I was alone. It was mid-afternoon. The mattress under my outstretched arm was still warm. Deirdre was gone, but only just. The sun was pinned to a high point in the sky like a bronze tack in a cork board. Somehow the room was still dark and musty – stifling, even. I hadn’t noticed it before. My mind had been elsewhere.

            I tossed back the sheets and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Walter had probably done the same thing a thousand times, I told myself. It wasn’t a nice thought, but there it was.

            And there I was, waking up in a dead man’s bed while his widow straightens her hair and leaves a twenty on the nightstand. The sheets still smelled like her. I’m sure I did, too. I sat on the edge of the mattress a while, wallowing. I didn’t regret what I’d done – not yet – but it would have been hard to ignore the lines I’d crossed. My profession isn’t known for upright morals, but it’s still seen as bad form to get involved with clients. You expose yourself to fraud charges when you start to care more about stringing them along than doing the job they paid you for. People lose their licence that way, and I didn’t have much else to fall back on.

It was a dilemma, to be sure, but not one I much felt like dealing with.

When I eventually dragged my eyes off the floor I caught sight of a slip of paper tucked under the corner of one of the pictures on the bedside table. I grabbed it, turned it over. It was another note from Deirdre – same stationary, same handwriting, same perfume as the one she’d left at my office. She kept her remarks brief, thanking me for my time and giving me a number where I could reach her going forward. I had to admire the efficiency.

I dressed, splashed some water on my face. She hadn’t left a key. That seemed a little odd, considered the zip code. Folks in Yesler Hill didn’t love thy neighbor so much as deeply suspect thy neighbor. But then again, it seemed very Deirdre. She wouldn’t have shed a tear, I figured, if the place burned to the ground. So I shut the front door behind me and didn’t think any more about it.

I drove back to my apartment. I needed a shower and a fresh shirt, and then I needed to make a call. The first came easy, the second not so much. I had questions wanted answering, only I knew they’re be a preamble. The fellow I was thinking about was the only friend I had left from my days as a civil servant. He’d always taken a sort of fatherly interest in the things I got up to. He’d want to know what I’ve been doing with myself, and my first impulse would be to tell him the truth. Neither of us would like that much.

Eventually I got myself sorted. If I wanted to see more of Deidre, the case had to move forward. And if the case had to move forward, I had to knuckle under and lie to someone who’d only ever been straight with me. I didn’t like myself for it, but there it was. I asked the operator to place the call, tried to sound like I didn’t hate myself for it. I don’t think she noticed.    

The phone didn’t ring twice before someone picked up. “King County Prosecuting Attorney, Mr. Sullivan’s desk,” said a voice like starched linen. The sound of it made me wince, took me back to a life I didn’t like being reminded of.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Sullivan, if he’s in,” I said. “Tell him its Mr. Parker calling.”

“Just a moment, please,” said the girl on the line. Then a click – I was on hold – and a good twenty seconds of silence. I took a seat by the phone, waited.

Another click, then a voice as warm as the girl’s was cold. “How’s tricks, Parker?” it said. “How the hell are you?”

I winced again, gritted my teeth. “Listen, Sully,” I said, “I need a favor.”

The man chuckled to himself. I could picture his face, all lines and a twinkle in his eye. “Jesus, kid,” he said. “We used to talk, didn’t we?”

“Sure,” I said. “And we will. Only I’m working right now and you could really help me out.”

“How about them Cubbies?” said Sully. “Hell of a season, am I right?” He wasn’t going to let me off so easy. He never did.

            “Yeah,” I said, “Cholly’s working out fine, looks like.”

            “He damn well is,” said Sully. “Hey, when’s the last time you went to a game? I bet it’s been a lot a years. Not since before you came out here, am I right?”

            “A lot of years,” I agreed. The less I said, the faster I figured he’d get the message.

            Sully wasn’t interested. “My old man,” he said, “He’d take me to Indians games back when. No lie, I saw Tony Mullane pitch his last. It was a hell of a thing, I’ll tell you. We should go out there some time. They got that new park last year, sounds pretty swell.”

            “Yeah,” I said, sighed. I felt like a shitheel, and deserved to.

            The line went quiet. The old man was shaking his head, I just knew it. Then a chair squeal, lighter snap, cigarette crackle. Sully exhaled.

“Alright, kid,” he said. “How bad is it and how much will it cost me?”

My face went red. He assumed the worst because I gave him no reason not to. This is how I treat people who care about me.

“It’s nothing like that, Sully,” I said. “You know I wouldn’t call you if it was. I’m just looking for someone.”

Another chuckle, deep in his chest like always. “Aren’t we all?” he said. “She got a name, or didn’t you think to ask?”

 “Officer Webb,” I said.

There was another pause on the line, another chair squeal. I could picture him leaning forward across a table, genuine concern in his eyes.

“What’s going on, kid?” he said. “I’m really asking.”

            I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said. “Why would you figure there is?”

            “Because you’re asking after a cop,” said Sully. “You don’t like cops, and you know they don’t like you very much. I shouldn’t have to tell you they’ll like you even less if they catch you sniffing around their business.”

            I closed my eyes, massaged the bridge of my nose. “So who says it’s got anything to do with cop business?” I said. “They’ve got wives. Say one of them hired me?”

            “Say one of them did,” said Sully, “And you gave her the juice she needed to call a lawyer and tell her husband to hit the bricks. You think your name won’t come up? You think the man won’t call some of his pals from the precinct, pay you a visit one afternoon? They look after their own, these guys, whether they deserve it or not.”

            “Sully,” I said, “I’m telling you I’m fine.” I leaned back, led my head rest against the chair. “Bills are getting paid, I’m staying away from the ponies. Hell, Calder still lets me drink at his place. That’s a vote of confidence, isn’t it?”

            Sully was quiet again. I heard him draw on his cigarette – an Old Gold, unless he’d switched – and exhale real slow. “You didn’t call after that thing with Carlisle,” he said, “And you didn’t pick up I called you. You worry me when you do stuff like that, kid.”

            The old man was killing me, he was so sincere. I stared at the ceiling, gritted my teeth. I’d apologize some other time, I told myself. I couldn’t picture when that would be, but the thought made me feel a little better.

            “The man died,” I said. “What more was there to say about it?”

            Another silence – I could picture Sully shaking his head. “Alright, kid,” he said eventually. “You tell me you’re fine, I guess I’ll believe it. What was that name again?”

            I sighed, too tired to hide my relief. “Webb,” I said, “With the city PD. Couldn’t tell you more than that. Someone mentioned his name, figured he might know something about something.”

