Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

briefly at the photo. Then she lit a cigarillo and took a long, considering pull on it while she studied the three people in front of her. None of them looked down on their luck, and one of them looked vaguely familiar, like someone she might have seen on TV. She took another long nicotine hit while she decided how much money she could charge for information about the slut in the red sweater. Exhaling, she thought about going for a hundred. Two, if she played it right. Then she could kick back with the nickel slots downtown until her butt went numb and her hand ached too much to hit the play button again.
    As smoke streamed around Risa, she wondered if holding her breath would do any good. In the end she went for breathing through her mouth. It didn’t make the air any better, but it didn’t insult her nose as much.
    “A hundred,” the woman said.
    Ian made a disgusted sound.
    Shane reached for his wallet. Two fifties appeared in his fingers. He put one of the bills on the counter.
    With startling speed one fifty disappeared into the woman’s wrinkled cleavage. She watched Shane with watery, demanding eyes.
    He kept the second bill out of her reach.
    “She checked out a couple days ago,” the woman said.
    “Did she say where she was going?” Risa asked.
    The woman hooted. “We weren’t pals, dearie.”
    “Did she leave anything behind?”
    “Dirty linen and fast-food trash.”
    “Room number?” Shane asked.
    “Five. Check it if you want.”
    The fact that she was so willing to let them into the room told them there probably wasn’t anything worth seeing.
    “Later maybe,” Ian said. “Was she driving a Ford Bronco, about ten years old, Arkansas plates?”
    The woman shrugged and watched the fifty that Shane held just out of her reach.
    “You’re supposed to write down a vehicle and license when people register,” Shane reminded her.
    “Yeah, it was a Bronco. Didn’t notice the plates.”
    “What about him?” Risa asked, putting Bozo’s picture on the counter.
    “Our deal was for her,” the woman said.
    Shane got out a third fifty, but he didn’t give it—or the second fifty—to the woman. “This covers everything.”
    She drew smoke in and then shared it with her visitors in a coughing exhalation. “You cops?”
    “No.”
    “Mob?”
    “Sorry,” Shane said.
    She treated them to another round of dragon breath before she shrugged again. “Can’t blame a gal for hoping. I liked the Mob. They were real men, you get me?”
    “What about this one?” Risa said, tapping the photo of Bozo. “Was he staying with Cherelle?”
    “No, the other one was. This one just tagged along with his tongue hanging down to his pecker.”
    “Either of those men have a name?” Risa asked.
    “She called the other one Tim. He called that one”—she tapped the photo—“Socks.”
    “Last names?” Risa asked.
    “She’s the only one who ever registered.”
    Ever. Implies more than once. “How often did Cherelle come here?” Risa asked quickly.
    “Couple times a year maybe. Had friends or kin nearby.”
    “How near?” Ian asked.
    She looked at the two fifties in Shane’s hand. He passed one of them over the counter to her. She stuffed the bill down the front of her bra, on the opposite side this time. One crisp bill for each limp boob. The hard edges of the money poked out against the sweater.
    “Walking distance,” she said. “At least he walked some of the time. Whined about it, too. Car wasn’t his, I guess.”
    “He?”
    “The tall, pretty one. Tim. There’s some apartments a few blocks over to the north and a few old houses just beyond. That’s the direction he went when he walked. Wouldn’t go there at night, if I was you.”
    “Did they make any phone calls?” Risa asked.
    “No phone in the room.”
    “Any visitors?”
    She shrugged. “Didn’t see any.”
    Risa looked at Shane and then at Ian.
    “Did Socks drive a car?” Shane asked.
    “You got another fifty?”
    “Only if you have a description and a license plate.”
    “No plate. Don’t see real good that far off.”
    “You see the state?”
    She nodded.
    Shane reached for his wallet. “Talk to me. Make it good and I’ll make you good.”
    “Purple coupe, the kind of purple that glows in the dark, you get me? Nevada plate.”
    “Foreign or American car?”
    “American. Big engine. Sounds like a street racer and tricked out like a whore’s Christmas. Lemme think a minute.” She nursed a long drag and