I took the long way home, listened to the radio, watched the world slide by out rain-smeared windows. I was in a funny mood, wanted to think.

            I didn’t need to be told that Deirdre was the kind of girl a man would kill himself to please. This case of mine was living proof. I had almost no leads, no evidence, no plan to speak of, and still I kept at it. I wanted her to think well of me, answer my calls, ask me how things were going. I wanted to be in her life.

            Webb would have hated my guts for that, if he knew. He probably had an idea, anyway. He could probably smell it on me. I guess I didn’t cover so well, telling him off because my client wouldn’t like the things he was saying. Christ, I must have looked like a fool. He was good to put up with me, answer my questions.

            He didn’t know much, of course, but he helped fill things out a little. I’d learned that Walt was bugged by something back in ’32, tried to talk to Webb about it. I could have guessed what that was about. Everything I knew about the guy, everything people had told me, he didn’t seem like the nervous type. Maybe whatever it was he saw in France had wrung all that feeling out of him. I don’t know. But if a guy like that starts wringing his hands about something, the things he’s got on his mind have got to be pretty serious.

            I stopped at a light, changed the station. Music turned to news, turned to a program about cowboys and rustlers. I didn’t care so much what was playing. The noise just helped me think.   

The thought of losing Deirdre was pretty damned serious. I could speak to that myself. Webb had made it seem like Walt was thinking in that direction, was worried about measuring up. So what would a man like that do to impress the girl who came from money? What could he give her that she couldn’t get for herself?

More money, I guess. That’s why he made the connection between Cato and Fitzroy, helped set up a dope racket, made himself the facilitator. That was the smart bit. The mugs didn’t trust each other not to pull a fast one and try to take the whole thing over. So Walt asked them to trust him instead, promised a strong return if they just held up their ends.  

Thing was, that made all the headaches Walt’s problem. That was the part I couldn’t figure. There were all kinds of things a cop could do to keep his wife wearing diamonds and mink that made for a lot less trouble. Trying to hold two mugs together when that much money was involved was like trying to keep two cats in a sack from tearing each other to pieces.

Cato has an issue with how his people are being compensated? He goes to Walt. Fitzroy gets complaints from his street pushers about the quality of the product? He goes to Walt, too. And anytime one of them suggests that the whole enterprise would run a lot smoother if they just cut out the other, he’s got to talk them down, tell them the city doesn’t need a war any more than their bankbooks do. Who volunteers for a job like that?

I found a spot a ways down from my building, parked the car, stepped out into the rain. A cab slid by, slick yellow, and caught a puddle as it turned at the next block. Water, gray as ash, surged up and splashed over the sidewalk. The old-timer at the corner newsstand shouted something in Greek or Italian. He’d complain, but he’d never move. He knew where he was supposed to be.

Shuffling up the street, head down, I kept on thinking. It seemed to me Walt would have been better off taking his pick of Cato or Fitzroy, putting himself at their disposal and letting them figure out where the money came from. A vice cop, particularly with a clean rep like his, could claim a good price, and he’d have saved himself a gray hair or two. Hell, it probably would have saved the man’s life.  

And then there was another question – a big one. Whatever reasons Walt had for doing what he did, how much did he tell his wife about it? Deirdre had made it seem like she didn’t know much about Cato or Fitzroy. She made it seem like she didn’t know what they had to do with her husband. I don’t guess that was proof of anything, but it’s the version she sold to me.

I could almost believe it, too. If Walt really was the man his widow and his best friend talked about – this square-jawed guy who wanted to clean up the city like I want to empty a glass when I see it – then maybe he was ashamed of himself. He’d done this thing for her, but he was afraid she’d lose respect for him if she knew what it was. Maybe she would have, maybe not. But I could see Walt keeping it to himself.   

She could have been lying, of course. And if she did, it was smart of her. A widow knows her husband was tied up with the rackets when he died, thought maybe one of them had bumped him off, and tries to hire a private dick to track down proof? Nine out of ten of us would end up stringing her along. Tell most mugs in my line there’s money to be had from someone who can’t go to the police without answering all sorts of uncomfortable questions, they start coming up with new ways to pad the bills, drag out the investigation, write up hours of surveillance that never happened. She was lucky she picked me. I’ve got too much shame to do that sort of thing, and not near enough imagination.

I opened the lobby door, shook off the rain like a dog. It was quiet, dark, dusty as ever. I kept thinking about Deirdre, realized I didn’t much like the idea of her lying to me. Most clients, I don’t take it personal. They think their money lets them decide what true and what’s not. I don’t much care. But I didn’t want her to be that way with me. I didn’t want her to treat me like other people.

Still thinking, walking, crossing the lobby, something stopped me in my tracks. A cold, hard thing was pressed into the middle of my back. I seized up, waited. Then someone spoke.

“Took your fucking time,” said Mr. Lee.

I turned my head, looked over my shoulder. A big, square shadow stepped forward from between the pillars that lined either side of the room. It wore a grey suit, and had eyes like two pieces of chipped stone.

“Sorry,” I said, “Didn’t know we had an appointment.”

Another shadow appeared – bigger, wider – and a hand like a bunch of bananas gave me a rough pat down. One of my dance partners from the Emerald Club, I figured. I could smell his cologne. Nobody else I ever met was that comfortable stinking like a dead moose. His friend had to be nearby. Guys like that don’t go anyplace alone, I’ve noticed. Like the gorillas at the zoo, I think they get lonely.

“We don’t,” said Mr. Lee. “You do. And it ain’t polite to keep people waiting.”

The heavy put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed, started to twist me around to face the door. I’d have put up a fight, maybe tried to run, if I was sure my arm would come with me. I wasn’t sure, so I moved the way I was told, followed Mr. Lee. His long arms swung loose at his sides, weighed down by fists like hammers. My chaperone’s twin brother held the door for us, like a thousand pound bellhop, and then we were back on the street.

Lee kept walking, led us around the corner into an alley. A big, black Studebaker was parked at the far end, nose facing the street. The doorman fished in his pockets for the keys, then set about trying to wedge himself in behind the wheel. Mr. Lee shook his head, scowled, then turned to face me.

“Get in,” he said, and jerked a thumb at the back seat.

I tried to shrug, failed. Turns out, there’s a trick to it when someone’s got your collarbone between their forefinger and thumb.

“You could buy a fella a drink first,” I said, “Or at least take me dancing. I got my reputation to think about.”

Lee scowled again. His mouth was like a crack in a block of granite. Then he nodded. The hand on my shoulder squeezed. I swear I felt something crack. Pain shot across my neck and down my arm.

“Get in,” said Lee, “Or we put you in.”

I twisted in the giant’s grip, sucked in air, tried to stay on my feet. It was hard. My knees were starting to wobble. Lee watched me without the slightest hint of interest. I might as well have been a bug on a piece of flypaper.  Eventually I had to nod. It was either that or start pinning up my sleeve.

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

The pressure let up. I slumped, tried to catch my breath. Lee opened the back door of the Studebaker. The big hand pushed me forward. I didn’t fight it, clambered in. The heavy with the grip followed after me, graceful as a rhino in a pinstripe suit. Mr. Lee went around the other side and slid in next to the driver.

We came of the alley at a gentle glide, hung a right past the pharmacy. Just my luck I’d set up shop in the kind of neighborhood where nobody would notice if a man got hustled into the back of waiting car. It could have been the middle of the day, a parade going on, sun shining, eyewitnesses everywhere, and no one would ever say they saw a damn thing. I liked the place because the rents were low, but just then I wondered if there weren’t more important things than money.

At any rate, we weren’t in much of a hurry. The driver, whose neck looked like a ham hock, took his corners real slow, switched on the radio, started humming along to the Hit Parade. Lee barked at him, said to knock it off. I guess he didn’t like Bing Crosby. Except for the heavy breathing of the fellow next to me and a grinding sound that must have been Lee’s teeth, the rest of the drive was dead quiet.