            Sully listened, made a little noise in his throat when I finished. “I follow,” he said, “I follow. Hang on a minute, would you?”

            I told him I would. Then there was a rustle as Sully put his hand over the receiver. I heard an intercom buzz, words exchanged with his girl. Their voices sounded like they were speaking through cotton batting. He came back on the line a minute later.

            “So, business is good?” he said. “Nothing been giving you any trouble?”

            Sully would have liked my expression just then. It was a sort of tortured grimace. I couldn’t have answered him if I wanted to. I was either neck deep in trouble or having the time of my life.

            “Business is fine,” I said. “People come to me with their problems, I find a way to make them worse. Funny thing is, then they pay me for it.” That was the truth, at least. People didn’t leave my office with a spring in their step.

            Sully laughed, lit another cigarette. “You chose the life, kid,” he said. “I told you when I introduced you to Carlisle, it’s not exactly social work. You should try another line, if you’re finding it chafes so much.”

            Now I had to laugh. “Like what?” I said. “You know many outfits looking to hire people who’re too nosy for their own good? You strike out the PD and the County Attorney’s office, there’s not much else out there for guys like me.”

            “Insurance companies need investigators,” said Sully. “Need them bad. People are always trying to falsify claims. I could put in a word with Cal Fisk over at Great American. People leave his office happy now and then, he tells me. And even when they don’t, it’s not his fault.”

            I sighed, rubbed my eyes. “Nix,” I said, “Nix. You know-”

            Sully cut me off. “I know how you feel about that sort of thing,” he said. “I know you think the whole damn world is crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but that’s what’s out there. You don’t want to be a part of it – you want to work for yourself because you can only trust yourself – then you take the work that comes to you.”

            This was exactly the conversation I didn’t want to have. I could have ended it of course. I could have told him I’d slept with a client – a dead policeman’s wife, no less – that I was pretty sure I’d do just about anything she asked me to, and that the realization scared the hell out of me. He’d have dropped the lecture in a second. More than that, he might have tried to help me.

            “I know, Sully,” I said. “I’m just talking.”

           “Sure, kid,” he said. “I hear you.” Then there was a sound on the line like someone knocking lightly on a door. Sully covered the receiver again. Some more voices.

            “Hang on,” said the old man. “Myrna’s just brought in the vitals you wanted.” Paper rustled. Sully mumbled as he read to himself. Then he cleared his throat.

            “Webb, Henry A.,” he said. “Detective Sergeant, Arson, currently posted to the 5th Precinct. Divorced, two kids, current address listed as 620 South Weller.”

            “Right,” I said, “One second.” I reached for my coat, fished out a pad and pencil. “Give it to me again, would you?”

            He did. Then he cleared his throat again while I scribbled. “Sure there isn’t anything else you need?” he said.

            I needed a slap across the face from someone who cared if I lived or died.

            “No,” I said, “Can’t say as I do.”

            I heard Sully inhale, sigh. “Okay, kid,” he said. “Call more often, huh?”

            I told him I would, thanked him. Then I set the receiver down, stared up at the ceiling some more. I needed a drink and a cigarette, maybe something to beat my head against a while.

            Webb’s address put him in the same neighborhood as the late Det. Lance. Like as not, he and Walter were old friends from way back. Made sense, then, the way Webb had been wary of his pal’s fancy new broad. The man was just looking after his territory.

            No point in trying him at home, I figured. It was mid-afternoon, yet. The man would be on duty, either at a scene somewhere or in his office at the 5th Precinct station. Wasn’t sure a conversation with me would do much to brighten his day, but considering his assignment I reckoned I couldn’t make things much worse for him. The 5th was where they sent the juicers and rubes that couldn’t manage a decent clearance rate but knew too much about delicate subjects to get turfed. That and it served as a kind of exile for speaking out of turn. It was anyone’s guess which fraternity Webb belonged to.

            I dressed, hit the elevator, crossed the lobby in silence. It was rounding one o’clock and the place was dead. The streets were, too – cracked gray cement, slick with rain, under a watery grey sky. Not a soul in sight. Honest people were indoors at that hour, putting in an honest day’s work. Better that way, I told myself. I wasn’t in the mood for company.

            I slipped into the front seat of the Nash, turned it over, pulled away from the curb. Tires squealed on wet asphalt. I slunk though empty streets, hunched over the wheel. I’d forgotten to buy cigarettes again.

            The 5th Precinct station was on the east side of town, a squat, square building of grey stone that looked like a merchant’s bank or an insurance adjustor’s. A pair of black & whites were parked in the half-lot along the south wall. Neither looked newer than model year ’25 or ’26. A sign hung over the arched entryway, worn by rain and time into a condition somewhere between driftwood and kindling. I didn’t need it. Nobody came looking for the 5th who didn’t know it already.

            I came in by the front, shook the rain off my coat, sidled up to the receiving desk. The duty sergeant was a jowly Keystone Kops reject. He looked up from his newspaper with moist, veiny eyes, like a bloodhound stuffed into police blues.

            “Yeah?” he said.

            “Detective Sergeant Webb,” I said, “If you can rustle him up.”

            The man’s eyebrows – larger and hairier than most small dogs – came together, bristled. “What for?” he said.

            I shrugged. I don’t think he was trying to jerk me around. Those big, sad eyes spelled genuine confusion. But I don’t discriminate when it comes to cops. They all get treated like shit.

            “Good question,” I said. “Not sure. Just for the hell of it, I guess.”

            The sergeant tried his damnedest to put that one together. His face stretched and pinched in a way that looked almost painful. A fellow officer saved him from pulling a muscle. He sauntered around the corner from the direction of the squad room in a shabby grey suit and a crumpled hat, looking like he’d just woke up from a catnap in a utility closet.

            “Hey, Charlie,” he said. “What’s the rumpus?”

            He was squat, broad-shouldered, rounded-headed. I’d have mistaken him for a nightclub bouncer in a heartbeat. His hair was short and bristly, sandy-colored. He hadn’t shaved in days. He looked from the sergeant to me and back again with tired, grey-blue eyes.

            Charlie looked relieved. He’d been saved from having to use the pile of mush he called a brain. “Fella here looking for Det. Webb,” he said, jerked a stubby thumb at me.

            The newcomer’s eyebrows just barely twitched. “Oh yeah?” he said. “Well I wouldn’t waste my time if I was you. The Detective takes a long lunch, and if he sees you hanging around the place when he gets back you’d be lucky if he didn’t pull a runner.” His voice had a sandpaper rasp to it, roughened by cheap cigars and cheaper hooch.

