Part 32 (1/2)

She laughed with the cigarette gritted between her teeth. ”No s.h.i.+t?”

”No s.h.i.+t.”

She removed the cigarette, flicked the ash on the floor behind her, and leaned into the counter. ”Like Magnum?”

”Just like Magnum,” I said, and tried to give my eyebrows that patented Tom Selleck rise and fall.

”I catch it in repeats,” she said. ”Boy, he was cute-cute. You know?” She arched an eyebrow at me, lowered her voice. ”How come men don't wear mustaches no more?”

”Because people immediately a.s.sume they're either h.o.m.os.e.xual or redneck?” I offered.

She nodded. ”There you go, there you go. d.a.m.n, it's a shame.”

”No argument,” I said.

”Nothing like a man with a good mustache.”

”d.a.m.n straight.”

”So what can I do for ya?”

I showed her the driver's-license photo of Karen Nichols I'd cut from the newspaper. ”Know her?”

She gave the photo a good long look, then shook her head. ”But ain't that the woman, though?”

”What woman?”

”The one jumped off that building downtown?”

I nodded. ”I heard she may have stayed here for a while.”

”Nah.” She lowered her voice. ”She looks a little too, ahm, b.u.t.toned-down for a place like this. You know?”

”What kind of people stay here?” I asked, as if I didn't know already.

”Oh, nice folks,” she said. ”Great folks. Salt of the earth, you know? But maybe they're a little rougher-looking than your average. A lot of bikers.”

Check, I thought.

”Truckers.”

Check again.

”Folks needing a place to, ahm, get their heads together, take stock.”

Read: junkies and recent parolees.

”Many single women?”

Her bright eyes clouded over. ”All right, honey, let's cut to the chase. What are you after here?”