I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t feel like a sock across the mouth, for one. And for another, I already knew. We were going to see Fitzroy. Whether I had an appointment with anyone after that – an icepick, say, followed by an oil drum full of concrete – was anyone’s guess. But the fact I was being escorted told me the big man wanted a word first before deciding what to do with me. So I settled back against the leather and tried to make myself comfortable.

Sure enough, after a leisurely drive through some of the city’s less picturesque neighborhoods, we slipped into a narrow back alley and ended up just outside the loading dock at the back of the Emerald Club. A few trucks were still there from the morning rush. Teamsters in grey coveralls hustled back and forth between parked flatbeds and the open gates with loaded dollies while an old timer with a cigar in one hand and a clipboard in the other barked threats and called out orders.

            Mr. Lee got out of the car, made a motion with his hand that my escort and me should follow. We did – or he did and I was made to – and the group of us skirted past the trucks and the men and went inside through a backstage fire exit. Then it was through a door that Lee unlocked with a key on a silver chain and up a narrow wooden staircase that creaked like an old boat. The man knocked on a second door at the top of the stairs, listened for an answer, and then pushed it open. My chaperon shoved me through a second later, into a part of the joint I’d never seen before.

The back of the club, where I’d last visited with Mr. Lee, had been dark and dank, and smelled of motor oil, reefer, spilled hooch, and cheap perfume. This place, though, was all warm, bright wood, expensive furniture, and everywhere shades of green on the walls, carpet, drapes, and upholstery. There was a desk at one end – big and black, with silver trim and rounded edges – with a matching chair behind it in black leather and silver studs. These sat in front of a window like a half-circle made of triangular slices of frosted glass. The rest of the room followed the theme – bookshelves that about reached the ceiling, a map of the world that belonged in the office of the President of Pan American, and a dry bar I’d have stepped over my mother to get my hands on.

My hosts had other ideas. Mr. Lee walked across the room toward the bar while I was made to understand that it would be the best things for my health if I just took a seat. A meaty hand found my shoulder again, guided me toward one of the pair of low-backed chairs in front of what had to be the boss man’s desk. I might have made a noise in my throat just then, watching full bottles of the best bourbon, and whiskey, and gin I’d probably ever be that close to get farther away instead of closer, but I went along. Not much else I could do.

So I sat, looked around the place. Mr. Lee rattled ice cubes and glasses and bottles. I’m pretty sure it was his way of torturing me. Try as I might, I have trouble picturing the man ever loosening his collar with a highball or a gin fizz. Too hard, I think. The stuff would pass right through him. Me, I soaked it up – maybe too well – and when I ran dry it was a bad scene. The coffee I’d put away at lunch hadn’t done much for me. I needed a drink, and if Mr. Lee wasn’t going to offer I was about ready to force the issue.

The other side of the room, where I thought I’d find the door we came in through, surprised me by being almost completely empty. There was no door, no heavy swinging a Colt in my direction; just a row of bookcases and a stretch of plush green carpet. If there was a hidden passage in the wall I couldn’t see it, which I guess is the point. Didn’t come as much of a surprise, I’ll say. The whole town is full of holes and tunnels, like a bootlegger’s highway running from the Canadian border to the customer’s glass. The hooch peddlers were back to working the dayshift, of course, but there’d always be money in moving certain things on the sly.

Like that was his cue – me thinking about the ways a person could make bank just by being quiet about what they’re selling – the door at the far end of the room swung open and in walked the boss.  John Francis Fitzroy, they called him. He looked like a boxer who’d gone soft, with a thick neck, broad shoulders, big hands, and a doughy middle. By reputation he was a real back-slapping, toast-raising, dirty joke kind of guy, right up until you crossed him. Then he’d have his boys remove your thumbs with a pair of garden shears. It was the Irish in him, I think.

            On this day in particular he was looking real genteel in a pale green double breasted. Mr. Lee handed him a glass as he crossed the room. It was full of something dark, with a cherry at the bottom. He took it in a meaty paw, nodded warmly.

            “Thank you, lad,” he said. “Fix our guest something, would you? Whatever he likes.”

            I smiled as Fitzroy arranged himself on his throne. He smiled back, nodded his encouragement. The man loved playing host. Lucky for the both of us I like being hosted.

            “What’s that you’ve got there, sir?” I said, giving the man a friendly nod back.

            Fitzroy raised his glass, waved it under his nose, took a healthy slug. Then he smiled again and smacked his lips. “Manhattan,” he said. “Very sweet.”

            “Well,” I said, “That sounds fine to me, sir, if you don’t think it’s a little funny.”

            Fitzroy beamed. “Not at all, son,” he said. “Quite on the contrary, in fact.” Then he made a little motion with his hand.

            “That’ll be two, Mr. Lee,” he said, “Quick as you can. There’s a good lad.”

             I looked back at Lee, showed him a smile, too. The man made a face like he wanted to do something unpleasant with the ice tongs. But he made the drink, God bless him, and handed it to me without a threat or an insult. I took it, thank him and his master, and poured a good deal of it down my throat. The stuff went down smooth, like liquid silk. After over twenty-four hours of living the life of sobriety, it was like curling up in front of a roaring fire.

            Fitzroy raised his glass again, joined me. Behind that big desk of his, nursing a drink, cutting a fresh Cuban and lighting it, he looked prosperous and content. The rings on his fingers shined like stars, and the pin in his tie was topped by an emerald the size of a pistachio. It was all part of the pitch, of course. It was all part of the show.

            “Well,” he said, between puffs on his panatela, “Now that everyone’s comfortable, maybe we should get to business, eh?”

            I nodded, frowned. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it,” I said. “Sure we can’t leave it a while, play a hand or two of gin rummy first?”   

            Fitzroy’s smile widened. He took a long draw on his cigar. “Afraid not, son,” he said. “No, it seems you and I have got a problem between us.”

I nodded again. “Well,” I said, “In that case, why don’t I call it, and then you call it, and we’ll see who it comes to.”

“Shut up,” barked Mr. Lee. He’d posted himself against the wall near his boss’s desk where he could eyeball me while I answered Fitzroy’s questions. His arms were crossed, big knuckles like pine knots facing out. Fitzroy grimaced, sighed. Then he cleared his throat.

“Give us a minute with the man, would you?” he said. “We’ve things to discuss you’d not profit from hearing twice, I think. There’s a lad.”

            I watched Lee’s face twist, sharpen. He looked like he wanted to say something, and even more like he wanted to do something. His knuckles flexed, veins bulged. But he only nodded, cleared his throat, pushed away from the wall and walked out of the room. The big green door swung shut behind him with a sigh.

            Fitzroy watched him go, smiling like a man who never got used to people following his orders enough not to enjoy it when they did. Then, when the two of us were alone, he turned to me with a wink and a shrug.

            “A useful fellow,” he said, “Make no mistake. But lacking in the social graces, you might say. He wasn’t too rough with you, I hope?”

            I smiled, shrugged. “No trouble,” I said. “I probably had it coming.”

            The man chuckled, nodded. “Aye,” he said, “Don’t we all?” Then he took another draw, another drink, settled back in his chair. He sat looking at me for a while, blowing smoke like a camp stove, before he seemed to make up his mind about something. 

            “So, then,” he said, “You’re the fellow that’s been looking into what become of poor Walter, eh?”

            I shrugged again, gulped down some more of my drink. “If that’s what they’re saying,” I answered, “Then I guess I must be.”

             Fitzroy nodded. Then he looked down into his glass, swirled it around a little.

            “I don’t suppose,” he said, looking up and winking again, “You’d tell me if I asked you who’s footing the bill?” He had a good face for this sort of thing – big and round, with twinkly little eyes like glossy brown marbles.