            I smiled, played it cool. He was nicer with the brush-off than Cpt. Stone. “Thanks all the same, friend,” I said, “But I think I’ll stick around. My time isn’t so valuable.”

            The squat man smiled back. “Your loss, sport,” he said. “Lots of luck.” Then he swayed, turned on his heel, and shuffled out the door.

            I watched him go a while – a grey shape in a world of grey shapes – and turned back to the sergeant. He glared at me, teeth bared under thick, heavy lips. I don’t think he was sure whether to tell me to get the hell out or sink his teeth into my shin. I opened my mouth to make some crack or other, stopped short when something fairly obvious occurred to me.

            I jerk my thumb in the direction of the sidewalk. “That was him, wasn’t it?” I said.

            Again the pained expression, head tilted like I’d blown a dog-whistle. “Who?” he said.

            I was out the door in two seconds. Webb hadn’t made it very far down the street. He didn’t walk so much as shuffle, head down and arms pulled in close. He looked defeated, or like a man who’d rather the world just left him alone. I caught up to him soon enough, drew level.

            “Shame about your pal, Lance,” I said. It was a clumsy opener, but he didn’t seem the type to try to handle.

            “The good die young,” he said, not looking up from the sidewalk. “What else is new?”

            “Spare a minute,” I said, “For his sake?”

            Webb shrugged, dug his hands even deeper into his pockets. “Not just for his sake,” he said.

            I shrugged back. “There a going rate,” I said, “Or is that something we can talk about?”

            The man chuckled. It sounded like gravel being ground under a boot heel. “If you have to ask,” he said, “You ain’t much of a john. But since I don’t have an answer I guess I ain’t much of a whore, either.”

            I nodded. We were quiet for a while after that, walking shoulder to shoulder down an empty street. Webb kept his head down.

            “Hungry?” I said eventually.

            Now he looked up, turned to me, chuckled again. It was a tired sound. I don’t think he wanted to laugh – don’t think there was much left he found funny – but he didn’t have the energy to do more than that.

            “Thirsty,” he said, “But I’ll eat.”

            I followed him to a diner a few blocks away. He chose a booth in a quiet corner near a window, then took a chewed-up cheroot from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. I sat opposite, leaned across to offer him a light. He mumbled thanks. The thing smelled like burning hair. I leaned away as he puffed, blinked back tears.

            A waitress appeared. She was tall and blonde, which was really the most anyone could say for her. Her face was long and drawn, with sharp cheekbones and watery eyes, and her hair looked like it would be grey by the end of her shift. The rest of her, from shoulders to ankles, was all bone and gristle. I felt exhausted just looking at her.

            “Yeah?” she said. Her voice reminded me of my parent’s old Victrola.

            “Chicken sandwich,” I said, “Black coffee.”

            Webb puffed away some more. Then he sighed, closed his eyes, let his head rest on one shoulder. “Two pork chops,” he said eventually, “Fried potatoes, apple sauce, glass of beer. A slice of pie after that – apple, I’m thinking.”

            The girl – her nametag said she was called Ethel – scribbled all that down. Her expression read like she wanted him to choke on it.

            “What beer you want?” she said.

            The man sucked back another mouthful of smoke and shook his head as he exhaled. “I don’t care,” he said.

            Ethel scowled, made another note. Then she was gone.

            I looked across the table at Webb. His eyes were still closed, head lolled to one side. The stub of his cheroot smouldered between thick knuckles like a dying ember. For a minute I thought he’d fallen asleep on me.

            “Seems I’m feeling generous today,” I said.

            “I’ll thank you when you pick up the cheque,” he said. Then he opened his eyes, turned his head to face the window. A few cars rattled past, spraying water on the sidewalks. A wino across the way sat huddled in a doorframe, wrapped around a bottle of something cheap and nasty. Webb sat a while, took it all in.

            Then he turned back, stubbed out his cheroot. “How did you find me?” he said.

            I shrugged, leaned forward. “The usual ways,” I said. “A man dies, people talk. You didn’t think your name would come up?”

            Webb stretched against the vinyl seatback, scratched the back of his neck. “No,” he said, “I didn’t. Walt and I been out of touch for a good while. Don’t figure I rate as a KA anymore.”

            I half-smiled, nodded. “You don’t” I said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

            The man cocked his head, interested. “All right,” he said. “So why are you here?”

            “I think you can help me with something,” I said.

            Another chuckle – harsher than before. “If I could help anyone in the world,” he said, “Why should I help you?”

          “Because,” I said, and flicked a bit of ash off the table, “I’m not asking you for anything you’re going to miss.”

            Webb shook his head. “So far you haven’t asked me for anything at all.”

            “Tell me about Walter Lance.”

            Webb shrugged. “He’s dead,” he said.

            I nodded, smiled. “Sure,” I said. “That’s good. What else?”

            The man went thoughtful – lips pressed together, funny look in his eye. “I don’t think I got your name,” he said. “You said you’d pay, so we’ll talk. I don’t like seeming ungrateful. But I’ll tell you, friend, I like being braced over lunch hour even less. So let’s have your story before mine, yeah?”

            I shrugged, made like I didn’t know what the fuss was about. “Just an interested party,” I said. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

            Webb shook his head. “I’m not concerned, friend,” he said. “I just want to know who I’m taking to.”

            I turned to look out the window. The wino was still there, slumped over, drunk, asleep or dead. I knew from experience it was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

            “I’m called Parker,” I said. “I’m called a lot worse, but Parker is what I answer to.”

            I don’t know that Webb knew me by name. Probably he didn’t. But he knew enough to guess the next line on my business card.

            “Who hired you?” he said.

            I turned away from the window. Webb was leaning forward on his elbow.

            “Under the circumstances,” I said, “Who do you figure?”

            Ethel turned up before the man had a chance to answer. The veins in her arms bulged under dry, papery skin as she set down plates, poured coffee. She had long, thin fingers and nails like yellow claws. I watched her a minute, marvelled that someone who worked around food all day could look like they were dying of consumption. She was built like a sawhorse, that girl. I could almost hear her joints creaking when she walked.

            Then I glanced down at the food she’d served us. The chicken sandwich I’d ordered looked like it was on government relief and Webb’s pork chops put me in mind an illustration I’d seen once in a medical textbook. I was almost afraid to get a look at the pie when it came. I pictured an old leather boot between crusts like wet cardboard.

            The coffee was better – motor oil black and vinegar sour. Not to everyone’s liking, but that’s how I usually drink it. And Webb seemed to like his beer well enough. He’d gulped down half the glass by the time Ethel was on her way again and wiped his mouth with the back of a stubby-fingered hand. He looked like a kid at a soda fountain. Then he picked up his knife, started to size up the chops.

