Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

The building was gray with black trim, bars on the three windows around the door, a security gate attached to that, attesting to what could and often did happen in this neighborhood.

Del Rio went through the door, Cruz right behind him, like Samuel Jackson and John Travolta going into that diner in Pulp Fiction.

“Cold Cold Ground” was playing on the jukebox, and some people were singing along. The circular bar was jam-packed with local characters. A cheap wooden platform held the TVs, which were tuned to a basketball game. At that instant, the Lakers lost by a point.

Customers groaned.

Alongside the wall opposite the bar was a line of tables under decorative neon beer signs. At one of the tables a pair of trannies was getting crazy. From the pitch and volume of the screaming, Del Rio thought it was just a matter of moments before it got physical.

With luck, they’d be out of there before the trannies blew.

Del Rio had seen a picture of the guy they were looking for. It was a couple years old and the guy had been holding a number under his chin, but Del Rio was pretty sure he could recognize him inside his favorite hangout.

He searched the backs of heads and profiles, and then he saw the African American guy with a short beard sitting at the bar. He was eating a free doughnut and talking to the old barfly sitting next to him.

Del Rio got Cruz’s attention, tilted his chin toward the guy with the beard. Cruz squinted, then nodded, and Del Rio pulled his nine.

Del Rio walked over to the guy having his beer and doughnut, put the gun to his spine, and felt the guy stiffen. The guy stared into the mirror over the bar for a second, looked into the faces of the two men who weren’t joking, raised his hands, and held them up.

Del Rio said, “Mr. Keyes, walk with me.”

Keyes said, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Then don’t do anything stupid.”

This was Tyson Keyes, the badass limo driver who was Karen Ricci’s first husband. According to her second husband, Paul Ricci, Keyes was the man who had tipped Carmelita Gomez that her john had been killed by a limo driver. Maybe he’d done more than that. Maybe Tyson Keyes had killed five businessmen who’d hired party girls for a couple of hours in their hotel rooms.

Keyes swiveled around, then got off the stool very carefully. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for, man.”

The barfly said to Keyes, “You through with your beer?”

“He’s through,” said Del Rio. “Let’s go.”

A couple of people looked up, then looked away real fast. They would say that they hadn’t seen anything.

With his hands still in the air, a former limousine driver named Tyson Keyes walked slowly through the crowd, escorted out the door by a former US Marine and the former California light-middleweight champion of 2005.

Tom Waits sang his signature song on the jukebox right behind them.

CHAPTER 107

A MESSAGE FROM Justine was waiting for me when I got home.

“Jack. I want to stay at Private. That’s a definite yes. Also, if I was rude the other night, I’m sorry. I’m still feeling…bruised. See you tomorrow.”

I listened to the message a couple more times, strained it for subtext, listened for hidden meanings. All I got for sure was that Justine was staying at Private.

Was there still a chance we could reconcile?

Or were we done for good?

I heard her saying There is no “us,” Jack. I’m not sure there ever was.

I had showered and changed into jeans and a polo shirt when the intercom buzzed. I went to my new security system and checked the gate monitor.

Jinx was there with a tray in her hand, silver covers over the food.

She was right on time.