            It wasn’t the first time someone had asked me that question, even during this case in particular. I never got around to working out a ready answer. I guess I should have. Clichéd or not, it was bound to come in useful.  

So I sighed, emptied my glass. “How does it go?” I said, and wiped the corner of my mouth on my sleeve. “My word is my bond? Something like that.”

            That seemed to be enough for the man. Fitzroy frowned, shook his head, waved a hand. His cigar made a little spiral of smoke that hung in the air.

            “Of course,” he said, “Of course. Just a passing thought, you understand. Forget I asked.”

            “Forgotten,” I said, “And no offense taken.”           

Fitzroy smiled, bobbed his head in thanks. Then he looked down at his drink again, drained it, cleared his throat.

“Only,” he said, “It’s like this, Mr. Parker. You came in here the other day asking about Det. Lance. That’s your business, of course, and I’ll not hold it against you on principle. But you can understand, I hope, how someone like Mr. Lee gets a little over-exited when he thinks someone’s where they oughtn’t to be. He gave you a bit of a swat, I’m told, and for that I’m right sorry. It never would have happened if he’d come to me with the matter – I want you and me to be clear as crystal on that – but he knows how much I hate to be bothered. We’ll call it a misunderstanding, if that’s all right with you, lad. And, may I say, I’m awful glad to see you’re looking hale and hearty, notwithstanding.”

 “Fair enough,” I said. He didn’t care about the pain his boys had caused me, of course. He just didn’t like hiccups, miscommunications. His organization was supposed to be better than that.  

            The man grinned again. Then he looked a little sheepish, started tweaking the end of his cigar. “But now,” he said, “I must admit I’m feeling a tad embarrassed. I’ve got this favor to ask, you see. Maybe it’s a large one, maybe not – I reckon that’s your call to make, lad, you being the professional and all. It’d be a tremendous service if you agreed to your lend me your aid – the kind of thing I’d not soon forget, you know – but I’m afraid between one thing and another you’ve got no reason to say yes.”

“Well, sir,” I said, “You can always try.”

Fitzroy’s face broke into another smile. “Bless you, lad,” he said. “That’s awful kind of you.”

I shrugged. I’ve never been the type to take a beating personally. And anyway, the man was being civil. In my book, that kind of behavior wants encouragement.

The man at the desk nodded to himself, sighed. “I figure,” he said, “You know a little something about the work that Walter was doing for me?”

“A little something,” I said, “Sure.”

Fitzroy nodded and winked again. He was content to let it go at that. “I never had reason to doubt the man,” he said. “He was a good lad, our Walt. And I like to think if he had a problem he would’ve said something – would have let me help him.”

He paused, took another drag on his cigar. Then he grimaced. “Couldn’t say as much for the other fellow,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, thinking of Cato and his cold, curious eyes, “I think I know the one you mean.”

The man sighed again, shook his head. “I tell you, lad,” he said, “There are things about this world of ours I just don’t understand anymore. Time was, a man defined himself by what he built, the way he carried himself – his sense of pride, I mean. A man was what you saw of him. I knew some giants as a boy – fellows who changed the world just by passing through it. But these days? My nearest contemporary – so they tell me – is an overgrown schoolboy with hands as soft as a calf’s ear. Takes the joy right out of it, son, or very nearly.”

I nodded, frowned. Then I shrugged. “I don’t understand people who talk to their dogs like they’re going to answer back,” I said. “So I think I get what you’re saying.”

Fitzroy stared at me. His expression was blank, almost horrified. Then he laughed, long and loud. Tears glittered in his eyes.

“Blessed Christ, lad,” he said, “You say some damned funny things.”

I smiled, shrugged. “So they tell me,” I said. Seems I’d pegged the man right. He could take a joke, if that’s all it was. He was still scum, of course – still a self-important parasite who fed off people’s weaknesses. But he was the kind of parasite you could have a conversation with. I’ve known worse. 

“So, then,” said Fitzroy, “You know the fellow?”

“Cato?” I said. “We’ve met, sure enough. I wouldn’t say I know the man.”

Fitzroy shook his head some more. “You can thank your lucky stars, son. A thoroughly unpleasant man to do business with, that one. I’d not have bothered if poor Walter hadn’t made the arrangement sound quite so sweet. As it stands now, I’m almost glad to see the end of it. People like that, you know – the type who think this trade is just about the numbers – they don’t sit well with me at all.”

I waited a beat, cleared my throat. “Almost?” I said.

Fitzroy blinked, frowned. “Come again, lad?” he said.

“You’re almost glad to see the end of it?” I said. 

The Irishman blinked again, frowned a little deeper. Then he started to chew on the end of his cigar. He wanted to say something, wouldn’t let himself. His eyes darted around, eventually landing on my empty glass.

“Help yourself, Mr. Parker,” he said. “You’ve the run of the place, by all means.” He waved a hand at the bar, put on a warm, hospitable smile.

I nodded my thanks, tried not to drool on his carpet as I crossed the room. It was a hell of a setup – gin, rum, whiskey, lined up like soldiers next to crystal and silver. Just being in the presence of that much top-shelf hooch was enough to make my head swim. Eventually I picked a glass, dropped in some ice, poured a belt and a half of Johnny Walker that was old enough to be my father. I gave it a whiff, tilted it back.

The stuff went down like a dream. The warmth hit me first in the soles of my feet, then filled me past the eyeballs. It was pure comfort, security, ease – the hard edges fell away, the pain disappeared. I closed my eyes, savored it, had to stop myself from humming. Then I turned to the man behind the desk – still puffing away, fretting, uncomfortable.

“Listen, Mr. Fitzroy,” I said, “If you want to ask me something, just ask. Your time is too valuable and mine is too expensive for either of us to waste it.”   

The man stared a while, mouth working like he wasn’t sure what to say. Then he nodded, plunked his drink down on the desk, showed me a big, sheepish grin.

“Serves me right,” he said, “For trying to be delicate. Didn’t feel natural, you know.”

I shrugged, took my seat, smiling right back. I felt good. “It’s your castle, Mr. Fitzroy,” I said. “Feel as natural as you like.”

Fitzroy smiled wider, tapped the side of his nose with a stubby finger. Then he leaned back in his chair, took a long, luxurious draw on his cigar, let his other hand settle on the bulge of his stomach.

“There’s a young man I know,” he said eventually, “A real up-and-coming type, you see. He’ll be governor of this fine state someday, mark my words. For the moment, though, he’s what they call the county prosecutor.”

I tried – really tried – not to smile, laugh, choke on my drink. I don’t know how well I managed, but Fitzroy didn’t flinch. Maybe my poker face isn’t so bad.

“You don’t say,” I said, like I really was interested. “Well that’s just fine.”

Fitzroy beamed. The man was proud of himself. “Ain’t it just, son?” he said. “And do you know something occurred to me the other day? It did indeed. I was thinking about how rough we treated you when last you were here, you see, and how I could make it up to you. And then, wouldn’t you know it, I got to thinking about this friend of mine. And it struck me, you see, that you and him would surely have a helluva lot to talk about if you were ever introduced.”

I didn’t doubt it. I could tell him about working for his predecessor and why I turned in my papers. He could tell me whether his office still squashed convictions for the local party boss. 

 “Yeah?” I said. “What sort of thing is he interested in?”

“Advancing his reputation,” said Fitzroy. His shiny pink face was glowing like a lantern. “The man who helps him along is the man who helps himself, mark me.”

I nodded, smiled a little. “You and him have that in common, I guess.”

The man shrugged, spread his hands over the surface of his desk. “I always remember my friends,” he said.

He had style, anyway. Cato had made it sound like I had no other choice but to do what he asked. He was banking on the fact that we’d both come to the same conclusion. Fitzroy at least tried to sell it, make it seem like he was cutting me in on something.

So I aimed a nod in the man’s direction, raised my glass. He could take that how he wanted. The gleam in his eye told me he took it just fine.

