If he’d heard her or seen her, she’d never have gotten past him. Perhaps it had been misplaced pride, but she’d used every tactic at her disposal to avoid him, then had left him a quick memo before slipping out of the house.
She’d avoided Mavis and Leonardo as well, and had only run into Summerset long enough to have been granted one of his freezing looks.
She’d turned away from that and had walked out. There was a sick knowledge inside her that she was turning away from a great deal more.
Work was the answer, or so she hoped. Work she understood. She pulled up in front of the Down and Dirty Club in the East End and got out of the car.
‘Hey there, white girl.’
‘How’s it passing, Crack?’
‘Oh, without much hassle.’ He grinned at her, a giant of a black man with a face seamed with tattoos. His rocket launcher chest was partially covered with a feathered vest that hung past his knees and added flair to the loincloth of neon pink he sported. ‘Gonna be another hot one this day.’
‘Got time to go inside and cool me off with a drink?’
‘Might be, for you, sweet butt. You taking Crack’s advice and turning in your badge to shake your talent in the Down and Dirty?’
‘Not in this lifetime.’
He laughed, patting his gleaming belly. ‘Don’t know why it is I got a liking for you. You come on in, wet your whistle, and tell Crack what’s rocking down.’
She’d been in worse clubs, and would be eternally grateful she’d been in better. The stale smells from the night hung still: incense, bad perfumes, liquor, smoke from dubious leaves, unwashed bodies, and casual sex.
It was too early for even the most dedicated partier. Chairs were overturned onto tables, and she could see where someone had made a careless pass with a mop over the sticky floor. Substances she didn’t care to identify had been left behind.
Still, the bottles behind the main bar gleamed in the colored lights. On the stage to the right, a dancer draped in pink net practiced a routine to the blare of simulated brass.
A jerk of Crack’s huge head had the domestic droid and the dancer wandering off. ‘What’s your pleasure, white girl?’
‘Coffee, black.’
Crack lumbered behind the bar, still grinning. ‘Gotcha. How ’bout a drop or two of my special reserve in that coffee?’
Eve lifted a shoulder. When in Rome. ‘Sure.’
She watched him program the coffee, then uncode a cabinet where he took out a bottle fit for a Genie. And, leaning on the cloudy bar, smelling the smells, she relaxed a little. She knew why she had a liking for Crack, a nighthawk she barely knew but understood. He was part of a world she’d wandered in most of her life.
‘Now, whatcha doing in this nasty place, honey pot? Being a cop?’
‘Afraid so.’ She sampled the coffee, sucked in her breath. ‘Jesus, some reserve.’
‘Only for my favorite people. It skims under the legal limit.’ He winked. ‘Just. What you want Crack to do for you?’
‘Did you know Boomer? Carter Johannsen. Small-time player. Data hound.’
‘I know Boomer. He’s meat now.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Somebody slaughtered him. You ever do business with him, Crack?’
‘He come in now and then.’ Crack preferred his reserve straight up. He sipped, then smacked his tattooed lips in appreciation. ‘Sometimes he flush, sometimes not. He liked to watch the show and talk the shit. Not much harm in old Boomer. Heard he got his face erased.’
‘That’s right. Who’d want to do that?’
‘He pissed somebody off bad, I’d say. Boomer, he had big ears. If he popped a few, he had a big mouth, too.’
‘When did you see him last?’