Fatal Care by Leonard Goldberg Page B

in their hands and talking too loud. At the bar were the heavy-drinking regulars.
    Jake led the way over to the bartender and flashed his shield. “We need some information.”
    “About what?” the bartender asked as he continued to dry a glass with a dirty towel.
    Jake showed him the Polaroid snapshot. “You know this guy?”
    The bartender glanced at the photo briefly. “Sure. That’s the Russian.”
    “Did he come in often?”
    The bartender nodded. “Maybe two or three times a week.”
    “Was he a longtime customer?”
    “Nope. He just started coming in about a month ago.”
    Jake did some rapid calculations in his head. Two to three visits a week for a month came to a total of eight to twelve visits. That averaged out to ten visits and that’s how many dead fetuses were found so far. “You know the guy’s name?”
    The bartender shook his head. “He never mentioned it.”
    Jake could sense the eyes of the customers on him. He looked over at them. They quickly looked away. Jake came back to the bartender. “Did he ever drink with the guys?”
    “No,” the bartender said definitely. “He was always at the bar.”
    “Along with his goddamn shoe box,” croaked an old woman with too much makeup on her face.
    Jake turned to the woman. “Did you ever look in the shoe box?”
    “I tried once, but he grabbed my wrist so hard he damn near broke it. I dropped the lid back on the box real quick.”
    “Did you smell it?”
    The woman looked at Jake oddly. “Did I
what
?”
    Jake rephrased the question. “Did you ever detect a funny smell coming from the box?”
    “No.”
    “I did once,” an old man next to the woman said. “It kind of smelled like bad vinegar.”
    “Did he ever tell you his name?”
    “I never asked,” the old man said, and went back to his drink.
    The old woman said, “I called him Doubles.”
    “Why?” Jake asked.
    “Because that’s what he drank.”
    The old man looked up from his bourbon once again. “You know, once I think he called himself Blahdie. He was getting ready to leave one night, and he said something like, ‘That’s enough for old Blahdie.” ’
    “Spell it for me,” Jake requested.
    The old man shrugged. “Shit! I can hardly say it.”
    Jake made a mental note to return to the bar at an earlier time in the evening when the old man wouldn’t be boozed up. Maybe he’d remember more about the Russian’s name.
Blah-dee
, Jake thought phonetically, wondering if it was a nickname.
    Jake turned back to the bartender. “When was the last time you saw the Russian?”
    The bartender thought for a moment. “Monday night, I guess.”
    “What time?”
    “His usual time. He came in about seven-thirty and left around nine.”
    “Did you notice anything unusual?”
    “Nope.”
    “So he just drank and kept pretty much to himself, huh?”
    “Right.”
    “Don’t forget the blonde,” the old woman chimed in.
    Jake quickly looked back and forth between the old woman and the bartender. “What blonde?”
    “Oh, yeah,” the bartender said, nodding, now remembering. “This broad comes in about eight-thirty. Blonde. High class. Looks like money. She sits at the bar and orders a white wine, which she doesn’t drink. Then she makes a play for the Russian. She buys him a couple of rounds. They talk real low, but everybody knows what’s happening.” The bartender picked up an olive from a tray and chewed on it. “She was looking for some action.”
    Jake leaned in closer. “Was she a hooker?”
    “I don’t think so,” the bartender said at once. “She was more like the Beverly Hills type. And besides, hookers don’t buy their johns drinks.”
    “So,” Jake concluded, “you figure she was out looking for some excitement. Maybe a quick bang; then she goes home to her husband.”
    “That’s how I figured it.”
    “Can you describe her?”
    The bartender stared up at the ceiling, thinking back. “Long blond hair. Thin. Attractive, but nothing