            “If you don’t mind,” I said, “There are still a few things I’d like cleared up. Just so we’re all on the same page, you understand.”

            Fitzroy waved his hand, nodded. “Of course, son,” he said, “Of course. Ask away.”

            I told him thanks, reached for my book and pencil. The man watched me, smiling, calm.

            “So,” I said, “You had nothing to do with the demise of Detective Walter Lance. Is that correct?”

            “I surely did not,” said Fitzroy. He looked me in the eye on that one, stopped smiling. I was supposed to take him seriously.

            I nodded, made a note. “And you don’t know who was responsible for his death,” I said.

            The man rolled his cigar between thumb and forefinger, watched the smoke trail up to the ceiling. “Can’t say as I know who killed him,” he said, “But I think we both know who’s responsible.”

            “Fair enough,” I said, made another note. Again, I wasn’t in a hurry to set the man straight. If it made my life easier, he could go ahead and believe we were on the same side of things. I knew we weren’t.

            “But you did know him, yes? I said. “That is, you were an acquaintance of Det. Lance?”

            Fitzroy nodded, his smile turning a little sad around the edges. “Aye,” he said, “I was indeed. He was a good lad, Walter, like I told you before. Came by the club most weeks, you know. Never caused a fuss, never got fresh with the girls – a decent sort, the man was. I’d take a few more customers like him, for preference. And I’ll not likely do business with someone that honest again if I live to see a hundred.”

            It was funny, hearing this dope pusher say the same kind of things about Walt as his best friend and his widow. Most men, in my experience, have two faces. One, they show to the people they care about, whether that’s good or that’s bad, and the other they show to the world. But I guess Walt was just Walt. He was decent to everybody, whether they were loved ones or business partners. I don’t know if that made me like him more or less.

            I scratched out another line in my book, nodding to myself as I did. Then I looked up, raised an eyebrow.

            “How did he seem to you,” I said, “The last time you saw him?”

            Fitzroy frowned, scratched the side of his face. “How do you mean?” he said.

            I watched my host a minute. His voice sounded different – not nervous, exactly, but wary. Then I shrugged, shook my head.

            “I don’t know,” I said. “Did he seem distracted, maybe, or anxious?”

            The man puckered his lips, twitched his nose a little. Then he shrugged back, took a long draw on his cigar.

            “The thing you’ve got to know about Walt,” he said, “The thing you would know if you’d had the pleasure of meeting him, is that there was always something eating the poor soul. He was a decent man, I’ll say it again, but not a very happy one. I always let well enough alone, you know – got to respect a man’s privacy – but I had my suspicions. Something going on at home, I figured. That woman of his…”

            The shiny, overstuffed Irishman trailed off, shaking his head and half-smiling. I reached for my drink, tried to wash away the funny feeling that came over me all of a sudden.

            I swallowed, breathed easy. “Mrs. Lance, you mean?” I said.

            Fitzroy nodded, chuckled, then shook his head. “Never could figure on those two,” he said. “Grew up in different worlds, you know – didn’t have a damn thing in common. Can’t imagine Walt had an easy time giving her the kind of life she was used to.”

            “But brother,” he said, and gave a big, long wolf-whistle, “Who could blame a fellow for trying?”

            I didn’t notice until I felt the pain in my knuckles that I was holding on to my glass like someone was going to take it away from me. Any harder and the thing would have shattered. I finished my drink, just in case, and took another slow breath.

            “So you wouldn’t claim, then,” I said, “That Walt seemed more distracted than was normal for him.”

            Fitzroy blinked, frowned. “Hmm?” he said. The expression on his face made it plain he’d been daydreaming. Then he looked at me, started shaking his head.

            “No,” he said. “No, that’s about right.”

             There were more questions I could have asked – more I probably should have asked – but all I wanted in that moment was to get the hell out of Fitzroy’s presence. His put-on good humor was starting to make me sick. That, and the way he talked about Deirdre rubbed me the wrong way altogether. I knew he was right, I think – that a man could only kill himself trying to make her happy – but I don’t suppose I was ready to hear it.

            So I closed my book, put it away. “That’ll do for now,” I said. “There are some more people I’ve got to see, and I don’t expect you’ve got the time to waste talking to me all day.”

            Fitzroy waved me off, genial as ever. “No trouble at all, lad,” he said. “I tell you, it was my pleasure. Like I said, I felt I rather owed you after the way you were treated the last time you came by.” The man smiled as he said all this, puffed on his cigar, then checked the time.

            “Ah,” he said, “But I suppose you’re right. I’ll say I’m glad we could come to an understanding, son, and I look forward to hearing from you again soon enough.” The he reached out with a fat, pink finger clicked something next to the Dictaphone on his desk. A second later I heard footsteps, and panting, and then a panel in the wall to my right swung open.

            The driver from before – tall and broad as an oak – stood at the top of the hidden stairwell, looking from me to his boss while he tried to catch his breath.

            “Chester will see you safely home,” said Fitzroy, “Or wherever it is you’d like to go.”

            I told him thanks, stood up, set my glass on his desk. The man smiled through the smoke, said I should be careful out there. Then it was Chester and me – down the dark, creaking stairs, through the backside of the club, walking up to the Studebaker. The thing rocked under his weight as he eased himself into the driver’s seat. Then he half-turned, asked me where we were going. He didn’t need an address when I told him home would suit me fine. He just put the car in gear, started driving. No shock there. Of course they knew where I lived.

            Chester dropped me at the curb in front of my building. I stood for a while, watching the car pull away, roll up to an intersection, disappear. I don’t know why I bothered, honestly. If they wanted to watch me, they’d watch. If they wanted to grab me again, they’d grab me. There was no point in being paranoid about it. All the same, I was starting to feel a little funny about the whole thing.

            The lobby of my building was empty, dead quiet – the stairwell, too. My door creaked open on squealing hinges, breaking the silence and making me jump. The shadows in the hallway looked big enough to hide an army. My imagination was running away with me, like it always did when something didn’t add up. I opted for a drink, a minute to think. If the second didn’t help I could always loop back to the first.

            The brand of rotgut I tend to keep on hand didn’t stack up too favorably to Fitzroy’s best, but it calmed me down enough. The sofa in the front room caught me before I hit the ground. I arranged myself, threw an arm over tired eyes, and tried to remember everything I’d seen and heard in twelve hours and change. It turned out to be a whole lot.

            I’d spent some time with the widow of the man whose death I was investigating. To be specific, I spent it in his house. To be real familiar about it, I spent it in his bedroom. I guess that’s what should have had me feeling a little off, but it wasn’t. I’d learned a fair bit from the experience, things I wouldn’t have been able to pick up otherwise. Walt met his lady at a society function hosted by her folks. He served in the War, came home a little shook up. His wife had a mole on the inside of her left thigh. Enough of it was useful that I could peg the trip a success, tell myself it wasn’t just about her and me and whatever was going on between us.

            I’d also had lunch with about the saddest arson cop I’ve ever met. Saddest, I’ll say, because he was better than the job and knew it – because he could have been doing some good somewhere if he hadn’t stuck his nose in the wrong person’s business. That person, turns out, was one Walter Lance, whose praises the guy is still singing. It’s hard to know whether to laugh or to cry at something like that. He really seemed to think that Walt was something special, still felt guilty after telling him off about his wife. I wondered how Walt felt about it.

            And then there was this Irishman who just had to have a word. He was a slick bastard, that one, sitting in his plush, padded office swilling top-shelf hooch and wringing his fat little hands over poor old Walt. I was glad the man wanted to be civil – glad he’d offered me a drink instead of another back-alley two-step – but I can’t say I much liked being taken into his confidence. All the same, though, he had some interesting things to say. Seems the old bootlegger was in cahoots with the same county prosecutor as Cato. Maybe that didn’t come as much surprise, but it was sure as hell worth a laugh.

