Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(41)

“Did you see Andy Walton on the night he died?”

Peter nodded. “I did. Andy was a regular at the club, so I saw him a good bit.”

“And he also saw a dancer named Darla Ford the night of the murder. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, Darla. Her stage name was Nikita.”

“Was?” Rick asked. “What . . . ?”

“Shit,” Peter said, standing up and refilling his cup. “Is, I mean. Her stage name is Nikita.”

“Is she not there anymore?” Rick asked, and Peter closed his eyes.

“Ask me something else, OK, kid?” Peter said, his agitation evident.

“How long had Andy been seeing Darla?”

Peter sat back down and sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “A year maybe. Ten months?” He shrugged. “A while I guess.”

“What happened the night of the murder?”

“Just what I said in my statement to the police. Andy came to the club around eleven that night. Had a beer with me and then went upstairs with Darla to the VIP room.”

“How long did Mr. Walton stay in the VIP room with Ms. Ford?”

“Hour or so,” Peter said. “Give or take fifteen either way.”

Rick sipped his coffee. Despite his fatigue, he was alert now, hanging on every word. “What would . . . go on up in that room? Would . . . ?”

“You want to know if he was f*cking her?” Peter said, his lips curving into a grin. Rick noticed a small gap in the man’s teeth.

Rick also smiled, playing along. “Well . . . was he?”

“The on-the-record answer to that is, of course, no.”

“And off the record?”

“Her brains out. Every time he came in.” He fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup. “You have to understand. Andy Walton was a self-confessed ‘man of the flesh.’ He wasn’t getting any at home, so . . .”

“How often did he come in?”

“Two . . . maybe three times a week.”

“Always the same pattern?”

“Pretty much. He’d shoot the bull with me for a beer or two, and then head up the stairs with Darla.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about his health?”

“No,” Peter said, gazing down at the floor. “But Darla . . .”

“What?” Rick pressed, sensing he was getting somewhere.

“A couple weeks before Andy was killed, Darla was crying as she left the club. I asked her what was wrong, and she said something was about to happen. Something big. She couldn’t tell me what it was, but she said Mr. Walton was going to take care of her.”

“Did Andy ever tell you he thought someone might want to kill him?”

Peter shook his head. “No. He never said nothing to me. We mostly just shot the bull. He liked to come to the club and blow off steam. He spent the majority of his time with Darla.”

“Mr. Burns, where is Darla? We’ve tried to meet with her, and no one at the club seems to know where she is.”

Peter stood and emptied the remains of his coffee in the sink. “She’s gone.”

“What do you mean?” Rick asked.

“Just what I said. She’s gone.” Peter sighed. “Look, what was your name again?”

“Rick Drake.”

“OK, Rick, you got a business card?”

Rick fiddled in his wallet and then handed Peter a card.

Peter examined it. “Look, I got no dog in this hunt. I’d like to help Bo because he saved my ass from jail. But I was awful fond of Andy Walton. He was a friend and a great customer. If Bo killed him, then Bo deserves what’s coming to him.”

“Mr. Burns, with all due respect, Andy Walton was the Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan,” Rick said, his exasperation and fatigue palpable. “He and his brethren in the Klan murdered Bo’s father forty-five years ago.”

Peter shrugged, unmoved by Rick’s show of emotion. “He was never charged, was he?”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Rick said. “I don’t understand the people in this town. Bo helped you. If it wasn’t for Bocephus Haynes, you’d be rotting away in a jail cell. Bo helped a lot of people in this town. Why is everyone so quick to throw him under the bus? What about Andy Walton’s sins, for God’s sake?”

“Are you finished?” Peter said, yawning.

“You just don’t care, do you?” Rick asked, putting his hands on his hips and glaring at the bartender. “Nobody . . . seems to care.”

“Nobody’s got time for it, boy. People in Pulaski trying to make a buck just like any other place. Stuff like this just makes it harder. You know how many businesses will close down over the next year because of Bo’s trial? Ask me how much in tips I’ve made in the last week since Andy’s murder.” When Rick didn’t say anything, Peter stuck a finger in his chest. “I haven’t made shit. And you know what? I’m sure I ain’t the only one. I bet sales are down across the board. Here’s what you need to know. Win, lose, or draw. Guilty or innocent. It don’t make a damn. People just want it to go away. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Mr. Burns, it is imperative that I speak with Darla Ford. Can you tell me how—?”