CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Choochie’s turned out to be an upscale version of Calvin’s. The booths were cushioned in red Naugahyde, the air was less than aromatic, and the place had a dim glow. The few customers were male, black, and ranged from young to middle-aged. Rap blasted from a jukebox. Little D’s jacket hung halfway to my knees. I felt like a kid playing dress-up. As we approached the bartender, I pulled the cap down until the bill practically touched my nose.
“Lookin’ for Narsh. You seen him?” Little D asked.
The bartender, rail-thin, with crepey skin, gazed at Little D with blank brown eyes. “Ain’t seen no one,” he said.
“Next time you don’t see him, be sure and tell him Little D lookin’ for him. We got some bidness to discuss. About his employer. And a murder.”
The bartender raised an
