A Savage Place by Robert B. Parker Page B

floor-to-ceiling, an Oriental warrior on a horse gazed into a distant valley where peasants worked fields with water buffalo. My beer was gone. Would the Mexican woman know without being told? Would she simply appear without a sign? No. No one appeared.
    “Do you suppose he’s run off,” Candy said.
    I shrugged. Candy drank some wine. Then Felton came back. He kicked off his sandals, picked up his second tequila, and polished it off with some more lime and salt. Then he sat cross-legged on another large white couch across from us. The Mexican woman appeared in the door. Felton spoke again in Spanish, and she disappeared.
    “Now,” he said, “how can I help?” He leaned forward slightly. It was as far as he could, and rested his elbows on his thighs. The Mexican woman brought me another beer and Felton another tequila.
    Candy said, “Do you know Mickey Rafferty?”
    There was a bowl of popcorn on an end table beside Felton. He took a handful. “Rafferty,” he said and put some popcorn in his mouth. He chewed the popcorn. “Sure,” he said, “doesn’t he do stunt work?”
    “Not anymore,” Candy said. “He’s dead.”
    “Oh, my God. Really? What happened? Was it a stunt?”
    “No,” Candy said, “he was shot to death in his room at the Marmont.”
    Felton raised his eyebrows and formed a silent wow with his lips.
    We were quiet. Felton ate some more popcorn. He ate rapidly, taking a handful and pushing it all into his mouth with his flattened palm. He drank his tequila.
    “Isn’t that terrible,” he said. “Isn’t that terrible. Awful.”
    “Can you tell us anything about it?” Candy said. Felton’s upper lip looked a little moist. It might have been tequila. But it might have been sweat. He ate some more popcorn.
    “How on earth could I tell you anything?”
    “I have information,” Candy said, “that you were the last person he saw before he died.”
    There was a little moisture now on Felton’s forehead. It wasn’t tequila. He looked at his watch. “That’s insane. I barely knew him. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. I wouldn’t remember if I had seen him. I’ve never had two words with him.”
    I thought about him looking at his watch. “No,” Candy said. “I know better.”
    I thought about him leaving after we got here to wash his hands.
    “Now listen, Candy, I know you think I’m involved in some crazy shakedown, but this is going too far. I’m willing to help. I know you’ve got a job to do. But…” He gestured futilely with both hands.
    I slid my gun out of the hip holster and held it in my right hand down between the couch cushion and the arm of the couch. Felton didn’t see me. He looked at his empty tequila glass. Then he looked toward the front hall.
    “I mean are you saying I killed him?”
    Candy had no expression on her face. She stared straight at Felton.
    “You probably didn’t kill him,” she said. “Did you have it done?”
    Felton slapped both hands palm down on the tops of his thighs. “For God’s sake, that’s enough,” he said.
    Candy continued to look at him. I continued to keep the gun concealed down between the cushions. Felton looked toward the front hall again and his hopes were realized. Franco had arrived.

Chapter 16
    HE WAS DEFINITELY fat, probably two hundred and fifty on a frame no more than five feet nine. On the other hand Vasili Alexeyev is fat too. The thought was not comforting. Franco was balding and he hadn’t fought it. What was left was cut very short, so that he seemed to be balder than he was. The Vandyke was black and so was the mustache. He was wearing a flowered shirt and green knit slacks and dark brown moccasins. The shirt hung outside the pants. Probably to hide a gun. Or maybe he thought it was elegant. I looked at Candy. Her face was frozen, without expression. She looked at Franco and was perfectly still.
    Behind Franco was the blond charmer I had rousted in the parking lot at the Farmers Market. He’d never wear a