Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

been on duty the night before.
    “He was wearing a green cowboy shirt,” said Rob.
    “Older guy? Gray hair?”
    Rob nodded.
    “Yeah, sure. I saw him. He was here for a couple of hours. Amaretto artist.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “That was his drink. Amaretto and cream.”
    “Oh. Did you notice—”
    “Man, what an outfit. Strictly Gallup, New Mexico.”
    “He said where he was from, then?”
    “Yeah. Said he was a rancher. They have ranches in Gallup?”
    Rob shrugged. “I’m not sure. Did he—”
    “Said he owned half the state of New Mexico. Tell me about it, man! He got that satin shirt at the local J. C. Penney’s; in the basement, probably. Synthetic City, know what I mean?”
    Rob laughed. “Rhinestone cowboy?”
    “Didn’t even have boots. He was wearing Adidas.”
    Rob got serious. “Well, he’s naked now. Lying on a slab.”
    That sobered Jake up. He shivered. “Dead. You don’t think… ?”
    “I think he met someone here who killed him.”
    “Sweet Jesus,” said Jake.
    “Did he leave with anyone?”
    “Omigod. Yeah. He did. There was this other cowboy type…”
    “Someone you knew?”
    “No. He was weird, though. I should have known he was weird. Terry liked him.”
    “Terry?”
    “Yeah. Terry Yannarelli. Lives around the corner—you can talk to him if you want.”
    “Terry liked him,” said Rob, “but he didn’t leave with him?”
    “No. That’s the weird part. There’s guys in this neighborhood who’d kill to go home with Terry. I don’t go in for that clean-cut type myself, but he’s Mr. Star Boarder—I give him free drinks every night just to keep him here.”
    “A drawing card, is he?”
    “Regular little belle of the ball.”
    “But Rhinestone’s friend didn’t like him.”
    Jake said, “It’s coming back to me now. Terry sent him a drink and he came over and talked. But only for about five minutes. Never seen it happen before.”
    “Maybe the guy didn’t go in for the clean-cut type. What’d he look like?”
    Jake got a faraway look, as if trying very hard to remember. Rob prompted: “Good-looking?”
    “Damned if I know. He had on shades and a cowboy hat, pulled down.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Beard. Couldn’t tell much, really. Mystery man. Jesus, he must be the murderer.”
    Rob nodded.
    “Come to think of it, he wasn’t dressed right either. For the hat. Jeans; that was okay. But he had on this kind of ordinary shirt.”
    “Synthetic City?”
    “I don’t know. Just ordinary. Jeez. A murderer. You know what?” said Jake. “Nobody else was interested in that poor dude.”
    “The murderer?”
    “No. Rhinestone. He couldn’t attract flies, you know? I should have given him a free beer. You know what about that guy?”
    “Rhinestone?” Rob sounded confused.
    “No. The murderer.”
    “What?”
    “His beard looked kind of fake.”
    I almost said, “Synthetic City?” but stopped myself in the nick of time.
    We’d drawn quite a little crowd by now, and a buzzing had started. The regulars had caught on that a man had come into the bar last night and picked up someone and killed him. It was now occurring to them that it could have happened to anyone; that this sort of thing had happened before—and when it happened once, it usually happened twice, and three times. The gay version of Jack the Ripper.
    Rob got Terry’s address from Jake and nodded, as we left, to the little group of bar buzzers. “Fear stalks,” he said.
    “Huh?”
    “That’s my follow story. ‘Fear Stalks the Streets; Lunatic on the Loose.’”
    “We don’t know that. It sounds as if the killer went straight for Rhinestone—I mean Sanchez; he must have known him.”
    “Yeah, but it’ll still make a pretty decent follow.”
    I bit my tongue to avoid a fight.
    If Terry Yannarelli was really Italian, he must have had a nose job—either that or his mother’s name was McGillicuddy. He was a regular-featured redhead, but not the freckled kind; he had kind of gold skin that looked as if it had more than a passing acquaintance with a sun lamp. I could see what the guys saw in him. He was wearing only a towel when he opened the door, so I could see pretty well. He had excellent muscle definition, the kind guys get from working out three times a week. He was definitely eager to talk.
    “I knew there was something funny about that guy. I told Jake—did he tell you? I knew it. He said it was sour grapes.”
    “You talked to him for a while?”
    “Hell, no—I