            But that’s about where things started getting harder to pick apart. It made sense enough that Cato and Fitzroy were both jumping at the chance to accuse the other of putting the axe to Walter Lance. I don’t suppose they really needed me to do that for them – a direct line to the county prosecutor has got to count for a hell of a lot more than the word of second-rate PI with a first-rate drinking habit. But then I guess I could see the sense in it, too. They knew I was already sniffing around, working for someone with a personal interest in the matter. The guilty man kills two birds with one stone by getting me off his trail and pointing me at his rival. And the innocent man at least keeps me from muddying the waters by digging up things about him and his that don’t much help his case.

Thing is, the guilty man – and by that I guess I mean guilty of this crime in particular – doesn’t really help himself all that much by telling me to keep at it. The longer I went on digging, the more likely I’d turn up something he didn’t want me to see. Now, maybe he thinks he can pay me off, talk me out of it, or else put me out of commission some way or other. But I couldn’t figure why he’d want to make that kind of trouble for himself. So unless the guilty party thinks I’m not good enough at what I do to actually stumble on the truth, or unless he’s not good enough at what he does to think that far ahead, the only person who should want to pat me on the back and offer some encouragement is the one that didn’t kill Walter Lance.

So that was the problem, really. Cato and Fitzroy were both acting like they didn’t do it, both making the same choices and calling the same plays. Maybe I was wrong, and one or the other of them was just that careless. Hell, it even occurred to me that they both could have done it together, that now they were jostling to see who could pin it on his former partner. But if I was right – if both men were acting innocent because they were innocent – then it was anyone’s guess who actually killed the guy. All of my leads pointed to the rackets being at the center of the thing – and I’d still say that they were – but the idea that a third party was responsible for the murder itself hadn’t ever occurred to me.

I didn’t have much to say for myself now that it had. So far the thing felt like a power grab – like Walt got caught between a rock and a man’s ambition. I was lost if it was something else. The guy didn’t have any enemies that I’d heard of, hadn’t put himself in anyone’s sights but his partners’. Maybe he’d pissed somebody off on his way up the department ladder, but that didn’t account for murder. When cops want to stick it to other cops they get petty, work within the organization, try to get a person brought up on infractions or busted down to the evidence desk. He might have slighted some girl from his academy days whose father had the juice to turn a live cop into a dead one, but I couldn’t begin to guess who fit that bill. And anyway, that would have meant they’d waited a lot longer for revenge than offended virtue usually calls for.

I lay on the sofa for I don’t know how long, all this stuff swirling around in my head like water around a drain. One train of thought followed another, and then a belt of whiskey, and then another dead end. I sat up when the room tried to get in on the act, started to spin whenever I closed my eyes. The sun was a damn sight lower in the sky than when I’d got back from Fitzroy’s tea party. I’d blown what was left of the afternoon with maybe less than nothing to show for it.

“Maybe” was the thing, of course. It had been a busy day, a busy week. I was going off in a couple directions at once, between a girl, her dead husband, and a cast of characters that would have put Al Capp to shame. Fair to say things might have got a little confused on me. Cato might have been guilty after all, or Fitzroy, or someone else in their organizations. I was less certain about either than I had been, but assuming one of them was guilty at least gave me some kind of path I could follow. So that’s what I’d do – follow one lead until I couldn’t anymore, then turn around and start in on another. Once I’d cleared enough of the landscape maybe the answer would be easier to see. It was the long way around, but that didn’t both me much. The case could take as long as it needed to. I knew the client wouldn’t mind.

Fitzroy had told me to look into Cato’s doings. I hadn’t yet – hadn’t had the chance – so it seemed like a good place to pick things up. Black coffee and a cold bacon sandwich got me clear-headed enough to figure where I should start. Cobden’s was where the dockworkers went, and I had some questions about bulk shipping. It was getting on seven when I left the apartment, twenty past when I walked through the door. The rain had turned the streets into a dark mirror that bounced back the lights from street poles and passing cars. Everything looked slick and sinister, or maybe it was just the mood I was in.

Calder was still manning the bar. He looked surprised to see me back so soon, and maybe a little annoyed.

“Benny’s not here,” he said. “Won’t be for a good while, I expect. Last game didn’t end so well.” Then he smiled. “You know how that goes.”

Bartenders love me until they hate me. Calder wasn’t there yet, but pushing Benny around didn’t help my case. He was a good customer – always paid his bills, always kept his marks drinking. I was a bad risk by comparison. The number of gin mills in the city where I can’t ever show my face again stands in evidence.

But for the moment Calder would still pour for me. He set one up as I shook the rain off my sleeves. He smiled as I tossed it back and motioned for another.

“How bad was it?” I said. “With Benny and them, I mean.”

The old sailor wrinkled his nose, shook his head. “I should send you the bill,” he said. “Three cues I’m missing, and I still can’t find the eight ball.”

The second whiskey disappeared. I licked my lips, waved him on for a third. “You know you’ll get it all back,” I said.

Calder smiled again, measured out another dose. “That’s why I keep letting you come in here,” he said.

I tipped my hat, looked down the room at the tables. Men like grizzly bears in flannel shirts – big and hairy, with mitts that could twist the top off a fire hydrant – were crowded around a game in progress like it was a dead moose and they hadn’t eaten all week. Lumbermen, I figured. They come down from the camps every few months to spend their pay on hard drinks and soft women. The pool cues looked like matchsticks between their fingers.

“Those mugs still around?” I said. “I don’t seem them just now.”

Calder was wiping the bar, frowning. He didn’t look up. “Which ones?” he said.

I turned, drained my glass again. “From before,” I said, “With Benny. Sailors, I think, from Boston.”

The old man glanced up at me. For a half-second he looked almost scared. Then he blinked, frowned again, started to nod. I blinked too, not sure I’d seen what I’d seen. Calder didn’t scare. 

“Right,” he said, “Them. Shipped out yesterday, I think it was.”

I nodded back, watched him pour me a fourth. It was about the kind of answer he usually gave when I asked about anything connected with his old profession. He was very loyal, Calder. I suppose I liked that about him. Thing is, I don’t guess I’d know if it was something else. Years of standing in the wind and the spray had made his face about as readable as a block of granite.

So I nodded, took the glass, swirled it around a little instead of emptying it. “Shame, that,” I said. “We could have had words.”

Calder leaned on his elbow, casual as ever. “They in trouble?” he said.

I shrugged. “Maybe,” I said, “But not with me. Just had a few questions about their line of work, is all.”

The old man grunted. It wasn’t a yes, or a no, or a question, or anything. He was just letting me know he was listening.

“Don’t suppose you’d know anyone I could ask about that sort of thing?” I said. “Just general inquiries, you know. I could make it worth their time.”

“Just let me finish this, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

I turned to my right. The offer had come from a man sitting two stools down the bar. He had a glass of beer in one hand and a pastrami sandwich in the other. He was smiling. A piece of coleslaw was stuck to his chin.

Calder looked up, growled under his breath. “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, Mike,” he said. “You’re liable to choke.”

Mike kept grinning. Then he took a generous bite of his sandwich, washed it down with nearly a full glass of pilsner. Calder sighed behind me. I leaned in, cocked my head.

“You’re a sailor?” I said.

The kid – he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five – shrugged and plunked down his empty glass on the bar. “Man’s work is the same all over,” he said. “The finer details of exploitation mask the universality of common suffering.”

For a while I’ll admit I just stared. In my defence, there was a lot to take in. He was tall, but didn’t look it at first. The way he sat hunched on his stool, he was nearly bent double. He had on a red flannel shirt under a suede jacket that was patched at the elbows and short in the arms. His slacks didn’t fit so well either, riding high over boney ankles and thin black socks. His face matched the rest of him, angular and sharp under a heap of straw-colored hair that was roughly parted and half-covered his ears. The effect was like something between a scarecrow and a factory stiff.

