Free Rubbed Out by Barbara Block Page B

was prettier as well, with small, regular features and large eyes that offset her blotchy skin and the scar above her upper lip where her cleft palate had been fixed. Her body was good. Certainly a lot lusher than Wilcox’s wife’s, voluptuous without being flabby. But it was the kind of body that would turn to fat by the time she was twenty-five if she didn’t hit the gym three or four times a week.
    â€œI’d like to talk to you about Walter Wilcox,” I told her.
    â€œYou don’t look like the police.”
    â€œThat’s because I’m not.” I took out my card and gave it to her. “He hired me to find his wife.”
    â€œSo?” She handed the card back. “What does she have to do with me?”
    â€œI was hoping you might know something.”
    â€œAbout her? Why would I?”
    Before I could answer, the bartender ambled over. He was as big and as tall as he was wide. Tanned. Relaxed. Balding. Fortyish. The gold chain he was wearing around his neck served to emphasize its girth.
    â€œYou okay?” he asked Alima. “She bothering you?”
    Alima nodded. He looked at me and jerked his thumb toward the door.
    â€œLeave.”
    I opened my mouth.
    â€œNow,” he added before I could say anything. “You want to talk to Alima, talk to her on her own time. This is a place of business, and you’re interfering with it.”
    I glanced around. “It doesn’t look that busy to me.”
    He took another step forward. “I’ve never thrown a woman out, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”
    â€œFine.” I put both hands up. “I’m going. You mind if I leave my business card?”
    â€œPut it on the bar.”
    I did. I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him, especially since he looked as if he could shot-put a small building.
    â€œCall me if you think of anything,” I told Alima.
    She sniffed and turned back to the man she’d been talking to. When I left, she had taken his hand and was leading him to the VIP room for a lap dance. A sign on the wall said, TWENTY BUCKS PER SONG. When you considered the fact that a song usually lasted no more than three minutes, I decided I was definitely in the wrong field. I wondered if this was how Alima and Wilcox had met, and if he was the only guy she was playing. Somehow I didn’t think so.
    I drove back to the store, picked up Zsa Zsa, went home, and watched old Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell movies till three in the morning while I drank Scotch and ate a bag of chocolate chip cookies. It was a surprisingly good combination. I passed out on the sofa with Zsa Zsa snuggled up behind my knees.
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    I woke up to the phone ringing. I opened one eye and stared out through the picture window. It was dark. The streetlights were still on. It felt like four in the morning, and I felt like shit.
    â€œWhat?” I croaked into the receiver.
    â€œDid you find anything yet?” It was Wilcox.
    â€œWhat time is it?” I was still logy. My head was throbbing and my throat was dry.
    â€œI don’t know. Seven o’clock.” I wondered how long he’d been up.
    I groaned. “You gotta be kidding me.”
    â€œYou said to call.”
    â€œNot this early.” I hung up and burrowed my head in the pillow. I was just falling back asleep when the phone rang again. Why I answered it, I don’t know. It was Paul.
    â€œHow’s the Janet Wilcox thing coming along?” he said, speaking way too loudly.
    I moved the phone away from my ear. “Why are you up this early?”
    â€œI never went to bed.”
    I turned onto my back and rubbed my eyes. It didn’t help. Everything still looked blurry. Maybe I was getting nearsighted in my old age.
    â€œRobin, are you there?”
    â€œI’m going back to sleep. Call me later.” And I hung up.
    The phone rang again. Probably Paul. But it could have been the Pope for all