Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [48]
“How’d you find out he wasn’t?”
“He told me. We had a drink together a couple months ago. There were no seats at the tables. We put our names in and told Frank, he’s the night man, to come get us at the bar when there was an opening. So we had a drink and that’s when he told me he was from L.A. He said he was in the movie business.”
“That’s it, nothing else?”
“Well, yeah, he said other things. We talked. Nothing that stands out, though. We were passing the time until one of our names came up.”
“You didn’t see him again outside of playing?”
“No, and what’s it to you? Are you saying I’m a suspect because I had a drink with the guy?”
“No, I’m not saying that, Eleanor. Not at all.”
Bosch got out his own cigarettes and lit one. The waitress in a white-and-gold toga brought their drinks, and they settled into a silence for a long moment. Bosch had lost his momentum. He was back to not knowing what to say.
“Looked like you were doing pretty good tonight,” he tried.
“Better than most nights. I got my quota and I got out.”
“Quota?”
“Whenever I get two hundred up I cash out. I’m not greedy and I know luck doesn’t last for long on any given night. I never lose more than a hundred, and if I’m lucky enough to get two hundred ahead, then I’m done for the night. I got there early tonight.”
“How’d you —”
He stopped himself. He knew the answer.
“How’d I learn to play poker well enough to live off it? You spend three and a half years inside and you learn to smoke and play poker and other things.”
She looked directly at him as if daring him to say anything about it. After another long moment she broke away and got out another cigarette. Bosch lit it for her.
“So there’s no day job? Just the poker?”
“That’s right. I’ve been doing this almost a year now. Kind of hard to find a straight job, Bosch. You tell ’em you’re a former FBI agent and their eyes light up. Then you tell them you just got out of federal prison and they go dead.”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor.”
“Don’t be. I’m not complaining. I make more than enough to get by, every now and then I meet interesting people like your guy Tony A., and there’s no state income tax here. What do I have to complain about, except maybe that it gets to be over a hundred degrees in the shade about ninety times a year too many?”
The bitterness was not lost on him.
“I mean I’m sorry about everything. I know it doesn’t do you any good now, but I wish I had it to do all over again. I’ve learned things since then, and I would’ve played it all differently. That’s all I wanted to tell you. I saw you on the surveillance tape playing with Tony Aliso and I wanted to find you to tell you that. That’s all I wanted.”
She stubbed her half-finished smoke out in the glass ashtray and took a strong pull on her glass of scotch.
“I guess I should be going, then,” she said.
She stood up.
“Do you need a ride anywhere?”
“No, I actually have a car, thank you.”
She started out of the bar in the direction of the front doors but after a few yards stopped and came back to the table.
“You’re right, you know.”
“About what?”
“About it not doing me any good now.”
With that she left. Bosch watched her push through the revolving doors and disappear into the night.
Following the directions he had written down when he spoke with Rhonda over the phone in Tony Aliso’s office, Bosch found Dolly’s on Madison in North Las Vegas. It was strictly an upper-crust club: twenty-dollar cover, two-drink minimum and you were escorted to your seat by a large man in a tuxedo with a starched collar that cut into his neck like a garrote. The dancers were upper-crust, too. Young and beautiful, they probably were just shy of having enough coordination and talent to work the big room shows on the Strip.
Bosch was led by the tuxedo to a table the size of a dinner plate about eight feet from the main stage, which was empty at the moment.
“A new dancer will be on stage in a couple minutes,” the man in the tuxedo told Bosch. “Enjoy