W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

Anna had packed her equipment and she was reaching for her jacket when she caught sight of him. Cheney Phillips was, no doubt, the first Santa Teresa stud she’d clapped eyes on. She sat down again.

He slid in across from me. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“No reason in particular. Your name came up in conversation today. I was in the neighborhood so I stopped by. You look good.”

“Thanks. So do you.” I glanced at Anna, who was looking at Cheney as though she’d like to nibble him around the edges. I was hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of those blue eyes of hers, not to mention the boobs.

Rosie appeared at the table, order pad in hand. She’s irresistibly drawn to attractive men, and while she’s wildly flirtatious she’d never look one in the eye. She made sure her newly polished nails were handsomely displayed while she kept her gaze pinned on mine. “Your friend would care for liquid refreshment, perhaps?” Her Hungarian accent was particularly pronounced that night.

I looked at Cheney. “Are you working or do you want a drink?” I said by way of translation. There was no question about what she’d asked, but I knew she’d appreciate my intercession.

Cheney said, “Ask her if she has Dreher Bak or Ko?bányai Világos.”

Rosie waited patiently until I repeated his request and then said, “Is good. Preference is excellent and I’m bringing Ko?bányai Világos.”

I said, “Why don’t you give Anna a plate of Paprikás Ponty. I think she’d enjoy it. My treat.”

Rosie said, “For the lovely Anna, is good.”

As she glided away, Cheney smiled, showing a flash of white teeth. I hadn’t seen him recently and I looked at him with an air of detachment. His hair was in need of a cut. He was clean-shaven and smelled of soap, which I’m always a sucker for. He wore a caramel-colored turtleneck under the sort of sport coat you want to reach out and touch. The fabric looked like suede and the color was a smoky chocolate brown. I know it’s very naughty to compare one man to the next, but with Dietz lurking in the background, I couldn’t help myself. If Jonah Robb had wandered in just then, I’d have found myself in range of the three men I’d slept with in the last six years. I’m not at all promiscuous. Far from it. I’m largely celibate, which is not to say I’m immune from temptation. Technically speaking, with three guys, that’s only one every other year, but it still seemed alarming for someone with my old-fashioned values and a well-developed self-protective streak.

At least I could see tangible evidence of my taste in men. While the three of them looked nothing alike, they were smart guys, good souls, competent, well seasoned, and knowledgeable. All of us were involved in law enforcement to one extent or another—Cheney and Jonah more so than Dietz and me. Temperamentally, we were all compatible—competitive, but good-natured enough that we could have formed a bowling team or played a few hands of bridge, assuming any of us knew how.

Rosie reappeared and placed a paper coaster on the table, then set a freezer-chilled clear glass mug in the center. She placed a beer bottle beside the mug. “Does your friend want I should pour?”

“Tell her thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

“He appreciates the offer,” I said to her. “He says it’s kind of you to ask.”

“Is no worry. Anytime is happy to be of assistance.”

Cheney said, “I got that.”

I watched while he tilted the bottle against the edge and filled the mug with a tawny brew.

Rosie was still waiting.

“He says he’ll take you up on it sometime and thanks so much,” I said.

She told me he was welcome and I passed the news along. When she’d departed for the second time, he paused long enough to sample the beer, which seemed to meet with his approval.

I said, “Bullshit aside, what brings you here?”

“I got a call from Ruth Wolinsky. She tells me you and your friend Dietz are interested in Pete’s clientele.”

“That’s because Pete stiffed Dietz for three grand. We were hoping he had money coming in that hadn’t surfaced yet. So far, no such luck. What’s the story on the shooting?”

“Ballistics says there were two guns at the scene, neither of which was found.”

“Ruthie told me Pete had two guns.”

“He had a Glock 17 and a Smith and Wesson Escort registered in his name. The S-and-W was locked in the trunk of his car. No sign of the Glock. Ruth says he was never without the two. In his bed table drawer we found a shitload of nine-millimeter ammo that matched the slug that killed him. It looks like Pete was shot with his own gun.”