Permanent Interests Read Online Free PDF Page B

called…" He scratched his chin as he searched his brain. "Si! 'La Dolce Vita.' I think other drivers, they take him there too. You ask them."
    "La Dolce Vita" was one of several dozen unextraordinary drinking establishments that catered largely to male German tourists, working class northern European visitors on the prowl and the occasional Korean or Japanese traveling businessmen with lots of money but zero sense of what constituted class on the European continent. A really bad jazz band boomed a barely recognizable Al Jarreau tune.
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    Armed with a newspaper photo of the late ambassador, Innes and Colleen shouted above the din to the bartender and waitresses, asking if they had seen the man in recently.
    The bartender, a bald middle-aged nonentity with a keenly honed sense of how to mind his own business, simply shook his frowning face as he idly wiped the bar. "No, non mai l’ho visto." Never seen him. Ditto with the waitresses.
    Either they hit the wrong shift, or here was another kind of conspiracy of silence, or Mortimer had never patronized the place, or at least not frequently.
    "Let's try some of the other joints nearby," Innes said.
    Colleen checked her watch. It had been a long day. But with a deep breath of resignation and a quick shrug, she indicated, why not?
    Same results at the "Il Gatto Nero," "La Casa Bianca,"
    "Il Trovatore," "Dude's" and a handful of similar watering holes that Innes and Colleen wouldn't dream of stepping into under normal circumstances.
    "Club Il Oriente é Rosso," "The East is Red Club,"
    beamed down in hot pink fluorescent lights. Ersatz bamboo decked the front. In the window, Chinese parasols flanked an oversized balloon bottle of Tsingtao beer.
    "Bob! Let's quit," whined Colleen as she slumped her arms forward in a gesture of exasperation. "I'm tired, it's late and this is getting to me."
    "Last one, Colleen. Promise!" Innes grabbed Colleen's hand and pulled her along, her feet dragged like those of a child when being taken to the dentist.
    Their eyes needed time to adjust to a murky interior in which a blue haze of smoke permeated the darkness. Dim bulbs enclosed in Chinese paper lanterns, which hung here and there from the low ceiling, provided the only light except for the tiny flickers of candles encased in red glass holders that sat atop minuscule round cocktail tables. A 34 JAMES
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    panorama of a south Pacific beach served as backdrop to the long curved bar, itself sheltered by panels of rough thatch in what obviously was some interior decorator's adolescent vision of an exotic eastern locale. Hostesses, mostly Asian and decked out in red silk tunics, chatted it up with a male clientele that reminded Innes of extras from the movie "Good Fellas." Bethatched private cubicles lined the walls. A poster mounted next to the stage featured an enlarged photo of three grinning scantily clad Asian women, one wrapped around a saxophone, another caressing an electric guitar, the center one clutching a microphone with both hands. "The Gang of Three," shilled the advertisement. "Direct from Taipei!"
    Colleen gaped wide-eyed and slack-jawed around her.
    "They've got to be kidding. This must be somebody's idea of a bad joke," she said.
    "Hello! Table for two?" asked a thirtyish Asian woman in English.
    "Uh, yes," answered Innes. He signaled to a corner table.
    "You like a drink?" asked the hostess as they were seated. "Special house cocktail is Kon Tiki Cooler. You Americans, huh?"
    "How about a Ricard straight up and…"
    "An Orangina," finished Colleen.
    Innes answered her question, "Yes, we're Americans.
    Do many Americans come here?"
    "Oh, some in summer months," the hostess replied, obviously pleased to converse with Yanks.
    Wasting little time, Innes pulled out the now fraying newspaper photo of Mortimer. "Ever seen this man in here?"
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    "This man look familiar," she responded as she studied the picture closely. "I think Mikki know this