Ben snatched the glass away, splashing beer on his arm and lap. “No. Definitely no more beer. I think he’s loose enough.”
Greg slapped Alvin on the shoulder. “Don’t get yourself arrested, Al. You still have to take the bar exam come October. The bar examiners tend to frown on lawyers with a criminal record.”
Delilah bent over, cupped her hand around Ben’s ear, and whispered, “Isn’t this silly? I think so. I’m just trying to get enough money so I can go to college and dedicate my life to Christ.” Her freckles bounced before his nose for a moment, and then she disappeared.
What was that all about? Ben wondered. Had she singled out the only guys in the place that were better dressed than the usual jeans and cowboy boot crowd? Dangerous place for suckers.
Ben turned to face his companions. Tom and Dewey were deep in what appeared to be a very serious conversation, although they had to take turns shouting into one another’s ears to be heard over the din. Ben marveled. How can you talk about insurance benefits and profit-sharing plans while you’re staring at a schoolmarm’s G-string?
Alvin was on his feet again. “Baby, baby,” he shouted, stretching his arms out to Jezebel. “Teach me a lesson. Give me some homework.” He grinned a goofy, toothy grin and let loose a high-pitched drunken squeal.
The dancing woman studiously ignored Alvin. She had progressed to working with her clinging, diaphanous shawl. Evidently what she was preparing to unveil was not enormous, so she was making a great show of the unveiling itself.
“Sit down, Alvin.” Ben yanked again at his arm, but Alvin would not obey.
“I said homework, woman! C’mon … do your pedagogical duty.” His tone was becoming abusive. Again, Ben told him to sit down and again, Alvin ignored him.
And then Alvin stepped up onto the guardrail, balancing himself by placing one arm against the wall. He wobbled uncertainly. Instantly, the schoolmarm stopped her undulations and cowered back into the corner of the dance floor. Two muscle-bound toughs emerged from nowhere and barreled toward the dance floor, along with the bouncer from the front door.
“All I wanted to do was say hello,” Alvin mumbled, with a hiccup.
Two thick, hamlike hands slapped down on Alvin’s shoulders. He lost his balance and began falling backward. He waved his arms in large circles, hopelessly trying to regain his balance. He tumbled back onto the table the Ravenites were sitting around. Glasses, pitchers, and beer went flying in every direction. Everyone tried to move out of the way, and no one was quick enough. The table rocked several times before falling over and dumping Alvin onto the floor.
The three bouncers began to close in on him, but before they could, Delilah ran in and knelt beside him.
“Stay back!” she said, motioning them away. “He needs air.”
She brushed his hair out of his eyes and wiped the sudsy, splattered beer from his face. She dabbed her spill cloth against the gash on his forehead.
Alvin blinked several times and groaned. Apparently he was still alive.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I guess so,” Alvin said uncertainly. “I can’t feel a thing.”
“Can you stand up? I have some Band-Aids in my locker in the dressing room. Can you make it?”
“Sure,” Alvin said. He pushed himself upward by the palms of his hands and groaned. “Oh, my God!”
“You can do it,” she said. She put her arm around him and wrapped his arm around her bare midsection. “That’s it. Easy does it.”
Eventually Alvin was on his feet, more or less. “Come on back to the dressing room, and I’ll get you all fixed up.” She walked him toward the back of the bar. “I’m so sorry this happened. You know, I’m just trying to get enough money to go to college and …” Slowly they disappeared into the background of the bar.
“Oh, well,” Tom said. “Looks like he’s in good hands. Party animals, resume!” He winked at Dewey, and they resumed their serious conversation.
Ben watched as Alvin and the waitress disappeared behind a bead curtain. He hoped Alvin wasn’t hurt badly. He hoped Alvin wasn’t too drunk to know what he was doing.
He hoped Alvin remembered his oath.
18
BEN ARRIVED AT THE office early, carrying the script for Derek’s opening argument before Old Stone Face. Maggie told him Derek hadn’t come in and hadn’t called, so Ben went to his own office.
He found Mike Morelli sitting in one of the corduroy chairs, puffing his pipe.
“Morning, shamus,” Ben said. “What’s the good word?”
“Shamus?” Mike winced. “You’ve got to stop watching so much television.”
Ben hung his suit coat on the hook behind the door and sat down at his desk. “Give me a break. It’s too early in the morning to take any grief from you. At least I didn’t call you a dick.”
“I’ve got some preliminary reports,” Mike said, ignoring him. “I thought you might be interested.”
“You were right. Shoot.”
“Dr. Koregai thinks he’s determined the cause of death. Adams died from cardiac shock and blood loss induced by rapid-succession knife wounds—”
“No kidding,” Ben interrupted. “How much do you pay this guy?”
“—received by the victim after imbibing a considerable quantity of alcohol.”
“Really?” Ben said. At the Red Parrot? he wondered.
“You’re missing the main point here, Kincaid,” Mike said, fumbling in his coat pocket for a pipe-bowl stamper. “Death was induced by the first two or three knife wounds. This confirms the hypothesis Dr. Koregai made at the autopsy based on the low incidence of bruising. The body was mutilated after death.”
Ben let the words sink in. He suddenly felt weighted, immobile. What were they tracking?
“I haven’t even told you the best part. This is where Dr. Koregai really earns his salary. He found a fingerprint.”
“The coroner found a fingerprint?”
“Yep. Noticed Adams’s wristwatch was smudged. Called Pulaski, my best duster. Sure enough, a beautiful, unsmeared right thumbprint on the watch crystal.” He pulled a police print sheet from his coat pocket. “Based on the unusual position and freshness of the print, our guys think it’s almost certainly the killer. Probably happened during the struggle.”
“That’s great. Have you run the print through the AFIS computer?”
“Of course,” Mike growled. He placed his pipe between his lips and stared at the print sheet for a moment. “We don’t have the killer’s thumb on file. Which tells us that he’s never committed a felony, served in the military, or worked for the government. The other quarter of a million people in Tulsa are still suspects.”
“Rotten luck,” Ben murmured.
“Not really. At least now when we do catch the killer, we’ll have a positive means of ID.”
Ben pulled a legal pad from his desk drawer and made a few notes. “What about hair and fiber analysis?” he asked. “Your guys ever find anything?”
“Not much,” Mike said, relighting his pipe.
“How can you inhale that disgusting crap at seven-thirty in the morning?”
“Breakfast,” Mike mumbled. He puffed several times, then released the smoke. “The hair and fiber guys analyzed everything they could find on Adams. Most of it matches Adams or his clothes or his house or the kid or his wife, but not everything. Two straight black hairs didn’t match up. Definitely human. Definitely male.”
“Might be the assailant.”
“Might not.”
“Right,” Ben said, nodding. He made another note. “Very helpful. What about fibers?”
“A few, all very common. Everything we can positively identify can be traced to Adams’s house or his car or his office.”