Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

He spoke as he worked. His moves were quick and confident, like those of a master chef. He poured the liquor for two drinks simultaneously, a bottle of Seagram’s in one hand, bourbon in the other. He pulled the bottles away with a flourish and finished each drink off with mixers.

“You make that look like fun,” I said.

He laughed. “You’re the only one here who notices.”

I glanced at Walt, who gazed at the dancers with detached interest. “You may be right. How long have you worked here?”

“About a year.”

“You like it?”

“Not the Ritz, but it pays the bills.” He was working on some kind of clear drink now, in a martini glass. A splash of cranberry juice, a wedge of lime, and he handed it to the waitress.

“That’s some fancy drink there.”

“Now and then, I get a special request. That’s when I really have fun. Most of the time, it’s just orders for beer or the old booze and soda combos.”

He seemed like a nice guy. I figured maybe I could risk asking him a few questions, see what he knew. We had been shouting over the music, so I gestured for him to come closer. He poured someone a beer, then came over.

I leaned toward him. “Is it true that bartenders are also discreet?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”

“I’m an attorney, representing someone in connection with Tom Garvey’s murder. If I ask you a few questions, can I count on your ... discretion?”

He looked me over. “Sure.” He looked around. “Tell you what, I need to take a break anyway. Can I meet you outside in a few minutes?”

“Fine.” I touched Walt’s arm. “I’ll be outside for a while, talking to the bartender.”

Walt drained his glass. “I hope he has a replacement, because I’m going to need a couple more of these.”

“I think he’s arranging that. I’ll be back.”

I waited by the front door. I had to say one thing, the lighting in the parking lot was good. I felt quite safe, if a little exposed. I only hoped no one I knew drove by while I stood there.

When the bartender came out, I said, “I feel like I’m on stage, in the spotlights.”

He grinned. “Liability concerns. The lighting keeps the crime rate down. Plus it discourages our dancers from engaging in any, shall we say, unauthorized business transactions out here.”

I put a hand to my chest, in mock horror. “Prostitution?”

“It can happen. So ... an attorney—a defense attorney, right? Which would mean they’ve arrested someone for Tom’s ...” He looked uncomfortable.

“Yes.” I extended a hand. “By the way, I’m Sam McRae.”

“Skip Himmelfarb.”

We shook hands. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one out.

“Smoke?” he asked, extending the pack with the red bull’s-eye my way.

“No, thanks.”

“I quit smoking recently. After I finish this one, I’ll probably quit again. It’s a bad habit, what can I say? So the police think his girlfriend did it?”

“Why do you say that?” I’d made a point of not saying who I represented.

“Bruce. He keeps saying she did it. Plus, everyone knows about the trouble. You know—how Tom hit her and all.”