The kid kept smiling and chewing his sandwich. A few times he made a show of waggling his eyebrows. I’d have had trouble just walking away, I think. Whether he could tell me anything useful or not, he was too much of a curiosity not to engage with.

So I nodded, smiled, took the seat next to his. Then I motioned for Calder to bring him another beer. The old man scowled some more, but he did as he was told. Mike’s eyes brightened when the full glass appeared in front of him.

“Thanks, pal,” he said. “Get one for yourself, why don’t you.”

Sound advice, if ever I’d heard it. I drained my glass, asked Calder to fill it back up again. He still didn’t seem happy, in spite of all the business he was doing, and shook his head at Mike while he poured.

“You’re wasting your time with this one,” he said. “Parker’s heart doesn’t bleed for anybody. Stick to baseball and the moving pictures, huh? You’ll get more out of him.”

Mike grinned again – he had teeth like a horse – and laid a greasy hand on his chest. “It is high time,” he said, “That Communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, and their tendencies.”

Calder shook his head some more, sighed. He was like a mother hen with this kid. I got the feeling he’d have been happier if Mike just shut up and ate his lunch without getting involved with any customers. I guess that made me some sort of corrupting influence. Looking bad, it’s hard to disagree. But at the moment I was after information, and the kid looked to be filled to the brim with it.

By the time I turned back to face him he’d already emptied half his glass. He had a thirst, that one. I offered to buy him a third. He showed me his teeth, cocked his pointed chin at Calder.

“Make it two,” he said. “Save yourself coming back for a while.”

That prompted another frown from the old man, another sigh. You’d almost think he was worried about the kid’s drinking. All the same, he filled a pair of glasses, set them down. Then he disappeared into a back room, shaking his head and looking especially annoyed.

My new pal was looking a damn sight happier. He smiled at me, at the drinks he had lined up, at the world in general. I watched him tap his foot as he chewed, nod his head at nothing in particular. He wasn’t nervous, I don’t think. He just had energy to spare. I figured I’d let that work to my advantage. He could talk, I’d listen.

“What do they call you, kid,” I said, “Wherever it is you’re from?”

Mike nodded, inhaled another half-glass of beer. He stuck out a hand when he came up for air. “Michael Farragut,” he said, “Lawrence, Mass.”

We shook. He had long fingers and rough hands. “You’re a long way from home and hearth, Mike Farragut,” I said. “Or didn’t they tell you the ocean out here is pretty much like the one back home?”

The kid laughed. It sounded like a car turning over. “Wasn’t up to me, brother,” he said. “Staties ran me out in ’34, said I was gonna get myself killed if I kept doing what I was doing. Guess they figured on saving themselves the paperwork. I bounced around some since then, first in Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Illinois was after that, I think. Plenty of work still out there for a man willing to swing a pick, I find. Also plenty of folks out there eager to squeeze the life out of the man just trying to earn his daily bread.”

That about figured. He looked like he’d been knocked around some, given his fair share of knocks. His nose was cooked – broken and healed a couple times over – and his knuckles were big and bony.

“I don’t mean to discourage,” I said, “But the local chapter aren’t much more forgiving to fellows of your…persuasion.”

Mike squinted at me, frowned. “You mean Communists?” he said. “You mean people who believe in the equality of man and labor?”

I nodded, not sure of what else to do. “Yeah,” I said, “I do mean that. Folks around here – the ones with the ear of the local authorities – they like things to stay unequal. Force of habit, I guess you’d call it.”

The kid shook his head, chewed thoughtfully for a minute. “Shit,” he said. “Any other time I’d love nothing more than to force their habits down their goddamn throats. The people here, they’re not used to the kind of action we got up to back East. They’re soft, yeah? Give me twenty-four hours and a pipe wrench and I bet I could have the whole damn state in flames.” He paused another second, his eyes near twinkling. Then he shrugged, shook his head some more.

“But that’s not why I’m here,” he said. “Tears me up to admit it, but Cato had me promise to steer clear of the pigs while I’m out on the coast. I told him we got nothing to fear from the small-minded and the ignorant, but he thinks the real problems are coming from the inside. Fair enough, I tell him. Point me in the direction of what you want handled and I’ll handle it. But I’ll be damned if I step aside from some imperialist lackey when he looks at me cockeyed.”

I tried not to look too interested, so as not to scare the kid into clamming up. “Sure,” I said, “Sure. So Cato’s got problems, huh? Hope it’s nothing serious. Things get antsy in this town whenever the unions smell trouble.”

Mike wolfed down the last of his sandwich and started in on a fresh glass of pilsner. “It’s serious enough,” he said, “Or I wouldn’t be here. You know how people are, yeah? They forget things, like what they’re supposed to be fighting for or how much their brothers have sacrificed. Sometimes they need to be reminded.”

I nodded, glanced at his knuckles. They looked like knots in a piece of pine. “And I’ll bet you’re real convincing, too,” I said.

The kid grinned again. “They listen when I talk,” he said, “If that’s what you mean.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and gulped some more whiskey. The thought of him bouncing some union hacks made my ribs tingle in sympathy. Only a couple of days had passed since Mr. Lee and his boys gave me the brush-off. It still hurt whenever I bent down to tie my shoes.

We were quiet for a while, then. Mike took the chance to pick at the bits of meat that had fallen onto his plate.

“So,” I said eventually, “What is it you think you can tell me, Mike Farragut?”

The kid shrugged, licked the grease off his fingers. “Any damn thing,” he said. “I can tell you about progressive income tax, or why we need to abolish inheritance in this country. I can give you a rundown of the whole history of class antagonism. Hell, if you’ve got a minute I can tell you what the Braves need to do to win the pennant this year. All depends on what interests you.”

            It was an impressive claim, if true. The Braves hadn’t been contenders since before the War. “You learn all that stuff on the road?” I said.

            The kid shrugged, reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of Old Gold. He stuck one in the corner of his mouth and let me take another for myself. I lit them both, nodded my thanks.  

“More than you’d think,” he said. “Lot of brains in the movement, you know. We’re not all thugs and anarchists.”

“Didn’t think you were,” I said. “Just curious where you get your information.”

Mike shrugged again. Then he shifted his cigarette from one hand to the other and drained his glass in one long gulp. “Say what you want about a rat bastard like Carnegie,” he said. “I’ve said and heard my share, you know. But the man had the right idea with those libraries.”

It was hard not to smile at that, chuckle a little. “I’m sure he’d be gratified to it,” I said, “Coming from you, especially.”

The kid smiled back. “I think so, too,” he said. Then he frowned, looked left and right along the bar, and reached one long arm over and around so he could work the tap. No one was there to stop him. Whatever was keeping Calder was keeping him longer than he probably expected. He grabbed a bottle of bourbon while he was up, told me to pour myself a double. I obliged, not sure who was treating who but happy all the same to be invited to the party.

When we’d got settled again – him with his beer, me with my whiskey – Mike nodded at me, gestured like I should get on with something.

 “You planning to ask me a question,” he said, “You’d best do it. Any minute Calder’s going to come out here and shoo you away with a broom.”

I frowned, looked back at the door where the old sailor had disappeared. “What makes you say that?” I said. “Him and me are square, or at worst maybe a couple payments short. Is he still mad about Benny, or something?” I like to have a head-start when barkeeps go sour on me. Calder had seemed happy enough before, if a little surprised. I needed the kid to tell me if I should be putting my feet in the starting blocks.

Mike laughed, shook his head. Smoke came out of his nose like a gust of steam. “Easy, friend,” he said. “It’s nothing personal. The man’s just trying to keep me out of trouble. The local constabulary isn’t supposed to know I’m here, yeah? This is the only place I’m allowed to drink, even, on account of the screws don’t come in here.”

I looked around the place a second, nodded. “They don’t,” I said. “Too many sailors.”

