The bar menu was an expensive selection of imported beers, the house liquor the best brands. Appetizers were either Japanese or California nouvelle cuisine, and the cheapest mineral water on the menu was three dollars. The three-piece combo was all acoustic, the sounds a step away from Muzak. Even the cigarette smoke had a tinge of yuppie ambience and expensive conviviality.
Carter sat at the bar long enough to get the layout and see which of the waitresses best served his purpose. Dressed to fit in with the clientele, he wore a muted Madras shirt with long sleeves, light gray slacks, and plain black loafers. He finished his beer and approached a waitress whose movements were practiced and economical and who made no attempts to hide the traces of gray flecking her long dark hair. Her name tag read BOBBIE.
Carter extended a twenty. "I'd like to sit at your station the moment you've got an opening."
Bobbie's hazel eyes flickered over him like a laser verifying an American Express card. "Some men see my gray hair, they think I'm desperate for favors," she said, ignoring the twenty. "All I do is serve drinks and food."
"That's exactly why I want to sit at your station." He dropped the twenty on her tray.
"I get it — you want me to scout for you. I don't do that, either."
Carter smiled. "Maybe I already understand that and want to drink alone."
Bobbie sighed and led Carter to a small table, then set a cocktail napkin before him. "If you'd wanted to drink alone, you wouldn't be here. I want to know what you expect for your twenty."
"Information," Carter said. He carefully showed Bobbie the photo of the Miss Crystal look-alike.
Bobbie narrowed her eyes. "Something isn't right about this photo."
Carter nodded. "I have that feeling too. If she comes in while I'm here, will you let me know?"
"You're a pro," Bobbie said. "Notice I didn't say cop. Okay. She comes in, I let you know."
Carter ordered another beer, lit a cigarette, and sat back, prepared for a long wait.
He tried the technique that had worked for him so many times: get a handle on someone's personality by absorbing as much background as possible and trying to hi the character to the background.
Apparently this place, the New Breed, had a style that touched the late Guillermo Arriosto, a man who might have been a relocated Argentine military man with a love of violence and a taste for young girls. A man who'd been content to let this part of the world see him as the Grinning Gaucho, a seller of four-wheel-drive, off-road, and specialty vehicles.
A few moments later Bobbie appeared, set his beer before him, and gave him change for the twenty. "Over there," she said, inclining her chin toward an area just to the right of the small bandstand. "In the green dress."
Carter looked at the change. "That was supposed to be for you."
"On the house," Bobbie said. "If you ever decide you're looking for something special and personal, you'll know where to find me." She gave a toss of that handsome, silver-streaked ebony hair and headed back to the bar.
No question about it, the woman in the green dress was the same one in Hawk's picture. Below medium height, a runner's rangy body, with hardly an ounce of spare fat. She wore a tight shiny green dress with a low scoop in front and an even more tantalizing vee in the back, crisscrossed with narrow laces. High heels with straps wrapped around the ankles emphasized her slender, muscular legs. Her hair was a champagne blond. Large, bright green earrings emphasized the angular shapeliness of her face. Carter looked closely, wondering what it was that he and Bobbie had seen in the photo that didn't ring true.
The blonde had some guy in tow, coming in and joining her a few moments after she'd been seated; he'd probably let her go in while he parked the car.
Watching her erect, graceful posture and the casual way she crossed her legs, Carter realized it had been a while since he'd had the luxury of some R & R. He even realized with a wry grin of amusement that his first response to the blonde had been frankly sensual instead of the professional assessment he'd trained himself to make.
Carter figured the blonde and the man had been out pub crawling. The man was starting to be deliberate and careful with his movements, suggesting he'd put away a few already. A beefy-looking guy, maybe mid-forties. A good, deep tan, pecs and biceps he was obviously vain about. Even so, Carter observed, he was starting to get a bit jowly and spreading at the gut.
Military type, Carter judged, but not out of any of the better academies. Maybe nothing more than ROTC at some lesser-rank college, possibly not even that — only a reservist somewhere. He had the look of discipline but not of class.
The blonde was working him leisurely, letting him get an occasional look when she leaned forward to get a cigarette, giving his hand a pat now and then, and even resting her hand on the guy's knee while the waitress was taking their order for drinks.
She was not matching him in drinks. Once, in the darkness, Carter saw her dump part of her glass and steer the guy's attention by crossing her legs and letting him return the compliment with a hand on her knee. This seemed to have the effect she was out to achieve. The guy now had both hands on her legs and leaned forward earnestly.
The blonde appeared to be thinking it over for a moment, then deftly moved his hands away, stood, and gathered her purse, cigarettes, and lighter.
She took a few steps and turned as if to see what was keeping the big guy. He was getting what he'd asked for, wasn't he? She even gave a saucy swing of her hips and he was up now, spilling his drink, calling for the check.
Carter, working from instinct and a healthy cynicism about ever letting down his guard, left through the front entrance and moved quickly down Speedway to the corner. He found an alley and stayed in the shadows, paralleling Speedway until he reached the parking lot of the New Breed. It was lit with low-wattage sodium vapor lamps, casting an eerie amber glow over the desert night. A heavy scent of jasmine came in on a gentle southern breeze, stirring the warm, heavy Phoenix night.
The parking lot was filled with BMWs, Mercedeses, an occasional Porsche or Lotus, and other examples of affluent taste. Carter stood in the shadows waiting, his keen senses alerting him, telling him not to relax.
At length the blonde and her date moved into the lot, his arm around her waist, and she appearing no longer casual or disinterested but instead caught up in her own eagerness.
The moment Carter's senses had been preparing him for came when the man tugged at the blonde. The Killmaster now knew that something was up and it wasn't what the blonde was expecting.
At first she thought he wanted an embrace, even presented herself to him, but he continued to tug at her arm. "Here's your car, right here," she said. She got no response from him and added, "That settles it — I'm driving."
"Let's go in this one instead," he said.
As the man spoke, Carter realized what was happening. To her credit, the blonde realized it a few moment later, after the man tugged at her once more.
"What is this?" she said.
The doors of a gray Mercedes opened and two other men appeared. Both military types. One was about six feet tall with a long scar on his left cheek, the other a sinewy black.
"Just get in," the blonde's date said, no longer the hard-drinking playboy. "No fuss, no muss. You understand?"
The blonde kicked out at her date, scoring a sharp jab along his right shin with the heel of her shoe.