            “Deirdre,” he muttered as he made the first incision. He said it quick and quiet, like he didn’t much like the taste and was trying to spit it out.

            I swallowed a mouthful of java, nodded encouragement. “So you know Mrs. Lance, then?” I said.

            Webb shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth and chewed a while. He didn’t seem overly pleased. Either the food was as bad as it looked or he didn’t much care for the current topic of conversation.

            “Sure, I know her,” he said eventually. “Better than she or I would like.”

            I don’t guess it was such a rough thing to say. Deirdre would have agreed with him, I think. But the way he talked about her, the way he’d said her name earlier, it did something to me. I told myself it was chivalry – I’d do it for any lady who wasn’t there to speak up for herself. That was a lie. It was obsession. I’d chosen her, and hearing someone talk her down made me think they were talking me down too. Or worse, it made me think I’d made a mistake. So I pushed back.

            “Easy, friend,” I said. “That’s a grieving widow.”

            The man scoffed, let fly bits of potato. “Today, sure,” he said. “Tomorrow she’ll just be another bitch on the make.”

            My jaw tightened. I might have done something very stupid just then if I wasn’t confident he knew something useful.

            I scowled, leaned forward, tried to look severe. “I told you to take it easy,” I said. “I’m representing my client’s interests in this meeting, and I don’t think she’d tolerate being talked about like that. You want to pay for your own lunch, that’s fine. You want to hang on to whatever it is that’s eating you, that fine, too. You want to talk, I’m listening. But keep it goddamn civil, you hear me?”

            Webb swallowed a mouthful of applesauce, looked thoughtful again. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. Then he nodded, slowly, and gulped down some more beer.

            “When we were kids,” he said eventually. “Walt and me, I mean. That’s when we met.”

            I nodded back, made myself relax. “Yeah?” I said.

            “Yeah,” said Webb. “It used to be an okay neighborhood, up on the hill. Don’t remember exactly how we met – I mean, I couldn’t tell you a year, or anything. But we stuck together a long time. Right up through the War. Walt was a little older, see, so he enlisted before I did. By the time I was through basic the whole show was over and done with. I remember after he came home he had this funny look in his eye, but he wouldn’t talk about what happened. After a while I stopped asking.”

            I listened, nodded, took a bite of my sandwich. I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what it was made of, but it sure as hell wasn’t chicken. The bread was like sawdust, and the meat – if you could call it that – was all gristle. I swallowed, tried to wash it down with a mouthful of coffee. It didn’t help much with the taste, but at least it kept the stuff from sticking to my teeth.

            “And then the academy?” I said when I was able.

            For a third time Webb looked thoughtful – narrowed his eyes, chewed a little more slowly. “That’s right,” he said around a mouthful of potatoes. “Yeah, that’s right. Must have been…Christ…’22 or ’23 when we got out. We were so goddamn green. We thought we could clean up the city between us.”

            “And did you?” I said. In my defence, I was still a little steamed from before. And anyway, it’s hard not to swing at them when they just float by like that.

            I don’t think Webb agreed. A vein in his forehead started to throb and his face and neck turned an unhealthy shade of red.

            “Sure,” he said, “Laugh. It’s just my goddamn life, right? Man wants to do something with himself and gets slapped down for his troubles, big fucking joke! They said I could have made Captain by ’39, and now I’m writing reports about faulty water heaters and bad wiring jobs like a fucking insurance salesman!”

            I put up a hand, tried not to make any sudden moves. The man looked like he was ready to put his fork through my eye.

            “Easy, friend,” I said. “You caught a bad break. I get it, believe you me, and I’m sorry. But I’m just a stranger asking after a dead man. Save the heat for the people who deserve it, yeah?”

            Don’t know how I would have responded to the same, but Webb eased off the gas. The anger went out of his eyes quick enough and he doused what was left with the last of his beer. When he looked at me next he seemed almost embarrassed, like he was ashamed to let on that all the bullshit he had to put up with was starting to get to him. He didn’t need to be. A man makes his job his life – makes it his purpose – it’s only naturally he’d crack up a little when it’s not there anymore.

            “You and Walt,” I said, trying to get him back on track, “New cops on the beat.”

            “Yeah,” said Webb, “Right. Like I said, it was ’23, maybe ’24. We both got posted to Central, spent three years pounding pavement with all the other rooks. It was a shit job a lot of the time, but we tried to keep it interesting. Walt and me, we had a standing bet to see who could make the best collar every year. Almost made it in ’25 when this mick rum-runner busted my nose while I had him cornered during a raid down by the docks. I ran that asshole down three flights before he let me put the bracelets on him. Christ, but that Irishman was fast.”

            I listened, watched Webb closely. He had this glassy look in his eyes. Either it was a nice thing to remember or the suds were starting to get to him. Some people, you know, they get maudlin when they drink. Me, I get drunk when I drink.

            I swallowed another mouthful of swamp water, nodded at the man. “Walt had you beat?” I said.

            Webb had cleaned his plate, was trying to suck whatever meat was left off the bones. The sound was incredible.

            “Always,” he said eventually. “He always beat me. But that year was a doozy. Pimp named Cotton Charlie put a knife in his shoulder during a roust and led him through three blocks worth of alleyways in the Tenderloin before Walt caught up with him. Had to break the bastard’s legs just to keep him down. Old Cotton went away for good after that, and Walt Lance made sergeant.”

            “That what got him posted to the Mayor’s detail?” I said. “The night he met Mrs. Lance, I mean.”

            Again, Webb almost smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s right. Worst night of his life, if the poor bastard didn’t know it.”

            I let that one pass. “You see him much after that?” I said.

            The man shrugged. “Sure,” he said, “All the time. He wanted we should get along. The lady didn’t agree, of course, tried to poison the well. Saw him less after the wedding. That was fine by me. Seeing the two of them together always gave me a sour stomach.”

            I sniffed, looked down into the dregs of my coffee. “Why was that, do you think?” I said. I was only half sure I wanted to know.

            Webb settled back, pushed aside the carcass of his meal, and slipped a toothpick out of his shirt pocket. I braced myself for a show. 

“She wanted something from him,” he said, between sucking, spitting, and digging around with the thing. “Or maybe she wanted something he couldn’t give her but that he could help her get for herself. Whatever it was, you could see it. When she looked at him…”

He trailed off, gazing out the window again with the toothpick between his lips. I waited, kept quiet. Without thinking about it, I’d turned the conversation around to something that concerned me personally. Now I was stuck.