The kid shook his head. “Got something against everybody, don’t they?” Then he shrugged. “Anyhow, that’s all I meant to tell you.”

The cigarette Mike gave me was harsher than I was used to. A splash of whiskey made for a decent chaser. “So I guess I pass muster then, huh?” I said.

Mike’s face went serious for a second. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you a cop?” he said.

“Not even –” I started to say and then stopped. I’d used that joke already. “No, I’m not.”

Mike narrowed his eyes some more. “You work for the shipping companies?” he said.

“I couldn’t even name one,” I said.

The kid quit mugging, broke into another grin. “Then we’re fine, you and me,” he said. “Ask what you want to ask, already.”

I frowned, shook my head. “Just like that?” I said.

Mike lit a fresh cigarette off the smouldering stub of the last one. Then he slid the pack across the bar, motioned like I should help myself.

“I like people,” he said, “I like talking to them. Maybe they don’t all like me so much, but I’d rather find that out for myself. And anyhow, the revolution isn’t going to succeed because we’re real careful who we talk to, you know? We got the numbers. So I say, let’s just be straight with people. Worst they think is we’re stupid and honest.”

I’ll admit I was getting to like the kid. He was an idealist, in a rough and ready sort of way. Listening to him, I could almost believe the Braves had a chance.

“Fair enough,” I said. Then I raised my glass to him, drank a silent toast in his honor. Mike joined me and then some.

 “Sure,” he said. “That, and Cato told me he’s got some private dick putting in hours over a corpse that turned up a few weeks back. I figure that’s you. You look the way Marcus described the guy, anyway.”

I raised an eyebrow, frowned. “You know about that?” I said.

Mike shrugged, poured a jot of whiskey into his empty beer glass. “Naturally,” he said. “Cato’s smart, doesn’t want people working against each other when they don’t need to be. He told me to be nice if I ever saw you, help out if I could. So I’m helping.”

I watched the kid toss back the slug, shook my head a little. “You might have said something earlier,” I told him. “I’m sitting here trying to get chummy so I don’t come off suspicious when I start asking questions, we could have cut to the chase from the jump.”

The kid poured himself another. Nothing seemed to slow him down. “You might have said something, too, friend,” he answered. “What’s the difference? We’re pals now, yeah?”

I figured I’d let it go at that. He had a point. I probably could have just told him I was working for Cato, used the boss’s name to skip the part where I warm a person up first with booze, flattery, or threats. Thing is, I wasn’t used to working like that. I wasn’t used to thinking of myself as being on anyone’s side but my own.

“Sure,” I said, “Alright. What do you know about a guy named Lance?”

Mike shrugged again. “Just what Cato told me,” he said. “Crooked cop, yeah?”

“They’re all crooked,” I said.

The kid smiled, nodded. “Sure,” he said. “But this one sounded alright to me. Guy who works for the power structure that exists only to protect the interests of the industrial classes takes on a sideline helping finance the cause of the workers’ revolution? I call that an ally, I don’t care what his reasons were.”

I lit another cigarette. The taste was starting to grow on me. “Jesus,” I said, “There anything Cato didn’t explain? Hang on – maybe I can stop the investigation right here – you know who killed him, too?”

Mike laughed. “No dice, friend,” he said. “I’d tell you if I knew, believe me, but I’m just repeating what I hear. People talk, you know? And Cato, he made it real clear that right now he just wants me to listen.”

“Yeah?” I said. Then I poured us both some more whiskey. “What else are they talking about? One snoop to another, like.”

The kid smiled again, half-emptied his glass. He was enjoying himself. I suppose he was telling the truth when he said he liked people. We were just talking, drinking – nothing special. But he was happy. I guess that was something else I liked about him.

“Whole lot of them,” he said, “They’re real wound up about the fellow who runs the dope racket hereabouts. Fitzhugh? Fitzsimmons? Anyway, they think he’s planning something big, that knocking over Lance was just like a prelude to war.”

“They think he killed the cop?” I said.

“Sure they do,” he said. “You don’t?”

I had to stop myself from telling him that I was starting to think it was somebody no one had even thought of yet. He didn’t need to know I wasn’t Cato’s man on the street, or suspect that me and Fitzroy had a similar kind of arrangement.

“I’m not saying anything, yet,” I told him. “Evidence will matter more than whatever hunch I’ve got if you want this thing to stick.”

Mike pulled a face like I’d made a bad joke. Then he shook his head, shrugged. “Seems pretty damn obvious to me,” he said. “He had the most to gain by it, didn’t he? And who else even knew about the deal? It’s not like Lance would have told anyone.”

I wanted to say he didn’t need to tell anyone. The man could have been killed on a hunch, by mistake, or on account of something that had nothing to do with how he made his money. But again, I stopped myself. We were having a nice conversation. There was no need to ruin things by bringing up questions I couldn’t even answer myself.

I reached for the bourbon, poured myself another splash. “Is that your opinion,” I said, “Or is that just what you’ve heard?”

The kid shrugged. “So what if it’s both?” he said. “Folks around here have filled me in, sure, but I got reason to suspect the guy all on my own.”

“Yeah,” I said, “What reason?”

Mike’s eyes got all twinkly. “Like I told you,” he said, “I’ve been doing a lot of listening since I got in. Turns out some people haven’t been as faithful to their brothers as they ought to be. Been breaking ranks, I hear – whole gang of them, selling their labor on a private basis. Can’t say that makes me happy, you know?  Especially after what the movement out here has been through.”

I raised an eyebrow, shrugged. I was getting to be real good at it. “Yeah,” I said, “So what’s that got to do with anything?”

The kid looked at me like I was an imbecile. Then he shook his head, leaned in on his elbow. “Listen,” he said, “Organized labor is a rising power in these parts. The status quo is being threatened, yeah? You either fall in line, keep on the right side of things, or you try to head it off while you still got the juice. The cops aren’t going to cooperate in their own extinction, but they don’t need to be shy about trying to strangle the revolution in its crib. They’ve got the law of the land on their side – one of the greatest tools in the imperialist arsenal. The rackets have got more leeway. Sometimes the people running them are smart enough to see we’ve got common interests. But when they don’t, they get real cute about it. They’re used to working in secret, see?”

“It’s a decent theory, kid,” I said. “You got proof?”

I don’t think Mike liked that much. He looked about ready to tell me off. The veins on the back of his hand stood out as his fingers curled into a fist. But then he sighed, shook his head, smiled.

“Ain’t that always the way?” he said. “You got a hunch – you know you’re right, as sure as you’ve known any damn thing – but you can’t prove it. No evidence. Christ, but I get sick of hearing it. Makes me think I’m the crazy one.”

I nodded, poured the kid another drink. “Sure,” I said. “But that’s the game, kid. Nobody believes anything like you do.”

Mike nodded, sighed. Then he drained his glass and let out a short whistle. “Alright,” he said, “You convinced me.”

I gave him a look over the rim of my glass, swallowed and clear my throat. “How’s that?” I said.   

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, friend,” said the kid. “You got me. When can you start?”

I stared at him for a second, chuckled, shook my head. “You think I came in here looking for work?” I said.

            The kid frowned, shrugged. “You’re a capitalist,” he said. “What else have you got to live for?”

            That hurt probably more than he’d intended. “Alright,” I said, “Fair point. So what do you plan on paying me with? The revolution’s got cabbage to spare?”

            Mike grimaced, leaned over and spat on the floor. “Currency is an idol,” he said, “Intended to distract the proletariat from understanding the real value of their work. I got no use for distractions.”

            “Fine,” I said, “Great. So what the hell are we talking about?” I’d have been angrier if my blood wasn’t thinned out with Kentucky sunshine. Mostly I was curious. Maybe he’d wasted a fair bit of my time, but he’d spent a good chunk of his, too. I wanted to know what for.

