UNION. Freddy's bank. "He goes to cash his paycheck before the bank closes. He wants cash in hand right away to go to…" His finger drew an arc down the block, past an Irish pub, to a woman's neon silhouette blinking, beckoning: THE BACK NINE. 24 HRS. "The one reliable place a man who looks homeless can go to drink around the clock and get covered with the 'stank' of knockoff perfume."
It was at such moments that Tim remembered why he was lucky to have Bear, with his bachelor proclivities, as a partner. They were almost out of the parking lot when a shout turned them around. Ken scrambled toward them, trailing the strings of his McDonald's apron.
"Speed!" he cried triumphantly. "The s stands for speed."
"Right," Tim said, and gave a sincere thumbs-up.
Bear shook the manager's hand weightily. "Thank you, Mr. Wade." He looked down at his palm, surprised; he'd come away with Ken Wade's business card.
Ken was still breathing hard from his run, but he flashed Bear a smile. "Nice to meet you, Deputy Jowalski. And just so you know, there are a lot of opportunities in the hospitality sector should you ever be interested."
"Why, I think it's a fine idea," Tim said. "Fry Guy George Jowalski."
"You done yet?"
"You'd fill out the Grimace costume rather well."
"Still going, huh?"
"Plus, you could put your prior job skills to use…"
Pausing with both huge hands on the padded door of The Back Nine, Bear swung his tired eyes in Tim's direction, awaiting the punch line. "Get it over with."
"…taking down the Hamburglar."
Bear released a weary sigh and pushed into the strip club. The doorman rose from his barstool aggressively, but Tim fended him off with his badge. Brass, mirrors, and ice cubes bounced images off one another, endless reflected corridors in which to get lost. A scattering of the usual clientele around the usual four-tops. Three college guys were having more fun than seemed plausible-elbows on the catwalk, hoarse laughter, backward baseball caps. A comb-over-gone Al Pacino gangster behind oversize sunglasses ran a doughy hand up the thigh of a between-sets dancer delivering cocktails. A young lady announced as Pinch wrapped snakelike legs around the brass pole, her magenta hair skimming the creased singles littering the stage. A hall, lit purple by cloth-and-bead sconces out of a Gypsy catalog, led to the bathrooms and the optimistically titled private lounges.
Tim and Bear took a walk around the horseshoe of the runway. Despite Pinch's best efforts, their entrance put a chill on the festivities-they weren't the usual cops paid off so the booze could flow during restricted hours and the flesh could undulate closer than the state-mandated six inches. Ignoring the nervous eyes of the manager and bartender, they peeked into the private rooms, some ornamented with couches, others with tall aquarium windows blocked by metal shades. The men's room featured a urinal encased in a frame of crumbling drywall, and a doorless stall.
"Well," Bear said as they headed out, "it was worth a try."
Tim set a hand on the ladies' room door and pushed it quietly open. A better-kept space, probably used by the dancers. Even a can of air freshener by the sink. Two stalls, one with the door closed. Tim crouched, tilting his head parallel to the floor for a better vantage.
Someone sitting, one foot free, a pair of jeans loose around the other ankle. Jailhouse habits die hard.
Tim rose, eased the door closed, and nodded at Bear. They waited in the narrow hall, arms crossed, Bear flattening himself politely against the wall as the house dancers passed in fragranced hazes. The toilet flushing sounded like a rocket taking off, and then the door creaked open, revealing a man in a ragged sweater, stretched sleeves hanging down past his hands. He wore Walkman headphones around his neck, unplugged, a fashion statement. Dreadlocks fell like incense sticks across his shoulders. A clouded eye floated left.
"Freddy Campbell?"
"Shit." With the word, a waft of pure gin. "What'd I do now?"
Bear put an arm around Freddy's waist, hand moving in a subtle frisk as he steered him into the nearest private lounge. He held him steady, easing him into the middle of five movie-theater seats lined up before a window. An impossibly tall East Asian girl in platform heels and nothing else pressed both hands to the glass, leaning over. A dollar-bill feeder stuck out of the wall like the neck of a hungry goose.
Freddy bit his lip, studying the girl and bouncing his head as if to a beat, though the room was oddly silent. "Now, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout."
Bear, momentarily distracted by the breasts swaying mere feet from his head, took a moment to find his focus. "Do you know Walker Jameson?" He nodded for Tim to produce the photo, which Freddy studied intently. "Or Boss Hahn?"
"Okay. Okay." Freddy seemed to be trying to sort his way through a drunken muddle of thoughts. "Who are y'all?"
Bear shifted his weight against the glass, showing off the Marshals star on his belt.
Freddy bobbed his head a bit more, as if considering his options. "Don't know that cat," he finally said, tapping a dirty fingernail against the picture, "but I know of Boss Hahn. Big mofo in the AB, ain't that right?"
"He was recently demoted." Bear settled heavily into the seat beside Freddy. "We had a little chat with Tommy LaRue yesterday evening. I guess you did, too. Right around, say, five-thirty P.M. We want to know what you told him."