Eventually Webb shook his head, muttered something to himself that I couldn’t make out, and turned to face me. “When I looked at Walt,” he said, “I saw a good man. Most people did, I think. But when she looked at him, all she saw was opportunity. I didn’t like that. And I didn’t like seeing that my friend had no idea about it.”

It was a hell of a thing to say, especially coming from a man who’d just wolfed down half a pig. A sophisticated thinker I wouldn’t have figured him for. He was right, of course. I knew it even then.

But I played dumb, pulled a face like he’d just clucked like a chicken. “I don’t think I follow,” I said.

Webb’s eyes – still ringed red from the cigar smoke – narrowed a little. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t guess you do.”

He was quiet for a while after that – both of us were – giving Ethel enough time to shuffle over, clear the table, and take Webb’s desert order. We kept quiet after she’d gone, too. Webb looked like he was trying to place me – like he wanted to be sure whether or not he’d ever seen me before.

“What’s your story, mister?” he said eventually. “You never used to be a cop, or I’d know you by name at least.”

I shrugged, wished again I had a cigarette. “That’s how it’s got to be,” I said, “Me, an ex-cop? Can’t just be I’m a concerned citizen with bills to pay and a lack of good sense?”

Webb nodded, spread his hands. “Sure you can,” he said. “Sure you can. But what were you before that is what I’m asking about.”

Again, the man impressed me. It was my dime and he was the one asking questions. Funny thing was, though, I actually felt like talking.

“County prosecutor’s office,” I said, “Deputy Investigator.”

Webb nodded again, slow, knowing. “Sure,” he said. “That figures. Figures a whole lot.”

I raised an eyebrow, frowned. “Yeah,” I said, “How’s that?”

The man shook his head, made a face that was almost sympathetic. “You got it painted all over your mug, friend,” he said. “You been through hell, left some piece of yourself on a battlefield somewhere. Maybe you even wish sometimes you never made it out. Walt had that same look after the Kruats were done with him, like I told you before. I don’t know that the county prosecutor’s is as bad as the Argonne, but I heard it ain’t no picnic for a fella with principles.”

I tried to make like I wasn’t surprised, failed miserably. When you spend so much time half-invisible, carrying around this thing most people can’t see or understand, it throws you for a loop when someone describes it to the letter. Maybe that’s why I was so stuck on Deirdre. She talked like she got it.

It seemed like Webb got it, too. I wasn’t about to jump into bed with the guy, but I took another look at him. I’d pegged him for a sad-sack at first – a juicer who couldn’t face his mistakes and blamed his problems on everybody else. But our talking set me right. He’d caught a tough break or three, was trying to hold on to what was left of his life. Good luck to you, I say, and let me know how you manage.

Webb took the hint when I didn’t say anything back to him that he’d hit the nail on the head. He watched me sitting there, shaking my head at nothing in particular, and spoke his next piece real quiet.

“Just tell me this,” he said. “You call the game, or did you play it out to the end?”

I kept shaking my head, looked off at some corner of the room without seeing it. I still felt like talking.

“You know,” I said, “At the time I didn’t think I had a choice. I had to leave. It was obvious. But these days, I wonder. Maybe I was too proud for my own good. I don’t know. I really don’t.”

Webb managed a weak smile. “Nobody’s sure of anything anymore,” he said. “It’s about the only thing you can depend on.”

Ethel drifted by about then, dropped a slice of pie in front of Webb and filled a cup of coffee. The thing looked about as bad as I’d guessed, with ice cream the color of pine resin, but the man didn’t waste time digging in. Watching his eat was enough to make me wonder if in my life I’d ever really been hungry. When he got to the point of scraping up bits of crust with his fork I figured it was safe to try and get things moving again.

“What did you get sent down for?” I said. “I mean, what did you do that they stuck you in Arson?” We’d talked about my business enough, I figured.

The man sipped coffee, frowned, shook his head. “Depends who you ask,” he said.

I made a show of looking around the place, under the table. “I don’t see anybody else here,” I said, “So let’s assume I’m asking you.”

Webb leaned away from the table, rubbed his eyes a while. Then he sipped his coffee again, looked me square on.

“Burglary was my last real job,” he said. “Not glamourous, but not scut work, neither. Most times you don’t make the papers. But sometimes, when you get something back to a person that matters to them like nothing else, the thanks you get makes up for the all crap you have to deal with otherwise.”

I nodded, leaned forward to show I was listening.

“Two months back,” Webb went on, “I catch a break on a case we been working all year. Kept getting all these calls, see, that seem like they got nothing to do with each other – jewelry stores, private residences, pawn shops – all busted into by what looks like professional operators. No prints, no nitro on the safe, no witnesses. We had bits and pieces – hunches, like – but nothing solid on any of ‘em. Then this guy, this rat fink name of Frankie Numbers, drops us a tip. He says there’s this crew that’s taken over the heist racket, runs a closed shop, leans on the competition real hard. Frankie’s not inside, see, so he gets pissed and calls in some names, tells us to sniff around. Now I don’t much like the idea of doing favors for a shit-heel like Frankie, but I figure we got to clear some cases off the board before they start to rot up there, you know?”

“Fair enough,” I said.

Webb shrugged. “I figure what can it hurt?” he said. “So we start poking around – real quiet like – start asking after some of the names Frankie give us. Turns out he ain’t the only mug in this town that’s been squeezed out of the game. Whole flock of low-rent goons come out of the damn woodwork, tell us all about this network being run out of the docklands. Crackers, second story men, pavement artists – they got every angle accounted for, every setup all planned out. But that ain’t even the pip, kid. Not by a damn long shot.”

“Yeah?” I said. For the life of me, the man had my attention.

“Yeah,” said Webb. “The kicker – the thing that makes these jokers think they’re so much smarter than guys like Frankie Numbers – is that they’re shipping the goods out of the city and fencing them overseas. That way there’s no evidence, see? Nothing to trace, nothing to recover – the stuff just disappears. You ever heard of something like that?”

I shrugged. “Not outside of the pictures,” I said, “Or maybe Terry and the Pirates.”

Webb nodded, bright-eyed, glad to be talking shop with someone who’d listen. “Right?” he said. “So I go to the captain, figuring if the case breaks my way I can make Lieutenant, easy. I sit him down, I tell him what’s what, say me and the boys are ready to kick the door down any time he says so. We got cause, we got sworn statements, we just need the nod, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

The man nodded again, sighed. His expression had changed. He looked shell-shocked, disbelieving. “Captain Sawyer goes red in the face,” he said. “I mean he was mad as hell. Could have told him we busted his wife for solicitation, I don’t think he’d have blown his stack like he did. He tells me – get this – he tells me I was this close to botching a Vice investigation they been working on six months, says I should go back to my side of the playground if I don’t want to wait out my pension writing traffic tickets.”