            The kid picked up the bottle, poured me a double and himself a little more than that. “We’re talking,” he said, “About you doing me a favor and me doing you one back. It’s what they call reciprocity, friend.” Then he smiled again. He didn’t look so dopey this time.

            I shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing about this case had been easy or simple. Every time I ask somebody something, they ask me for a favor. Every time I agree to do whatever it is they want, I get deeper into this mess. I only took the thing on because I wanted the girl who tried to hire me to turn her head my way. She did – more than once, even – and now here I was running errands for every pusher and union hack I was dumb enough to ask the time of day. Serves me right, I guess. People always complicate things. I should have been a dogcatcher.

            A long drag killed my second cigarette. A quick belt did the same to the whiskey in my glass. “What do you want,” I said with a sigh, “And when do you want it?”

            Mike winked at me. I guess he thought it was cute, getting me over a barrel like that. “Just need a little help with something,” he said. “Nothing you haven’t done before, I figure.”

            I took another of his Old Golds. “Lucky for you that’s a damn short list, kid,” I said. “So spill, already. Let’s get this over with.”

            The kid laid it out. There were some guys, he said, who hung around the union hall all night every Thursday. To anybody who asked it was a standing game of Whist and that was the only night they could all get together. Nobody in a position to know said anything different. They filed in around seven in the evening, filed out around two in the morning. I’d have said it was strange anybody would want to spend that much time together, but that wasn’t what had the kid’s hackles up.

He’d heard people talking, like he said before, about members pulling work on the side. He couldn’t tell me who they were supposed to be working for – everybody dummied up when he started asking. That was the rub, he said. People had got to thinking being loyal to your bothers meant covering for them even when you knew they were guilty. That was fine when it was the cops asking, but it came around and bit you when you were trying to clean house.

Anyway, he trusted the rumours. So he looks over the roster for the hall – just to see if anything jumps out, he tells me – and he finds these eight names. They’re old-timers, he says – been around since before the big strike in ’34 that Cato rode into power. In fact they were real close to the fella that Cato replaced. They didn’t kick when the new boy showed up, though, so nobody figures it’ll turn into a problem. But when Cato starts talking about the revolution and the brave new world to come – all that stuff he’d read about at whatever first-rate college his pop had sent him to – these fellas started to get antsy. Who gives a damn about remaking the world, they said – all they cared about was a fair shake for the working stiff.

The kid learns all this from Cato’s man Friday, Marcus. And then he starts asking around again. What have the old men been saying, he wants to know, and who have they been saying it to? People are more willing to talk about that, turns out, though there doesn’t seem to be much to say. They keep to themselves, these old-timers, only come around the hall for a day shift here and there and for their weekly card game.

Naturally, the kid gets to thinking there’s something funny about this game. And he could ask about it straight out, but he doesn’t. If he did, he tells me, word might get out that he’s on to someone. People would go to ground, trails would go cold, and he’d be back where he started. So instead he decides to go around. He’s real proud of this part, tells me all about it with a smile and a wink. Instead of snooping around the game, he says, he figures he can work something out from gossip. He goes to gin joints, he goes to pool halls, he goes to cabarets – everyplace he knows Cato’s boys like to spend the off hours – and he asks if anything funny’s been going on.

Most of the sin merchants he talks to don’t know what he means, so he tells them something like the truth. “Cato sent me,” he says, “Asked that I should make sure all the lads are behaving themselves. We’ve been hearing rumours, you know?” He sells it, he tells me, real casual-like. I believe he could, too.

Thing is, everybody answers him the same. Not only has everybody been staying out of trouble, they tell him, but the whole crowd’s been getting along even better than usual. Some older fellas, it so happens, they’ve been coming around more often lately, picking up rounds and making merry. They say they’ve been getting lucky at their weekly game, but who the hell knows. Anyway, they’ve been real splashy with the lettuce, so everybody’s been happy.

This stops the kid cold. The gin-slingers, they got no reason to lie to him. They don’t care about union politics. So when they tell him the names of the fellas who’ve been so free with their money – same as those eight old men from the card game, don’t it figure – he believes them. Thing is, it doesn’t make sense. These eight guys, they play their game every Thursday at the hall. Somebody wins, most of them lose. But then they all claim they’ve taken a chunk of change off their brothers while buying rounds for the house at a dozen different watering holes for weeks on end. So the kid asks himself – like any decent shamus would – what the hell kind of card game is it where everybody involved goes home with fat pockets? It ain’t what they call strictly natural.      

            So now he’s got these eight bitter old guys, money that comes out of nowhere, a weekly card game nobody feels like they can talk about, and people whispering about union members going off book. Mike thinks it over some, he tells me – he rubs his chin when he gets to this part – and comes to pretty well the same conclusion that I would have. Somebody is paying someone to do something they shouldn’t. That’s what we in the business call a truism.

            I listened to all this, nodded, drank. He was good, this kid. He had instinct, insight, persistence; all the qualities you want in a sleuth. He was too political to ever make it his living, sure enough, but he had my respect. Eventually he finished his story, looked at me like I was supposed to clap or maybe hand him a bouquet. He was proud, too. Pride will kill you in the business of detecting. Or pride will kill your detecting business. I can never remember which.

            “Alright,” I said, “I follow. So what do you need me for? Sounds like you got the thing sewed up tight.”

            The kid grinned. “I know I do,” he said. “But you need more than a good arm to make it in the majors. Finesse, right? I got none of that. Always favor the direct approach. Worked for me so far, but I’m not so thick-headed I can’t see it’s not what the situation calls for.”

             “You can’t watch some people without being seen?” I said.

            Mike lit a fresh cigarette, made a face like he didn’t much care for the taste. “It’s not –” he started to say, then didn’t. He made another face – pained, almost – and tried again.

            “I don’t have the constitution for it, you know?” he said. “I’m no good at sneaking around. Always makes me feel sort of shabby, like I’m doing something I shouldn’t. So I get kind of distracted, and sloppy, and I end up giving myself away.”

            “Hmm,” I said, looking down into my glass. “So you need someone who’s okay with feeling shabby, right? Like maybe somebody who does shabby for a living?”

            The kid frowned, shook his head, made a show of pouring me a double. “You’re thinking about it all wrong, friend,” he said. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need, see? Well, you got the ability and I got the need. I’m just funny, you know? I can’t whistle, neither.”

            I chuckled a little, drank a little. The kid was funny, alright. But he was smart, too, and I was pretty sure he could help me. 

“How about,” I said, “You tell me what it is you actually need me to do. We’ll go from there, okay?”    

            Mike shrugged. “Couldn’t be simpler,” he said. “You just hang around the hall on Thursday night, watch who goes in. There’s eight of them, right? Game starts at seven. Nobody leaves until two the next morning, I’m wrong about the thing, I tell you what you want to know. But if they leave before then – any of them – you follow. Then you come back, tell me where they went, who they met, what they did. Sound good?”

            “It sounds fine,” I said. “It always sounds fine. My issue isn’t with how it sounds. You need to tell me how it looks. Is there a back way out of the place? Any secret tunnels, maybe left over from the big dry spell?”

            The kid scratched the top of his head. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Cato would have told me. But there’s a back door, facing the cranes. You think they’ll go out that way? Seems kind of obvious, don’t it?” 

            I shrugged. “In my experience,” I said, “People are pretty obvious.”

            “Yeah,” said Mike. He was nodding. “Mine too, I guess.” Then he shrugged, smiled, raised his drink. His arms were so long, it took me a second to find his glass with mine. I missed it the first time. The kid didn’t seem to notice, but it occurred to me then it was past time I should leave.

            Mike gave me a number, said I should call when I wanted to meet him next. He also said he’d square things with Calder over everything we drank. That was fine with me, even if it wasn’t true. Lying to bartenders always makes me feel funny. For me, it’s like lying during confession. Better just to avoid them when things get uncomfortable, I find.

Next Chapter: Night and Day