Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland 2)

The bartender wore a short-sleeve tropical print shirt. His big forearms were wrapped with a soft pad of hair, and just above his wrist was a green and red tattoo of the Marine Corps globe and anchor. ?No, cain?t say I?ve ever seen him.?

?Know a gal by the name of Mona, maybe a working girl??

?What?s she look like??

?Middle-aged, reddish hair, five feet three or four.?

The bartender propped his arms on the bar and stared at the painted-over front window. He shook his head. ?Cain?t say as I remember anyone specific like that.?

?I noticed your tattoo,? Hackberry said.

?You were in the Corps??

?I was a navy corpsman attached to the First Marine Division.?

?In Korea??

?Yes, sir, I was.?

?You made the Chosin or the Punch Bowl??

?I was at the Chosin Reservoir the third week of November, 1950.?

The bartender raised his eyebrows, then looked at the painted-over window again. ?What?s the beef on this gal Mona??

?No beef at all. We just need some information.?

?There?s a woman who lives at the Brazos Hotel about five blocks toward downtown. She?s a hooker, but more of a juicer than a hooker. Her dance card is pretty used up. Maybe she?s your gal. Y?all want a drink? It?s on me.?

?How about carbonated water on ice?? Pam said.

?Make that two,? Hackberry said.

Neither Hackberry nor Pam noticed a solitary man sitting at a back table, deep in the gloom behind the pool table. The man was holding up a newspaper, appearing to study it in the poor light that filtered through an alleyway window. His crutches were propped on a chair, out of sight. He did not lower his

newspaper until Hackberry and Pam had left the saloon.

THE BRAZOS HOTEL was made of red sandstone, built in the 1880s, and seemed to rise like a forgotten reminder of lost Victorian elegance in the midst of twenty-first-century urban decay. The lobby contained potted palms, a threadbare carpet, furniture from a secondhand store, a telephone switchboard with disconnected terminals jacked into the holes, and an ancient registration desk backdropped by pigeonholes with room keys and mail in them.

A short-necked, heavyset Mexican woman was behind the desk, a big smile on her face when she talked. Hackberry showed her the photo of Liam Eriksson.

?Yeah, I seen him. Not for a few days, but I seen him here a couple of times, sitting in the lobby or going up the stairs. The elevator don?t always work, so he?d take the stairs.?

?Did he rent a room here?? Hackberry asked.

?No, he was here to see his girlfriend.?

?Mona?? Hackberry said.

?That?s right, Mona Drexel. You know her??

?I?ve been looking for her. Is she in now??

?You a sheriff, huh? How come you don?t have a gun??

?I don?t want to scare people. Which room is Ms. Drexel in??

?Her room is one-twenty-nine. But I haven?t seen her in a couple of days. See, the key is in her box. She always leaves her key when she goes out, ?cause sometimes maybe she drinks a little too much and loses it.?