the very thing that mouth put you in mind of.
She looked frightened, but not necessarily of me. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“My name is Bernie Rhodenbarr,” I said. “And I want to talk to you about Valentine Kukarov.”
She took a step backward, put her hand to her remarkable mouth, and burst into tears.
Thirty-Three
It was after ten when I left Marisol’s apartment. I walked back to Ninth Avenue and hailed a cab, something I seemed to have been doing a lot that day. Sometimes I’ll go weeks without taking a taxi, and all of a sudden I was flagging them left and right.
This one let me off in front of Parsifal’s, where an owlish young fellow looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck, either at having a cab drop right into his lap that way or at the young woman who was draped on his arm and ready to share it with him. I wished them well and went on inside.
Sigrid’s shift hadn’t started yet when I’d come in earlier, but she was behind the bar now, serving drinks to the Thank God Monday’s Over crowd. I eyeballed the room, then went and found a spot at the bar. She came over and said, “It’s either Laphroaig or Pellegrino. What kind of a mood are we in tonight?”
I felt more like a glass of brandy—it had been a long day—but it would have been gauche to suggest it. I went with the Laphroaig, and when she brought it I crooked a forefinger and motioned her in close. “Late Friday night,” I said, “I was talking with a woman named Barbara. Dark hair, had it up in a bun—”
“I remember.”
“You were starting to tell us about a guy who came on strong earlier in the evening,” I said, “and then you did a quick one-eighty and changed the subject.”
“Oh?”
“It was pretty smooth,” I said. “She didn’t notice it, but I did, and that might be because I was looking for it. My guess is you were behind the stick two nights earlier, and he was the same guy she went home with that night, and as soon as you made the connection you dropped the subject.”
“That’s your guess, is it?”
“It’s an educated guess.”
“Well, you seem like an educated guy. Maybe you’re even smart enough to tell me why you and I are having this conversation.”
“I’m hoping you’ll help me find him.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I know his name,” I said. “Mine is Bernie Rhodenbarr, and that’s all you’d have to know in order to track me down. But his is William Johnson, and he’s not the only one in Manhattan.”
“You know more about him than I do,” she said. “I didn’t even know his name until just now. And you still haven’t said why I should help you find him.”
“He took Barbara home and fed her a couple of Roofies, and when she passed out he raped her.”
“Christ in the foothills.”
“Then he helped himself to a few souvenirs and went home.”
“What a son of a bitch,” she said. “I wondered what his game was. I knew there was something creepy about him, but that goes beyond creepy.”
“I don’t think it’s the first time he’s used that kind of pharmaceutical assistance,” I said, “and I don’t think it’ll be the last. I’d like to do something about it.”
“Jesus, I’ll say. Something that involves surgery, I would hope. Hang on a second.”
She went down the bar to attend to someone who’d run dry, and I worked on my Laphroaig. “I don’t know how you can drink that,” she said on her return. “It tastes like medicine to me.”
“Strong medicine,” I agreed.
“The thing about alcohol,” she said, “is it doesn’t wear out its welcome. You work in a pizza place, within a couple of months you lose your taste for pizza. You tend bar, you drink as much as ever.”
“Have something.”
“Not till my shift ends, but thanks. You said you wanted me to help you find God’s gift to women. I’m game, but I can’t think how. You’re not a cop, are you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. You could be a private eye. I’ve known six of them, and I swear the only thing they’ve got in common is the state gave all six of them a license.”
“That lets me out,” I told her. “They’d never give me one.”
“Bad moral fiber?”
“Worse than that. A felony conviction.”
“No kidding. It wasn’t rape, was it, or something nasty