Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

lot?"
    "A few times. Grey Goose, up. Sometimes a twist, sometimes nothing."
    "Not an ice freak," said Milo.
    "Nope."
    "Heavy drinker?"
    "One drink, period. Thank God most ain't like her."
    "What else do you know about her?"
    "Nothing, I know drinks, not people." Studying Milo. "You're beer." To me: "Blended scotch, maybe a high-end single malt if you're feeling flush. Both of you drink wine when your wives want you to."
    "Let's hear it for the wives," said Milo. "You're an oracle."
    "Been doing this for fifty-three years, nothing changes."
    "What does your crystal ball tell you about Sal?"
    "Beer, same as you. Only difference is you I might let run a tab."
    "Sal's not a good risk?"
    "I'm a trusting sort," said the old man. "But jerk me around enough and it's cash on the barrel."
    "Sal has trouble meeting his obligations?"
    The bartender laid down his towel, folded it neatly. "What kind of dumb-ass empties a slot machine of ten grand and blows it the same day? When it comes to settling up, he's always got a sad story. So now it's cash on the barrel."
    "Sal react okay to that?" said Milo.
    "What do you mean?"
    "He have a temper?"
    "People don't do that."
    "Do what?"
    "Fuss when I read 'em the law." He reached behind the bar, hefted a Louisville Slugger. Black worn to gray, same for the tape around the handle.
    Milo said, "It came to that with Sal?"
    "Nah, but he knows it's here. Everyone does. Got robbed twenty-eight years ago, coupla cholos pistol-whipped me, my skull was like eggshell. I got smart."
    "A bat's enough?"
    The old man winked. Watery eyes dropped to a spot behind the bar. "Gotta be seeing as how normal people can't get carry permits for firearms, only rich dumb-asses who know the mayor."
    "You got that right," said Milo. "Sal ever hit you up with easy-money schemes?"
    "People don't do that with me."
    "He ever hit up your patrons?"
    "Probably."
    "Probably?"
    "People drink, their lips flap. Sal flaps a lot even before the first beer. But he never impresses anyone. I ignore all that noise and think about my grandchildren."
    "Hear no evil?"
    "Crap floats by me, why would I touch it?"
    "Still," said Milo, "you smell it. What kinds of things is Sal into?"
    "Mostly he bitches about how he used to have money. Stocks, bonds, real estate. Back when kids played instruments. You believe that, I'll sell you GM. Want anything, a soft drink? On the house."
    "No, thanks. Tell us about the blonde."
    "Not much to tell," said the barkeep. "Quiet, but not friendly quiet, more like nose in the air, she was too good for the place. She'd drink her one Goose, get all fidgety, make Sal leave. He followed her like a puppy dog."
    Lifting the towel with deft fingers, he snapped it midair. "You want Doris, she's on shift right around now. Don't tell her I sent you."
    "Doris likes her privacy?"
    The old man returned the bat to its hiding place. "I don't give a rat's ass what she or anyone else likes. My age, I keep things simple."
    Fat Boy was a holdout against franchise fever, a glass-fronted fifties cube with an upwardly thrusting roof that evoked manned space travel. Breakfast special banner taped to the glass, breakfast smells late in the afternoon. Blue Naugahyde booths, counter stools, and aqua carpeting had long conceded the war against dirt and wear.
    The place was empty but for two bearded truckers inhaling bacon and eggs at the counter and a young Hispanic woman tending to them with good cheer and banter. Same unflattering pink uniform as Doris but she made it work.
    "You guys can sit up here."
    No sign of Doris. Then she emerged through rear doors, carrying a two-foot stack of yellow paper napkins.
    Milo waved.
    She ignored him and began filling dispensers. Her name tag said Dorrie.
    "Afternoon, Dorrie."
    "To you it's Doris," she said. "What now?"
    "A few more questions about Sal."
    "I already told you what I know." Moving on to the next booth, she spotted a crumb, flicked it away before dry-wiping the Formica, pressed the