When Fats Foley weighed himself that morning, he wasn’t surprised to see he’d lost another two pounds. The stress was eating him alive: since the murder, the suckers were staying away from Studio 74 in droves. Happy Hour was a ghost town, Tavares just a memory. The money that had once flowed in now ebbed back out. LA found itself a new watering hole to patronize, a hip new place to drink and dance, a place not crawling with LAPD cops, where you could strut in and stagger out without tripping over dead bodies in both directions. Fats wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep the joint open. Fats, standing there on the bathroom scale in baggy boxers barely held in place by what was left of his hips.
Something crazy had happened last night, and that alone had probably taken off a couple ounc
