“What are you doing?” I whispered.

He shrugged, palms up. “What?” he whispered back.

“That shimmy thing?”

“I was being sneaky.”

“You were being conspicuous,” Dana whispered. “Everyone knows the way to be the least suspicious is to act like you belong here.”

“Then why are we whispering?”

He had us there.

“Just come on,” I said, reverting to my normal voice.

I led the way up to the top of the stairs (as Marco continued his Broadway Bond routine behind me), where a little landing carpeted in fake plastic lawn opened up to four doors. A and B were on the right, C and D on the left. C had lost its letter; only a dark outline in contrast to the faded door remained. D’s letter had lost its top nail and was hanging upside down. Though, I noticed with a little lift, there didn’t seem to be any visible signs of a struggle or break-in.

I looked from Dana to Marco, then took a deep breath and knocked, hoping like anything a big hairy lady answered the door.

I waited two beats, then knocked again, shifting from foot to foot on the small landing. I could smell Indian food being prepared behind apartment A’s door, and from apartment C I could hear the faint base rhythms of a Black Eyed Peas song. But nothing from apartment D.

I knocked once more for good measure, though I knew deep down it was a lost cause. Either Bobbi was on the run or…Well, I didn’t want to think about the “or.” At least not while Larry was still out there in that “or” limbo land too. Instead, I said a silent prayer to the saint of men on the run that Bobbi and Larry where holed up somewhere together. Somewhere far, far away from Monaldo and his tweezers-challenged goon.

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Marco whispered, voicing my thoughts.

“You want me to pick the lock?” Dana asked.

I turned on her. “You know how to do that?”

She shrugged. “How hard could it be? I watch Veronica Mars. All you need’s a credit card.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I muttered under my breath. But considering our combined experience in breaking and entering consisted of five episodes of a teenage detective and one mangled Visa, I persuaded Dana to leave the lock be.

“Well, maybe we could check his mail? Rico says you can tell a lot about a suspect by going through his mail.”

I shrugged. Might as well. Though I was pretty sure the Mob didn’t send death threats via US postal service.

We clanked back down the stairs and converged on box D again. With a quick look over our shoulders to make sure the local postmaster hadn’t suddenly appeared at our backs, we each took a stack of mail and began sorting through it.

Mine was mostly bills and a couple of envelopes from Clark County Child Services, no doubt wondering where little Bobbi junior’s monthly mac and cheese money was. Electric bill, credit card bills-two of them stamped past due. And a handful of catalogs for “hefty” women’s fashions. I took it Bobbi was not a slight man.

“Check out this dress,” Marco said, holding up a Big Lovely Ladies catalog featuring a pink-and-black polka dot off-the-shoulder number in size 3XL. “This ought to be outlawed.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll one up you,” Dana countered. She held out a catalog page featuring a teal green poncho with bright yellow daisies on it. “Why not just walk around in a shower curtain?”

I was quiet. As I was pretty sure my mom owned that same poncho.

Bobbi’s bad taste in clothes aside, there wasn’t anything terribly telling in his mail. No subscription to Mobsters Monthly, no indication of where he might be now. Though Marco pointed out that the earliest postmark was the middle of last week. Bobbi hadn’t been back to pick up his mail since then.

“You want to check out the bar?” Dana suggested.

Marco and I eyed the blackened windows and row of Harleys.

“Nuh uh,” Marco said, shaking his head violently. “Do you know what they do to guys like me in places like that?”

“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll protect you,” Dana said, taking Marco’s arm and steering him toward the door.

The interior of FlyBoyz was just about as appealing as the outside, and I immediately wished I had Dana’s stun gun. The painted windows gave the place a cavelike feeling, not mitigated by the shadowy crowd gathered around scarred tables and an ancient jukebox playing a George Thorogood song. The men (and a couple of beefier ladies) were dressed in various versions of the leather chaps and biker vest look, some going with the grubby bandanna over the shaved head while others opted for the I-combed-it-last-week mullet look. All of them looked way overdue for their monthly bath, and smelled even worse. The air held the distinct odors of beer, sweat, and a cloyingly sweet scent that I wasn’t about to try to identify. Clearly this was not the Vegas advertised in flashy posters at your neighborhood travel agent.

The air was so thick with cigarette smoke that I could hardly see where I was walking as we made our way to the bar. Which might be a good thing. I didn’t even want to guess at the sticky substance all over the floor.

“Excuse me,” Dana called to the bartender. He was bald, had full tattoo sleeves on each arm and a long goatee that reminded me of a nanny goat.

