Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Mrs. Strazza?” Shifting, he laid his forearms on the table. “I hope she’s doing okay now. Gula said she was really hurt bad. She’s okay—Mrs. Strazza, I mean. Good to work for. Good tips.”

“A beautiful woman.”

“And then some.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Never could figure why she’d hooked up with a guy like…” His face sobered quickly. “That’s a crap thing to say about a dead guy. I just mean she looked like somebody who could have anybody. And he was, like, your dad old. Plus, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality, you dig?”

“You didn’t like Dr. Strazza?”

“Hey, a gig’s a gig, and like I said, she tipped good.”

Eve leaned back. “Do you do a lot of private gigs like that? Big house parties, that kind of thing?”

“Sure. I’m a hell of a bartender. It’s a kind of theater, too, right?” He edged closer to make his point. “You’ve got to figure out your audience, play the role. It’s not my mission in life, right, but it pays the bills, and gives me a lot of grist for the old mill. You gotta observe life, you know it? Listen to people, cue in. For the day job, and for the art.”

“When you’re going into one of these big houses, working the bar for all those rich people, I guess you cue in there, picture yourself living that way, maybe as master of the house, having that beautiful woman in bed.”

“Sure. You gotta put yourself into it. But, say, if I had a gig like that tonight? While I’m immersing in Joe Boyd—my character? I’d be more disdainful of that lifestyle, of all those people pumping alcohol and rich, processed food into their systems. In my head,” he added. “I wouldn’t let the disdain show because, hey, tips.”

“Did you ever do a gig for Neville Patrick?”

“You mean On Screen’s honcho? I got some juice through On Screen, a solid shot in Triple Threat. Nailed that death scene, too. A couple of other, smaller bits. Theater’s my first love, but the screen gets you more exposure.”

“I guess you’ve met Neville’s wife, Rosa.”

“Never actually met her or the main man.”

“Lori and Ira Brinkman?”

“Ah…” He sucked thoughtfully on his juice. “I don’t think so.”

“Miko and Xavier Carver?”

He shook his head. “Don’t hear the bell ring. Man, are they suspects?”

“Toya L’Page and Gray Burroughs?”

“I don’t— Wait.” He closed his eyes, brow furrowed. Then he shrugged, opened his eyes. “Nope.”

“Where were you last night, Anson?”

“Home, man. Barely made it home, had to hoof it for five blocks in the frigging blizzard.”

“You didn’t go to a friend’s, have a friend over?”

“A couple pals had a blizzard party, but I couldn’t get there. Wanted the girl I’m sort of seeing to head over, but she was holed up, too. It was, like, whiteout time.”

“Did you talk to them, to anybody, say, after midnight?”

“Went to bed about then, I think. I’m hoping my agent tags me soon saying I got this part. I should know by the end of the week. They said end of the week. It’s a long time to wait.”

“Tell me where you were July twenty-second of last year.”

He let out a quick laugh, which ended in a puzzled smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I guess not, and, man, I’m so stealing that approach if I ever play a cop. But I don’t know the answer.”

“Don’t you keep a calendar? For work shifts, for dates, for auditions?”