After mulling things over, Colleen climbed up on the desk, got the Bersa .22 Moran had slipped her, got back down, pulled on her bomber jacket. Downstairs she stashed the gun in a sock under the dash in the Torino and drove over to Paris Street, past the Davis household. No lights on. No one home.
Down on Mission, she parked across from Dizzy’s. Ten p.m., it’d be a good place to start looking for Frank Madrid. Detective Owens hadn’t told her to stay away from him.
She wanted to give Frank a piece of her mind.
She also wanted to warn him to watch his back.
More importantly, she needed to make sure Steve Davis didn’t do anything reckless. He hadn’t left her with a warm, fuzzy feeling.
Dizzy’s boomed with chatter and music as she walked across Mission in the light rain. Pushing open the double doors, she found a good dozen people keeping the bar in business. Most of them looked like off-duty cops, ex-cops. “The Ballad of the Green Berets” was playing on the jukebox. But no Frank Madrid. No Steve Davis. Brenda, the bartender, of the tight gray perm, was pouring a shot for some old geezer slamming a dice cup on the bar. She did a double take when she saw Colleen.
“Didn’t think we’d see you in here again,” she said.
Other faces around the bar turned to look at Colleen. She heard whispers.
“What’ll it be?” Brenda asked Colleen, pudgy hands on the bar.
That took Colleen by surprise. “Why not? Boilermaker.” She remembered buying one for Jim Davis the day she met him in here. It seemed an appropriate drink.
Brenda drew a draft beer, set it in front of Colleen on a Coors coaster, got a chunky short glass out from under the bar, set it next to the beer. She filled the shot glass up to the brim with Wild Turkey. Top shelf.
Colleen sat down on a barstool, drank off a third of the bourbon. She smacked her lips, sipped some beer. It was cold and just right for following the sweet Wild Turkey afterburn.
The other people around the bar were watching her.
“How you doin’?” one old guy in a Giants ball cap said to her, friendly.
“Fine, thanks,” she said, sipping bourbon and beer, surprised at the reception.
“You’re Colleen Hayes,” a young guy said. She recognized him, with his trim build and blond crew cut. He was the cop who intervened the night she came in to talk to Frank Madrid, the day Jim Davis was found dead. He had tried to smooth things over and asked her to leave.
“Right,” she said. “You’re Rick.”
He lifted his draft beer and toasted her.
She returned the gesture.
Brenda was wiping down the bar with a wet rag. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“Looking for Steve Davis,” she said.
Brenda shook her head. “Steve doesn’t drink here,” she said. “The jukebox doesn’t make his ears bleed.”
“In that case I’m looking for Frank Madrid,” Colleen said, drinking.
The bar fell silent. Brenda stopped wiping. “The Ballad of the Green Berets” hit its final note.
“Frank won’t be coming in here anymore,” Brenda said, wiping the bar again.
“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” someone else said.
Word traveled fast. Frank was persona non grata at Dizzy’s.
“Can somebody tell me where I might find him?” Colleen asked.
“Try the Avenue Bar on Ocean,” someone said.
“He lives at 1694 43rd Avenue,” someone else said. “Out by the beach.”
“If you find Frank,” someone else said, “tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Straight up,” someone else said.
“If you do find him,” Rick said to Colleen, raising his eyebrows, “be careful, huh?”
Colleen nodded. “I appreciate it.”
She downed the rest of her shot, drank most of her beer. On top of the wine, a solid buzz followed. Dutch courage was just fine for where she was headed next.
She stood up, got her money out, peeled off a five, threw it on the bar.
“No,” Brenda said, picking it up, handing it back. “On the house. You took care of Jim.”