Divided in Death (In Death #18)(63)

"I can't talk about it. Gives me nightmares."

"Do yourselves a favor," Peabody suggested. "Earn the ten."

She turned, sauntered toward the bar. "I've got sweat running down my spine," she said out of the corner of her mouth.

"Doesn't show. You even scared me."

"Dallas would've gotten in their faces more, but I thought that was pretty good."

"Frigid, babe." He yanked open the door, and they were hit by a blast of cold air that smelled of smoke, liquor, and humans who didn't have a working arrangement with soap and water.

It wasn't yet sundown and business was sluggish. Still there were pockets of patrons, such as they were, huddled at tables or slumped at the bar. On a narrow platform that stood as stage, a malfunctioning holographic band played bad reggae. The image of the steel drummer kept winking out, and the looping was just a hair off so that the singer's lips moved out of synch, reminding McNab of the really poorly dubbed vids his cousin Sheila got such a charge out of.

His toeless airsneaks made little sucking sounds as he crossed the sticky floor.

Moore was manning the bar. He looked a little thinner and a lot more harassed than he had in the ID photo they'd studied. He wore his hair in dreadlocks, a kind of explosion of horsey black tails McNab admired. They suited the mahogany cast of his face, the diamond point of his chin.

There was a necklace of what looked like bird bones around his neck, and his skin was glossy with sweat despite the chilly pump of air.

His eyes, an angry black, skimmed over Peabody and McNab as if they were one unit. He shoved a muddy-looking brown brew into the waiting hands of a customer, then used his dingy bar rag to wipe at the shiny chest exposed by a snug electric-blue tank.

He stepped down the bar, and curled his tattooed lip. "I'm paid up for the month, so if you've come in here to shake me down for another deposit go f**k yourselves."

Peabody opened her mouth, but McNab set his foot over hers to keep her quiet. "We're not local badges. The locals got a Survivor's Fund going here, we're not in that mix. Fact is, we'll be happy to make a contribution to your personal fund if you have information that merits it."

Peabody had never heard that cool and faintly bored tone out of McNab before.

"Cop offers to give me money, he usually finds a way to skin me for it."

McNab took a twenty out of his pocket, palmed it on the bar while keeping his attention on Moore. "In good faith."

The money was exchanged, slick as a magic trick. "What're you paying for?"

"Information," McNab repeated. "Carter Bissel."

"Asshole son of a bitch." Somebody hammered a fist on the far end of the bar and called for some goddamn service. "Shut the f**k up," Moore shouted back. "You find that goddamn Carter, I want a shot at him. He owes me two large, not to mention the ass pain I've had running this place solo since he decided to go on f**king holiday."

"How long did you run the place together?" Peabody asked him.

"Long enough. Look, we had some previous business, you could call it shipping. Decided we'd go into this little enterprise here, and each anted up the rent. Carter, he's got a good head for business in that ass**le brain of his. We did okay. Maybe he'd go on a bender time to time. Guy likes his rum and his Zoner, and you run a place like this you can get 'em. Couple days off and on maybe he'd be no-show. I'm not his f**king mother, so what? He takes off, next time I take off. Works out."

"But this time," Peabody prompted.

"This time he's just gone." Moore pulled a bottle from under the counter, poured something brown and thick into a short glass, then downed it. "Took two thousand from the operating expenses, which damn near wiped them for the month."

"No warning?"

"Shit. He talks about a big score. Big score and living high, maybe getting us a class place. Carter, he's full of that crap. Always going to score big, and ain't never gonna 'cause he's small-time. Enough rum, he'd really get rolling on it, and how his brother got all the luck."

"You ever meet his brother?" Peabody asked.

"Nope. Figured he was making it up till I saw this scrapbook deal Carter kept at his place. Full of media reports and some shit on his brother, the artist."

"He kept a scrapbook on his brother."

"Yeah, loaded with shit. Don't know why 'cause the way he talked Carter hated the son of a bitch just for being."

"Did he ever talk about going to New York to see him?"

"Shit. Carter, he talked about going everywhere to see everybody. Just talk."

"Did you ever hear him mention Felicity Kade?"

"Mmm. Slick blonde." Moore licked his lips. "She's some number. She came around a couple of times."

"No offense," Peabody said pleasantly, "but this doesn't look like the sort of place a woman like that would spend much time."

"You never know what's going on with a fancy piece like that. Why I steer clear of them. Come in one night and made a play for Carter. Didn't have to play very hard. Didn't get the nitty-gritty out of him. Usually, he'll brag on the women he bags. Likes to think he's king in the sack. But with this one, he buttoned up. Slylike." Moore shrugged. "No big to me. I get my own action."