Free F is for Fugitive by Sue Grafton Page A

the beer and chips so I never did find out what Tap was short for.
    â€œWe’re just talking about your old friend Bailey,” Pearl said. “She’s stayin’ down at the Ocean Street and Royce is fillin’ her head full of all kind of thing.”
    â€œAw, that Bailey’s something else,” Tap said. “He’squick. He had a million schemes. Talk you into anything. We had us a good time, I can tell you that.”
    â€œI just bet you did,” Pearl said. He was seated on my right, Tap on my left, the two of them conversing back and forth across me like a tennis match.
    â€œMade more money than you ever seen,” Tap said.
    â€œTap and him did a little business together in the old days,” Pearl said to me, his tone confidential.
    â€œReally. What kind of business?”
    â€œNow come on, Pearl. She doesn’t want to hear about that stuff.”
    â€œEat a man’s chips, you might want to know what kind of company you’re in.”
    Tap was starting to squirm. “I straightened myself up now and that’s a fact. I got me a good wife and kids and I keep my nose clean.”
    I leaned toward Pearl with mock concern. “What’d he do, Pearl? Am I safe with this man?”
    Pearl loved it. He was looking for ways to prolong the aggravation. “I’d keep a hand on my wallet if I was you. Him and Bailey took to putting ladies’ panties on their heads . . . stickin’ up gas stations with their little toy guns.”
    â€œPearl! Now, goddamn. You know that ain’t true.”
    Tap apparently wasn’t good at being teased about these things. His choice was to let the story stand, or make corrections that would perhaps have him looking even worse.
    Pearl retracted his statement with all the contrition of a prosecuting attorney who knows the jury’s alreadygot the point. “Oh hell, I’m sorry. You’re right, Tap. There was only the one gun,” Pearl said. “Tap, here, carried it.”
    â€œWell, it wasn’t my idea in the first place and the damn thing wasn’t loaded.”
    â€œBailey thought up the gun. It was Tap’s idea about the ladies’ underpants.”
    Tap made a stab at recovering. “This guy don’t know ladies’ pants from panty hose. That’s his problem. We had stockings pulled over our faces.”
    â€œKept gettin’ runs in the hose,” Pearl said, adlibbing. “Spent all their profits at the five-and-dime buyin’ more.”
    â€œDon’t mind him. He’s jealous is all. We got them panty hose off that wife of his. She put her legs up and they come right off.” Tap snickered at himself. Pearl didn’t seem to take offense.
    I allowed myself to laugh, more from discomfort than amusement. It was odd being caught between these two male energies. It felt like the equivalent of two dogs barking at each other across the safety of a fence.
    There was a commotion at the far end of the bar, and Pearl’s attention strayed. Daisy, standing close to us, seemed to understand what it was about. “Jukebox is broke again. It’s been eating quarters all day. Darryl claims he’s down a dollar twenty-five.”
    â€œGive him back his money from the register and I’ll take a look.” Pearl eased off the stool and moved down to the jukebox. Shana Timberlake was still dancing, byherself this time, to music no one else could hear. There was a touch of exhibitionism in her grief, and a couple of guys playing pool were eyeing her with undisguised interest, calculating the odds of cashing in on her mood. I’ve known women like that, who use their troubles as a reason to get laid, as if sex were a balm with healing properties.
    Once Pearl absented himself, the tension level in the air dropped by half and I could feel Tap relax. “Hey, Daze. Gimme another beer, here, babe. This is Crazy Daisy. She’s worked for Pearl since