People came in and out of the building in a steady flow. Milo moved closer to the brass rail and the gray-mustachioed man came over as Garrett turned and watched.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Deep, flat voice. The name tag, computer-printed. LARRY GIOVANNE, MANAGER.
Milo showed his ID in a cupped hand. “Ted Barnaby.”
Giovanne didn’t react. The ID went back in Milo’s pocket.
“Barnaby’s working tonight, right?”
“Is he in trouble?”
“No, just some questions.”
“He’s new.”
“Started two weeks ago Wednesday,” said Milo.
Giovanne looked up, taking in Milo’s face, then down to the green poly shirt hanging over tan chinos. Looking for the gun-bulge.
“No problems?” he said.
“None. Where’s Barnaby?”
“Did you check in with the tribal police?”
“No.”
“Then technically you have no jurisdiction.”
Milo smiled. “Technically, I can walk around the room til I find Barnaby, sit down at his table, play real slow, keep spilling my drink, ask stupid questions. Keep following him when he moves tables.”
Giovanne gave a tiny headshake. “What do you want with him?”
“His girlfriend was murdered half a year ago. He’s not a suspect but I want to ask him a few questions.”
“We’re new, too,” said Giovanne. “Three months since we opened and we don’t want to break up the flow if you know what I mean.”
“Okay,” said Milo. “How about this—send him out when he goes on break and I’ll stay out of the way.”
Giovanne shot French cuffs and looked at a gold watch. “The dealers do thirty-minute shifts at each table. Barnaby’s set to change in five, break in an hour. If you don’t cause problems, I’ll give him his break early. Fair enough?”
“More than fair. Thanks.”
“Five minutes, then. Want to play in the meantime?”
Milo smiled. “Not tonight.”
“Okay, then go outside, over by the Camaro, and I’ll send him out to you. How ’bout some drinks, peanuts?”
“No, thanks. Give any cars away lately?”
“Three so far—after you’re finished with him, come back and try your luck.”
“If I had some, I’d try it.”
“What’s your game?”
“Cops and robbers,” said Milo.
A microdress girl brought out two beers anyway and we drank them standing against the cool block wall of the casino, waiting behind the purple car, watching the in-and-out, able to feel and hear the gambling inside. The outdoor lot seemed to stretch for miles, bleeding into black space and star-painted sky. Motor drone and headlights defined a distant road but for the most part all the movement was here.
Just as we emptied our glasses, a tall, thin, red-shirted man came out and looked from side to side, long fingers curling and straightening.
Barely thirty, with thick blond hair, he wore flint-colored bullhide boots under his pressed black slacks. Thin but knotted arms. A turquoise-and-silver bracelet circled a hairless wrist, and a gold chain seemed to constrict a long neck with a kinetic Adam’s apple. Handsome features, but his skin was a ruin, so acne-scarred it made Milo’s look polished. A couple of active blemishes stood out in the light, most conspicuously an angry swelling on his right temple. Small, round Band-Aid under his left ear. Deep pits ran down his neck.
Milo put his glass down and came out from behind the car. “Mr. Barnaby.”
Barnaby stiffened and his hands closed into fists. Milo’s ID in his face made him step back.
Milo extended a hand and Barnaby took it with the reluctance of a man with wet palms. Milo started to draw him out of the light but Barnaby resisted. Then he saw the valet approaching and came along.
Back at the purple car, he looked at me and the glass in my hand. “What the hell is this all about? You just got me fired.”
“Mandy Wright.”
Hazel eyes stopped moving. “What do the L.A. cops have to do with that?”
Milo put a foot on the Camaro’s bumper.
“Careful,” said Barnaby. “That’s new.”
“So you’re not too torn-up over Mandy.”
“Sure I’m torn-up. But what am I supposed to do about it after all this time? And why should I get fired over it?”
“I’ll talk to Giovanne.”
“Gee, thanks. Shit. Why’d you have to come here? Why couldn’t you just call me at home?”