Something clenched in the pit of my stomach. I knew when I asked him what kind of story it was, how it ended. All the same, I didn’t like hearing it. Too familiar, I think.

“You didn’t listen,” I said.

“Shit, no!” said Webb. He pounded the table to make sure I was listening, wound up scaring the hell out of an old codger dozing behind a newspaper in a booth across the way.

“That was my goddamn case!” he went on. “I didn’t work my ass off, rub shoulders with a bunch of goddamn lowlifes just to step aside the first time some greasy Vice Squad dick tells me I stepped on his wingtips!”

The man wasn’t screaming, exactly, but he was being damned loud. The place went into a hush once he stopped talking. It was so quiet you could hear a fork drop. The girl behind the register – a brunette with pencil eyebrows and a bad permanent – scowled at us from across the room. I showed her a smile, shrugged.

Webb was hunched over his coffee, jaw working, trying to calm himself down. I waited. Eventually he sighed, looked up.

“So,” he said, “I went to a judge I know – owed me a favor, like – told him what I told the captain. He wrote me out a warrant right there.”

“Yeah,” I said again, nodded. Too damn familiar.

“Told the boys we had our marching orders,” said Webb. “They didn’t know different, see, on account of I never told them what Sawyer told me. Didn’t seem right, you know, after all the sweat they put into the thing. Anyway, we hustled down to the docks, real quick and real quiet. I figured if we got it done fast enough it wouldn’t matter whose yard we were pissing in. Bust like that, who gives a shit? We look good, the department looks good – what’s the goddamn issue?” The man had a grip on his coffee cup like he wanted to choke the life out of it. I half-expected it to shatter in his hands.

“Big fucking joke,” he said. “Didn’t get two steps out of the car, telling the boys where they ought to post up, when half the goddamn department landed right on my neck.”

Another nod, another feeling like my stomach was trying to tie itself in a knot. “Who talked?” I said.

Webb scowled, ground his teeth together. “Sawyer, I figure,” he said. “Must have called whoever it was had him so spooked, told them I couldn’t be trusted to leave well enough alone.” Then he looked up at me, shook his head. He looked hurt.

“They tried to pop me on obstruction,” he went on, “Said I’d gone past disobeying orders because I’d been told about the Vice investigation. Sawyer and the Vice squad Captain – asshole named Stone – took turns working me over, telling me I should be brought up on charges, that I was a disgrace to the uniform. Stone even had the balls to accuse me of working for the rackets, said my case was just a front to derail the job his boys had been doing! If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black I don’t know what the fuck is.”

“You think the Vice cops in this town are dirty?” I said. I might have guessed the answer – Deidre had said as much herself – but I wanted to hear it from the man.

Webb sneered, spat out his toothpick. “Ain’t a man in the whole goddamn division don’t take home two paychecks,” he said. “Been that way since I joined up – an open secret, like – but nobody does anything about it. Vice makes good press, see? Voters in this city like to feel safe in their bungalows, like to think the hopheads and the pushers aren’t wandering the streets. Anyone guts Vice now, the mayor and the commissioner end up tied to a goddamn stake in Pioneer Square.”

I shrugged, half-smiled. “Would that be so bad?” I said.

The man shrugged back, nodded. “Maybe not,” he said, “But you and me are probably the only people who think so, and in the meanwhile Vice gets to run the goddamn table. They get the attention, the staff, the resources – whatever the fuck they want. I tell you, it’s getting so most rooks out the academy dream of chasing pimps and dope fiends, being the big hero man in the papers. Real good police – kids with brains, instincts, integrity – they end up at Internal Revenue or join the Pinks. Can’t say as I blame them, but it’s a goddamn shame.”

I had a thought just then, listening to this man lament the sorry state of his profession. A racket being run out of the docks, he’d said. Port traffic as cover for illicit dealings, and crooked Vice cops, and somebody throwing weight around in the department. I’d been thinking all week about what it was Walter actually did for his business partners – what being on the take really looked like, I mean. Webb had just handed me a whole raft of perfectly plausible answers.

Walt could have leaned on Sawyer easy, through Stone and using the pull that Vice had with the brass. I didn’t doubt for a second he could have guessed Webb wouldn’t take the brush-off lying down – he grew up with the man, for Christ sake. And it only made sense, if all the rest was true, that he’d have dropped the hammer on his old pal when he got too close to the truth. That was his job, or had been – to keep the department off the game he and his pals Cato and Fitzroy were running.

I wasn’t going to say any of this to Webb, of course. He looked like he’d suffered enough for a good long while. Telling him his best friend had sold him up the river to cover a dope-smuggling ring would have been too cruel by half. And anyway, Walt was dead. Seemed to me that more or less settled things.

“So,” I said, “This Arson thing is some kind of penance? I mean, why stick around if that’s how you feel about the department?”

Webb grimaced. “I don’t think I deserve it,” he said, “If that’s what you mean. But I got years left on my pension, yet, and alimony to pay in the meantime. The brass wants to feel like they’re punishing me, that’s fine. That’s their privilege, I figure. Me? I’m just making time.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Business isn’t exactly booming on my side of the street, but the hours are pretty good.” The man would’ve been right to pick out the desperation in my voice. I’d taken to him, felt sorry for him, wanted to help. But mostly I think I wanted someone to tell me I’d made the right choices. Five years later and I still wasn’t sure.

            Webb knew it. He was still plenty sharp. But he tried to be nice about it. He smiled, shook his head.

“No offence meant, Parker,” he said, “But I ain’t washed up just yet. The bastards thought they broke me, made me regret the day I ever put on a badge. But they screwed up, see, ‘cause they let me keep the thing. They thought they were playing a joke, sending me down to the smoke-chasers. They want me to punch out, save them some money. But I won’t, yeah? I refuse. They let me be a cop, still. I ain’t walking out of there until I’m good and goddamn done.”

            That hurt. I don’t know that he meant it to, but there it was. I didn’t kick, though – didn’t try to tell him different. I agreed with him, I think.

            So we were quiet for a while, the two of us. Webb turned to the window again, scratched his chin, digested. I checked my watch. We’d been at it for longer than I’d planned and I didn’t have a hell of a lot to show for it. So I shrugged and made a play. It was weak, but that’s how I was feeling.

            “Look,” I said, “Just tell me something about Walter Lance.”

            “Anything?” said Webb. He didn’t look impressed.

            I shrugged. “Whatever you think I should hear,” I said.

            Webb sighed, slumped back in his seat. Then he ran a hand over his face, shook his head, sighed again.  

