Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [51]
“Enough of the wiseass act,” the blond said. “What are you doing talking to the girls about Tony?”
Before Bosch could say anything the hands running over his body found his gun.
“He’s strapped,” the tuxedo said.
Bosch felt the gun being jerked out of his shoulder holster. He also tasted blood in his mouth and felt rage building in his throat. The hands then found his wallet and his cuffs. Tuxedo threw them on the desk in front of the blond and held Bosch pinned against the wall with one hand. By straining to turn his head Bosch could watch the blond open the wallet.
“He’s a cop, let him go.”
The hand came off his neck and Bosch gruffly pulled away from the tuxedo.
“An L.A. cop,” the blond said. “Hieronymus Bosch. Like that painter, huh? He did some weird stuff.”
Bosch just looked at him and he handed the gun and cuffs and wallet back.
“Why’d you have him hit me?”
“That was a mistake. See, most cops what come in here, they announce themselves, they tell us their business and we help ’em if we can. You were sneaking around, Anonymous Hieronymus. We have a business to protect here.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of tissues and proffered it to Bosch.
“Your lip’s bleeding.”
Bosch took the whole box.
“So this is true what she says you told her. Tony’s dead.”
“That’s what I said. How well did you know him?”
“See, that’s good. You assume I knew him and put that assumption in your question. That’s good.”
“So then answer it.”
“He was a regular in here. He was always trying to pick off girls. Told ’em he’d put ’em in the movies. Same old stuff. But, hell, they keep falling for it. Last two years he cost me three of my best girls. They’re in L.A. now. He left ’em high and dry once he got them there and did what he wanted with ’em. They never learn.”
“Why’d you let him keep coming in if he was picking off your girls?”
“He spent a lot of bread in here. Besides, there’s no shortage of quiff here in Vegas. No shortage at all.”
Bosch headed in another direction.
“What about Friday? Was he here?”
“No, I don’t — yes, yes he was. He stopped by for a short while. I saw him out there.”
With his hand he indicated a panel of video monitors showing every angle of the club and front entrance. It was equally as impressive as the setup Hank Meyer had shown Bosch at the Mirage.
“You remember seeing him, Gussie?” the blond asked the tuxedo.
“Yeah, he was here.”
“There you go. He was here.”
“No problems? He just came and went?”
“Right, no problems.”
“Then why’d you fire Layla?”
The blond pinched his lips tight for a moment.
“Now I get it,” he said. “You’re one of those guys what likes to weave a web with words, get somebody caught in it.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, nobody’s caught anywhere. Layla was Tony’s latest fuck, that’s true, but she’s gone now. She won’t be back.”
“Yeah, and what happened to her?”
“Like you heard, I fired her. Saturday night.”
“For what?”
“For any number of infractions of the rules. But it doesn’t really matter because it’s none of your business, now is it?”
“What did you say your name is?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how ’bout if I just call you asshole, how would that be?”
“People ’round here call me Lucky. Can we get on with this, please?”
“Sure, we can get on with it. Just tell me what happened to Layla.”
“Sure, sure. But I thought you were here to talk about Tony, least that’s what Randy said.”
“Rhonda.”
“Rhonda, right.”
Bosch was losing his patience but managed to just stare at him and wait him out.
“Layla, right. Well, Saturday night she got into a beef with one of the other girls. It got a little nasty and I had to make a choice. Modesty is one of my best girls, best producers. She gave me an ultimatum: either Layla goes or she goes. I had to let Layla go. Modesty, man, she sells ten, twelve splits of champagne a night to those suckers out there. I had to back her over Layla. I mean, Layla’s good and