“Yeah?” he grunted. He gave us a once-over, his eyes squinting at the corners as they rested on Marco.

I think I heard Marco whimper.

“We’re looking for the man who lives above you in apartment D,” Dana continued.

Nanny Goat Guy just gave us a blank look.

“Bob?” I prompted.

A slow grin spread out on Nanny Goat’s face, showing off a row of stained teeth, most of which were still there.

“Big Boy Bob,” he drawled.

“Big Boy?” I asked, remembering the hefty women catalogs.

Nanny chuckled. “Yeah. It’s kind of a pet name. The fruit’s always comin’ in here dressed like a chick.” Nanny paused with a sideways look at Marco’s beret.

Marco gave him a feeble one-finger wave.

“Uh, anyway…” I cleared my throat. “When was the last time you saw Bob around?”

Nanny stroked his goatee. “Not sure. Been a few days though. He missed karaoke night on Friday and Big Boy never misses that.” He did that gap-toothed grin again. “He always does Pretty Woman.”

I tried not to picture the shower curtain poncho to go with that audio track.

“Say, what do you want with Big Boy anyway? Who are you?” Nanny asked, his eyes going from Dana to me…then resting on Marco again.

This time I’m sure I heard him whimper.

“Who are we?” I asked, my voice going about an octave higher as Nanny narrowed his eyes at us. “We’re, um, well…”

I hesitated to tell him. Unibrow had already searched Larry’s place. I didn’t particularly want my name coming up should he make a visit to Bobbi’s as well. I was racking my little brain for a good fake name, when Dana came to the rescue.

“Hey, is that a cobra?” she asked, pointing to a snake tattoo making its way up Nanny Goat’s left forearm.

He nodded. “Yeah. Got it in the Gulf War.”

“No kidding?” Dana leaned in closer. “Because my friend, Rico, has the same one.”

Nanny Goat’s face broke into a smile. “Rico Moreno?”

“Ohmigod, yes!”

“Hell, Rico and me go way back. Used to run around San Bernardino together with this group called the Hellcats when we was kids. After I joined up, we served together in Kuwait. That’s where I got this beauty,” he said, gesturing to his arm again. “Why didn’t you tell me you all was friends of Rico’s?” He reached across the bar and slapped Marco on the back.

Marco lurched forward from the impact, steadying himself on the counter with another whimper.

“What a small world,” Dana mused.

“Hell, in that case I don’t mind tellin’ you, you ain’t the first people come lookin’ for our Big Boy.”

“We’re not?” I asked, visions of Unibrows dancing in my head.

“Nope.” Nanny leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “About a week ago his ex was in here looking for him. Said he missed his child support payment this month. Nothin’ new though, that guy is always behind.”

“So we gathered. Anyone else stop by?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yep. Couple days before that. Big dude. Built like a tank. Real hairy eyebrows.”

I gulped. “What did he want?”

“He was looking for Bob too. Gave me some line about Bob owing him on a gambling debt. I didn’t buy it though.”

“Why not?”

“Like I said, Big Boy was always behind. Any extra cash he got went to those ex-wives of his. No way would he gamble any of it away. The dude was odd, but he wasn’t stupid.”

“Thanks,” I said, though it wasn’t really the news I wanted to hear. Apparently Monaldo was sending his goons to pick off the drag brothers one by one. It was only a matter of time before they worked their way down to Larry’s name.

I pulled a pen out of my purse and wrote down my cell phone number on a cocktail napkin. “If you see Bob, would you mind giving me a call?”

“No prob,” Nanny said, depositing the napkin in his pocket. “Like I said, any friend of Rico’s is a friend of mine.”

After Dana and Nanny exchanged a few pleasantries about what the old dirty dog Rico was up to lately, we made our way back out into the assaulting sunlight.

Marco, who’d been quiet save for the whimpers, let out a long breath as we reached the car. “That was the scariest place I have ever been,” he said, fanning himself with his beret. “I seriously need a drink. Anyone want to stop for a cranberry-tini?”

Chapter Thirteen

In lieu of cocktails, we pulled into a McDonald’s on Maryland and after a Quarter Pounder, Diet Coke, and hot apple pie (hey, I did go for the diet soda), we changed for Hank’s funeral. I paired my mostly clean black leather skirt with the most demure white blouse I’d packed and a dark blazer I borrowed from Marco. Finished off with a pair of casual black Cavalli pumps, I looked conservative enough to blend in at a memorial service.