Part 35 (1/2)

His tirade brought only a grunt from Salvatore, who was glaring back into s.p.a.ce.

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 h.e.l.luva lot smarter than you'd like him to be. The son of a b.i.t.c.h 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 f.u.c.kin' Mick into his bedroom and held his nuts while he balled his old lady and he still wouldn't know I was there. I 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, s.h.i.+t, 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 t.i.tan'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 t.i.tan; 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 s.h.i.+t,” 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 t.i.tan's black limo pa.s.sed me, going like he was late for the policemen's ball.

I pulled around to the back of Benny's, oyster sh.e.l.ls 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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.

”I don't know anybody,” he said flatly. ”Half the time I can't remember my kids' names.”

”I 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 b.u.t.ton.”

”This guy's name is Nesbitt. Little squirt with roving eyeb.a.l.l.s.”

”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 full 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 can bend an evangelist faster than he can say amen.”

I waited for more.