Monica freshened up her blood-red lipstick without benefit of mirror. This was something I’d never been able to accomplish.
“His friends were all boring. Nobody was interesting enough to have a gun. They talked about real estate and stocks and bonds, and rehashed college. Harry and Doug were fraternity brothers at Kiltman. They belonged to Zeta. Maybe Doug’s girlfriends had guns. I didn’t know any of his girlfriends.”
“He had girlfriends?”
“Yeah, thank God. Otherwise I would have had to fuck him. He thought I didn’t know he was bringing women into the house when I was away. Hell, if I’d had their address I’d have sent them all fruit baskets.”
Cripes, this was disturbing. These people were all horrible.
“How about businesses he might have visited? Anything gun-related?” I asked her.
Monica got out of the Porsche and tugged her dress down. When she tugged it down her boobs popped out.
“Honestly,” she said, pushing her boobs back into the dress. “Do I look like someone who would give a flying leap about his business?”
“Yes. The business brought money into the house.”
“There were no gun-related businesses that I knew about. What’s with the questioning?”
“Just curious.”
“Yeah, right. I almost believe that. Are we going to stand out here all night, or what? I need a drink.”
She wasn’t the only one who needed a drink. This day wasn’t going down as my all-time best. And on top of everything else that went wrong, I’d just flunked interrogation.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “Lead the way.”
The exterior of Lotus was typical of the many bars in Trenton and almost identical to the two other bars on Merchant Street. Redbrick exterior, oak door, small neon sign over the door spelling out “Lotus,” blacked-out windows. The interior looked like a bordello. Red walls, red upholstered banquettes, high-gloss black bar running the length of the room, high-gloss black trim on the banquettes, a bunch of high-top tables and chairs, fake candles on the tables. Flat-screens behind the bar tuned to sports stations. Lighting was dim to nonexistent. The banquettes and high tops were all in use. People were standing two deep at the bar.
“Hey, you,” Monica yelled at one of the bartenders. “My husband just died and I need a vodka.”
I held my fingers up indicating we needed two vodkas.
Two seats opened up after ten minutes and Monica elbowed her way in. We ordered sliders from the bar menu and two more vodkas.
“This is supposed to be the big hook-up place,” Monica said to me. “All I see are old losers. It’s like they bused these people in from Happy Meadows Rest Home. My asshole husband looks better than most of these men and my husband is dead.”
I had to admit I was surprised at the age of the crowd. Never having participated in the hook-up scene I’d always imagined a little more glamour.
“Can we have a serious discussion for just a moment?” I asked Monica. “Do you have reason to believe your life is in danger?”
“You mean other than my husband and his partner getting murdered?”
“Just because they were murdered doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a target.”
“Yeah, but how do I know?”
She had a point.
“I can’t even disappear,” Monica said. “I’m a person of interest. I have to stay in town. How crap-ass is that?”
She wolfed down two sliders and ordered another round of vodkas. I was still working on my second vodka.
“Cripes,” she said, looking at my vodka glass. “I’m drinking with a freaking amateur. Man up, for crying out loud.”
“I’m not that good at drinking,” I said.
Monica knocked back the third vodka. “Practice, practice, practice.”