Milo managed to bull his way behind the bar. Both of the barkeeps were
thin, dark, and bearded, wearing sleeveless gray undershirts 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 glass 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 scraps 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 passed 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?”
Nold.
“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, Nahrishit, 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?”