Dutch put a paw on my shoulder. “Aw, don‟t we all,” he said, puffing that discussion to bed. He
strolled up and down the deck of O‟Brian‟s shack, berating himself, like an orator grading his own
speech.
Salvatore stood in one place, staring back into space and grinding fist into palm, like a bomb looking
for someplace to go off.
“We should‟ve brought „em all in, the whole damn bunch,” Dutch said, “get it out in the open. I laid
off because it‟s homicide‟s baby. Well, it‟s our baby too. The Red Sea‟ll turn Kelly green before that
bunch of pfutzlukers get their heads out far enough to see daylight. Ain‟t it just wonderful!” He stared
off toward „Thunder Point. “I‟m gonna haul that bunch of ash lochers in and get some answers. If
nothing else, maybe we can throw these killers off their stride.”
His tirade brought only a grunt from Salvatore, who was glaring back into space.
Dutch sighed. “Okay, let‟s see who we got left.”
He started counting them off on his fingers. “There‟s the Bobbsey Twins, Costello and Cohen. Then
there‟s Stizano and the pasta king, Bronicata, and your pals, Chevos and Nance. I miss anybody?”
There wasn‟t anybody else. Like Christie‟s Ten Little Indians, the field was running out.
“One thing,” I said. “If you start hauling these people in, you better have a lot of help. They come
complete with pistoleros. And you‟ll also be dealing with Leo Costello. He‟s quick and a helluva lot
smarter than you‟d like him to be. The son of a bitch sleeps with a habeas corpus under his pillow.”
“I‟ll keep that in mind,” Dutch said.
Salvatore finally broke his silence. He looked at me and said, “What it is with me, see, I coulda
followed that ugly fuckin‟ Mick into his bedroom and held his nuts while he balled his old lady and he
still wouldn‟t know I was there. [got a talent for that kind of thing. Me and Zapata, we‟re the invisible
men.”
“I told him I‟d be alone,” I protested. “We took a chance, what can I tell you? Next time I‟ll know
better.”
He stared at me for a beat or two longer and suddenly said, “Ah, shit, let‟s forget it.”
“What do you think O‟Brian wanted?” Dutch asked.
“I don‟t know, but if anybody knows, Nesbitt does,” I said. “Let‟s put him on the radio, find out his
story.”
“Done,” said Dutch. “I‟ll add him to the list.”
We walked back across the narrow pier to solid land, where the coroner flagged us down.
“Stoney Titan‟s on his way out,” he said, and turned to me. “He says he wants a word or two with
you.”
“Looks like the old man‟s finally throwing his oar in,” Dutch said.
I didn‟t feel up to my first round with Titan; I had something else on my mind. “I‟ve got some things
to do,” I told Dutch. “You know as much about this mess as I do; you talk to the old man.”
“He‟s not gonna like that even a little bit,” the big man growled.
“Tough shit,” I said, and drove off toward Benny‟s Barbecue. I was anxious to see if the gray Olds
was still there. It wasn‟t, but as I turned into the place, Stonewall „Titan‟s black limo passed me,
going like he was late for the policemen‟s ball.
I pulled around to the back of Bennys, oyster shells crunching under my tires, and found a tallish,
deeply tanned man with dishwater-blond hair that had seen too much sun and surf loading soft-drink
crates through the back door of the place. He was wearing black denim shorts and dirty sneakers, no
shirt, and could have been thirty, fifty, or anything between.
“We don‟t open until five,” he said as I got out of the car.
“I‟m looking for a pal of mine,” I said, following him inside. The place was dark and there was the
leftover chill of last night‟s air conditioning lingering in the air, which smelled of stale beer and
shrimp He looked at me over his shoulder.
“1 don‟t know anybody,” he said flatly. “Half the time I can‟t remember my kids‟ names.”
“1 saw his car here a little earlier,” I said.
“No kidding. Maybe he had a flat.”
“He wasn‟t around.”
“Probably ran outta gas. Maybe he had to walk up to the boulevard, pick up a can.”
“Could be. I kind of felt he was in here.”
“Hmm,” he said, stacking the soft drinks in the corner. “You know how long I been here in this spot?”
“No, but I bet you‟re going to tell me.”
He drew two beers from the spigot behind the bar and slid one across the bar to me. It was colder than
Christmas in the Yukon.
“Thirty-three years. Be thirty-four in September.”
I sipped the beer and stared at him.
“You know why I been here this long?” he went on.
“You mind your own business,” I said.
“Right on the button.”
“This guy‟s name is Nesbitt. Little squirt with roving eyeballs.”
“You ain‟t been listening to me,” he said.
“Sure I have,” I said, sipping my beer. “If a fellow looks like that should come back by, tell him
Kilmer says we need to have a talk. Real bad.”
“That you? Kilmer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“A guy I knew once had a mark on him, thought he was safe in downtown Pittsburgh. Then a
wheelbarrow hill of cement fell off a six-story building right on his head.”
The metaphor seemed a little vague to me, but I took a stab at retorting.
“Tell him I won‟t drop any cement on his head.”
The bartender chuckled and held out a hand. “Ben Skeeler,” he said. “The place used to be called
Skeeler‟s but everybody kept sayin‟ „Let‟s go to Benny‟s so I finally changed the sign.”
He shook hands like he meant it.
“Long as we‟re being so formal, maybe I could see some ID,” the cautious man said.
“That‟s fair enough,” I said, and showed him my buzzer.
He looked at it and nodded. “I hope you‟re straight. The way I get it, you‟re straight, but this town
car‟ bend an evangelist faster than he can say amen.”
I waited for more.
“Tough, too. I heard you was tough”
“I talk a good game,” I said finally.
“These days, you know, you never can be too sure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“County ambulance just went by actin‟ real serious,” he said. “You wouldn‟t know anything about
that, would you?”
“Man named O‟Brian just got himself killed out on the bay,” I said.
His eyes got startled for a moment and then he looked down into his beer glass. “That so” was all he
said. He pulled on his ear, then took a folded-up paper napkin out of his pocket and handed it to me.
“Dab your lips,” he said. “I gotta get back to work.”
He went outside and I unfolded the napkin. The message was written hurriedly in ballpoint that had
torn through the napkin in a couple of places and left several inkblots at the end of words. It said:
“Uncle Jolly‟s Fillup, route 1-4 south about 18 miles. Tonight, 9 p.m. Come alone.”
No signature. Skeeler came back with another crate of soft drinks.
“You know a place called Jolly‟s Fillup, route 14 south of town?”
“Sounds like a filling station, don‟t it?” he said.
“Now that you mention it.”
“You‟ll know it when you get there” he said, and went back outside. I finished my beer and followed
him.
“Thanks for the beer. Maybe I‟ll come back and try the shrimp,” I said as I got into the car.
“You do that, hear?” he said. “Be sure to introduce yourself again. I‟m bad on names.” And he
vanished back inside.