“He was a good guy,” he said eventually, “A good cop. Maybe that sounds funny – the shit they been saying about him, and all – but it’s the truth.”

I nodded. “Good how?” I said.

The man smiled a little, almost laughed. “I don’t know that I ever had much of a chance,” he said. “I mean, I was good, yeah? I carried my weight and then some. But it’s just a job to me. I try to do it well, but I’m not on a mission out there. But Walt, he believed, you know? I mean, he cared. He really wanted to make the city a better place. For a while there he even had me believing – in him, I’m saying. He was going to make commissioner, hang us all out to dry. Good riddance, if you ask me.”

The pain in my gut came back – hot and tight, like a ball of burning lead. The more I learned about this Walter Lance guy the more I felt like I was reading my own obituary. I must have wanted to know – I kept asking people questions about him and his business – but Christ it didn’t feel so good to hear it.

“So what happened?” I said. Again, I could have guessed.

Webb shook his head. “Same old story,” he said. “Met a girl, stopped talking to his old friends. The girl came along with some new friends, see? The kind who don’t ask for much more than your soul and don’t offer much more than all the money you can dream of. For a kid from Yesler, that’s a hell of a trade up. Guess that’s why I ain’t so sore at him.”

“You know all that for a fact?” I said.

The man shrugged, swigged his coffee. “Like I told you,” he said, “We stopped talking years back. I’m just telling you what I think.”

That sounded funny to me. It’d been in the papers that Walter Lance was crooked, but here Webb was trying to tell me that was Deirdre’s doing. Maybe he was just bitter, got it into his mind that the dame who stole his pal was the source of all evil. Then again, maybe he knew something. Suddenly we had a whole lot more to talk about.

 “What you think,” I said, “Based on what?”

Webb made a face. He didn’t much like where the conversation was headed. “Things I heard,” he said, “Things I seen. You know how it is.”

I leaned forward, elbows on the table – my mother would have been ashamed. “Tell me,” I said. “You’re implicating my client in a criminal conspiracy, saying she’s an associate of suspicious persons. Give me something specific. Tell me you saw her with these people.”

The man scowled. He had a good face for it. “Maybe you didn’t listen before,” he said, “But me and Mrs. Lance never spend any more time together than we had to for Walt’s sake. So there ain’t nothing to give, yeah? I only ever saw her because of him, and I stopped seeing him years ago.”

I pushed. He’d got me in a mood. “Why?” I said.

Webb squinted. “Why what?” he said.

“Why did you and Walt stop talking?” I said.

The man put down his cup a little too hard, slopping coffee over the side and onto his hand. “Jesus!” he said. “How many times I got to repeat myself? I didn’t get along with his lady, you follow? I thought she was bad news! I hated seeing them together! And I hated having to keep it to myself when we talked, like I was the bad guy for wanting to save him from himself!”

I waited a spell, made sure Webb had said his piece. Turned out the man had a lot to get off his chest. Then I tossed him my napkin so he could dry his hand. He’d destroyed his during lunch.

“Sure,” I said. “I got all that. And I’m prepared to overlook the way you keep talking about my employer. What I’m asking is why was the last time you and Walt talked the last time? I mean, what did you say or what did he say that made it impossible for you to face each other again?”

Webb was still steamed. He soaked up the coffee, drained the cup, shook his head as he did. “It was nothing,” he said. “We just talked. It was like – listen, I think we both just knew it was over, alright? It doesn’t matter what we said.”

            It was the first time I’d seen him clam up. There was something there. I pushed a little more.

“Tell me,” I said. “I’ll let you know what matters and what doesn’t.”

The man went red in the face. “Where the hell do you get off?” he said. “Let’s get one thing straight, pal. The only jokers who order me around are the commish and my ex-wife, and that’s because I let ‘em! You want to pick up the check, I ain’t gonna stop ya. You want to talk, we talk. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit here and take shit from some screw who thinks he knows something!”

I listened, sighed, tried real hard to look sincere. This was the tricky part.

“Look, friend,” I said, “Nobody made you sit, nobody made you talk. You don’t like the way things are going, the door is back that way. But let me tell you something for nothing. I’m on this thing, and I’m going to see it through. I don’t know that anybody’s going to come out of it smelling like roses, but right now your old pal Walt is looking to take the worst of it. Now, I don’t think you want that. I think you don’t believe he was what the papers are calling him.”

Webb watched me, listened. I got the impression I’d be lucky to finish my spiel before he bounced my head off the table.  

“I’m going to find what I’m going to find out there,” I said, “And it all goes into the report that the lady is paying for. If she wants to keep it to herself, that’s her business, and it’s no skin off your nose. But if she goes to the papers, well, that’s her business, too. Maybe she wants to embarrass the department, figures Walter wouldn’t care if he went down with the ship. It’ll depend on what I tell her, I’m sure. So, if you got something – something that could maybe explain what the man was up to – you’d best say it now. You’re liable to be the only person willing to speak up for him. So speak.”

The man huffed and puffed some more. A couple times he even looked ready to blow his stack again. But eventually he saw reason. Maybe I wasn’t on his side, exactly, but I wasn’t his enemy. He just didn’t want to say anything that’d make it easy for his old buddy’s widow to paint the guy like a fool. It was an admirable sort of thing, seemed to me, and a damn sight more than most people are willing to do for each other. So I’d help him, if he helped me back.

“It was…” Webb said, then paused and breathed deep. Then he exhaled, blinked away the anger, started again.

“It was ’32, I’m pretty sure. Late in the year – November, December, I think. I remember seeing Hoover’s picture everywhere and feeling sorry for the guy. Bad luck, you know?”

            “Sure,” I said, nodded. It was a bad year for me, too.

            “Anyway,” said Webb, “I’m at this place on the Hill. Hannigan’s, it’s called. Real classy joint, been there forever. Me and Walt used to do odd jobs for the old man who run the place when we were kids. Taking bets, collecting deposits, stuff like that. Got drunk for the first time there, me and him – too young, probably, but the cider was good.”  

He was drifting. I decided to give him a nudge, get him back on track.

“This the same place Walt took the Missus,” I said, “The night they met?”

That got him. Webb stiffened, frowned a little, tried to shrug it off. He didn’t like thinking of her being in that place. I don’t suppose I did either, come to think of it.

“I was off-duty,” he said eventually, “Trying to black out the last few hours of the day. I had my seat, my bourbon. People in there know not to bother me. So then in comes Walt, walks over, sits down next to me. Hadn’t seen him in a year or more, guy acts like it’s nothing. But he’s real anxious, see? I mean, he looks like something is eating him bad. He wants to talk, he says. So talk, I tell him, it’s a still free country.”

