“There’s definitely a problem with my theory,” I say to Rose, after reading that novella masquerading as a receipt. “There was no complicity from Wendy Mellons, clearly. Nobody writes such a document with a gun to his temple. So I’m completely lost. I need some hints.”
“Wendy Mellons does not live alone.”
“Bubba! How could I have forgotten about Bubba? At some point, Bubba peeks out from the hovel. Or tucks himself between the stacks of towers, to prick himself with syringes. You see him out there, and tell yourself, that is my ticket.”
“Not bad,” Rose encourages me.
“You need to know when and where Wendy Mellons plans to meet Sleepy Joe. So you approach Bubba and offer him cash in exchange for information. Two hundred dollars. Maybe five hundred. Bubba knows who Sleepy Joe is because he always comes back to that house that is like his mother’s house. And an easy task for Bubba. You arrange a method of communicating with him, a daily appointment, or every other day, at a certain time in a certain pool hall, or bar, or even street corner.”
Two days later, Rose is there at the pool hall, or bar, or street corner. Bubba also gets there on time, but has nothing to report. He knows nothing about Sleepy Joe or his mother, who has left home and has not returned. Perfect, Wendy Mellons and Sleepy Joe are already together, Rose deduces. The beast approaches, and its breath is heard.