I sort of nodded, made like I was tipping my hat. “Awful decent of you,” I said, “All things considered.”

Webb nodded back, glanced out the window again. “Yeah,” he said, “Well. We were friends a long time.”

I let things lie a minute, then coughed, cleared my throat. “What was he so hot to tell you?” I said.

The man shook his head, shrugged. “A lot of things,” he said, “And I’m doing my best to listen. He says the department is going to hell, I nod. He starts talking about some place in France I never heard of, I order another drink. It’s going fine, I guess, but I don’t see what’s got him so wound up, you know? But then he starts in on the wife, tells me he’ll never be good enough for her. I didn’t much like that, Parker.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t guess you did.”

            Webb sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. He was coming to the uncomfortable part of the story.

            “See,” he said, “I was angry about a lot of things just then. And maybe I hit the juice a little harder than I should’ve when he got to talking about his lady. But I swear, the guy is sitting there bawling about how he’s just some kid from the Hill who got lucky, and no matter how much he busted his hump he wouldn’t ever be able to give his girl the life she deserved – on and one like that. And I’m sitting there thinking that everything he’s saying about himself he’s basically saying about me, you know?”

            I nodded, tried to look sympathetic. “You tell him that?” I said.

            Webb’s mouth did something funny just then. It was like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or grimace or start grinding his teeth.

            “I told him what I thought his lady deserved,” he said.

            My face must have done something funny, too. Maybe I had a fit of some kind. There wasn’t a mirror nearby, so I couldn’t say. I only know that Webb held up his hand and started shaking his head.

            “I won’t repeat it,” he said, “Your client being so sensitive, and all.”

         My throat felt tight. I coughed, choked down some coffee. “Walt wasn’t happy?” I managed to say.

            Webb smiled in a grim sort of way. “Walt was never happy,” he said. “But no, he didn’t much like what I told him.”

            Again, I felt sympathy for Walter Lance. We had too much in common not to, I think. Deirdre was only part of it.

            “You knock each other around any?” I said.

            The man frowned, shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Not ever, between me and him. But we had words.”

            I raised an eyebrow, cocked my head. “Tell me some of them,” I said.

            Webb sighed again, real deep, and started rubbing his eyes. “I remember,” he said, “I told him what I thought of his girl, and where she came from, and what she was good for. I’m pretty sure he told me back that I was too dumb or too proud to understand how lucky he was to have a woman like that in his life, and that I’d do the same as him if she was hanging on my arm instead of his.”

            “Hang on,” I said. Something was flapping loose. “Do what?”

            Webb wasn’t listening anymore. I’d got him going, so I guess that was my fault.

“And then,” he said, “I told him – said it good and loud, so I was sure he heard me – I told him what I’d have done if the lady in question was my wife. He turned a color I don’t think I ever saw on a person before. And then it all goes black on me. If anything happened after that, I couldn’t tell you.”

I reached for my coat, fished around in the pockets until I found my notepad. “Do what?” I said again.

Webb blinked, looked around the place. “Jesus,” he said, “There an echo in here or something?”

I leaned forward, spoke real slow. “When you and Walt were talking,” I said, “And he told you you’d do the same as him, what was he talking about?”

            The man scowled, shrugged. “How the hell should I know?” he said. “He didn’t explain and I wasn’t going to ask. Christ, I didn’t want to know, anyway. I was mad, you get me? I just wanted to get lit and forget we ever talked.”

            I nodded, tried not to look too disappointed. “Sure,” I said, “I get you. Just figured I’d ask, you know?”

            Webb nodded back. “Yeah,” he said, “I know. And I answered you.”

            And that was that, I figured. Talk to Deirdre, talk to Sully, track the guy down, let him pour his guts out about every damn thing that’s bothering him, and what do I get for my troubles? Zip. He didn’t like his old pal’s wife, the two had a falling out, they didn’t talk anymore. Nothing I didn’t know already, and all it cost me was $2.25. I guess it was my fault for thinking he’d tell me something that’d bust the thing wide open. It was never that easy. Sometimes you just wish that it was.

That remark about what Webb would have done for Deidre in Walt’s place even sounded like that magic clue is supposed to – offhand, like a slip-up that nobody notices because they’re not thinking to look for it. It was nothing, of course. Hell, maybe Walt didn’t even say it. Webb seemed like he’d tried to drown that night as best he could. I’d had been madder if I didn’t know what that was like. We all got things we want to forget.

“All right,” I said eventually. I’d written down what little I thought I could use, finished my coffee, was counting out bills for the check. “Unless you want to add something, I guess we’re done.”

Webb took a breath, scratched his cheek, looked halfway thoughtful. Then he smiled a little. “He had these strange habits, you know?” he said. “Like whenever he lit a match, he always cupped his hand around it real close so you couldn’t see what he was doing. Picked that up during the War, he told me – German snipers.”

I shrugged, nodded. “Sure,” I said. I felt tired, and sorry that I’d asked.

“He didn’t like the pictures much,” Webb went on, “Said they were stupid. Said real life was more interesting anyway.”

“Yep,” I said.

The man smiled again, shook his head. “And he had this watch, see?” he said. “This thing his old man gave him when he signed up back in ’17. Wore the damn thing every day, said it was good luck.”

I remembered the picture on the nightstand, in the house on Yesler Hill – Walt the soldier, grinning, a leather watch-band sliding down his bony wrist. Funny that it stuck with me, but it did.

“Okay,” I said, “Anything else?”

            Webb’s smile had faded away. I guess maybe he’d remembered the guy was dead. He shook his head, frowned, looked up at me with heavy, tired eyes.

            “No,” he said. “No.”

            I nodded, shrugged on my coat. Webb did the same. He swayed a little when he got to his feet – not drunk, but worn-out. I watched as he steadied himself, then picked up his hat and brushed some dust off the brim. It was a weather-beaten thing, stained and misshapen like it had been run over by a car. But the man handled it with care, rested it lightly on his Crenshaw-melon of a head. He had pride. You couldn’t see it most times, but it was there. I think I liked that about him, too.

            We walked out the door together, Webb in the lead. The sky didn’t look any different from when we’d sat down – no sun to mark the hour, you know. The clouds had settled in, liked the place, had made themselves at home. The rain kept coming. Webb turned up his collar, made like he was going to go.

            I stopped him, cocked my head. “If it turns out I need a few more words from you,” I said, “There someplace I can call?”

The man shrugged, started down the street. “Just ring the 5th,” he said over his shoulder, “Someone will wake me up.”

Next Chapter: Two Irishmen