He looked at the sketch and I looked at him. "This is a drawing," he said after a moment. I agreed that it was. "You do this? 'Raymond Galindez.' That's not you."
"No."
"Where'd you get this?"
"They gave it to me," I said. "So I would recognize him."
"And you were supposed to follow him?"
"Right. And I went to take a leak and when I got back he was gone. Him and the boy both, like they disappeared while my back was turned."
"Why were you following him?"
"They don't tell me everything. Do you recognize him? Do you know who he is? He was right in the front row, you must have seen him."
"Who's your client? Who told you to follow him?"
"I couldn't tell you that even if I knew. Confidentiality, it's everything in this business, you know."
"Hey, c'mon," he said winningly. "We're all alone here. Who'm I gonna tell?"
"I don't even know who the client is," I said, "or why I was supposed to follow him. I caught hell for losing the sonofabitch, believe me."
"I can imagine."
"So do you recognize him? Do you know who he is?"
"No," he said. "I never saw him before."
HE left shortly thereafter. I slipped out myself and crossed to the downtown side of the intersection so I could watch him walking toward Eighth Avenue. When he had a good lead I tagged along after him, just keeping him in sight. He went into his own building, and a few minutes later I saw the lights go on in the fourth-floor windows.
I went back to Paris Green. Gary had locked up, but he opened the door for me. "That was a nice touch," I said. "Vodka and tonic."
"Double vodka tonic."
"And on my tab at that."
"Well, I couldn't charge you six dollars for club soda, could I? Much simpler this way. There's still some coffee left. Want a cup before I shut down for the night?"
I had a cup and Gary uncapped a bottle of Dos Equis for himself. I tried to give him some money but he wouldn't hear of it. "I'd rather keep my efforts as a Ninth Avenue Irregular strictly pro bono," he said. "I wouldn't enjoy it half as much if I took money for it, as the actress said to the bishop. Well, have you reached a verdict? Did he do it?"
"I'm sure he's guilty," I said. "But I was sure before, and I don't have any more evidence now than I did then."
"I overheard a little of the conversation. It was fascinating the way you became another person. All of a sudden you were a saloon character and about half lit in the bargain. For a second there you had me worried that I'd put vodka in your drink by mistake."
"Well, I put in enough time in ginmills. It's not hard to remember the moves." And it wouldn't be hard to be that person again. Just add alcohol and stir. I said, "He was this close to talking about it. I don't know that there was any way to crack him open tonight, but there were things he wanted to say. I don't know, it may have been a mistake showing him the sketch."
"Is that what it was, that sheet of paper you handed him? He took it with him."
"Did he? I see he left my card." I picked it up. "Of course my name and number are on the back of the sketch. He recognized it, too. That was obvious, and his denial wasn't terribly convincing. He knows the guy."
"I wonder if I do."
"I think I've got another copy," I said. I checked my pocket, unfolded sketches until I got the right one. I handed it to Gary and he tilted it to catch the light.
He said, "Mean-looking bastard, isn't he? Looks like Gene Hackman."
"You're not the first person to point that out."
"Really? I never noticed it before." I looked at him. "When he was here. I told you Thurman and his wife had dinner here with another couple. This was the male half of the couple."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure this chap and a woman had dinner at least once with the Thurmans. It may have been more than once. If he said he didn't know him, he was lying."
"You also said he was here with another man sometime after his wife's death. Same guy?"
"No. That was a blond fellow around his own age. This man"- he tapped the drawing- "was closer to your age."
"And he was here with Thurman and his wife."
"I'm sure of it."
"And another woman. What did she look like, do you happen to remember?"
"Haven't a clue. I couldn't have told you what he looked like if I hadn't seen a picture of him. That brought it all back. If you've got a picture of her-"
I didn't. I had thought of trying to work with Galindez on a sketch of the placard girl but her facial features were too imperfectly defined in my memory, and I wasn't at all certain she was the same woman I'd seen in the movie.
I let him look at the pictures of the two boys, but he hadn't seen either of them before. "Nuts," he said. "I was doing so well, and now my average is down to one in three. Do you want more coffee? I can make another pot."
That made a good exit cue, and I said I had to be getting home. "And thanks again," I said. "I owe you a big one. Anything I can do, anytime at all-"
"Don't be silly," he said. He looked embarrassed. In a bad Cockney accent he said, "Just doin' me duty, guvnor. Let a man get by wiv killin' 'is wife and there's no tellin' what narsty thing 'e'll do next."
I swear I meant to go home. But my feet had other ideas. They took me south instead of north, and west on Fiftieth to Tenth Avenue.
Grogan's was dark, but the steel gates were drawn only part of the way across the front and there was one light lit inside. I walked over to the entrance and peered through the glass. Mick saw me before I could knock. He opened up for me, locked the door once I was inside.
"Good man," he said. "I knew you'd be here."
"How could you? I didn't know it myself."
"But I did. I told Burke to put on a pot of strong coffee, I was that sure you'd be by to drink it. Then I sent him home an hour ago, I sent them all home and sat down to wait for you. Will it be coffee then? Or will you have Coca-Cola, or soda water?"
"Coffee's fine. I'll get it."
"You will not. Sit down." A smile played lightly on his thin lips. "Ah, Jesus," he said. "I'm glad you're here."
Chapter 13
We sat at a table off to the side. I had a mug of strong black coffee and he had a bottle of the twelve-year-old Irish that is his regular drink. The bottle had a cork stopper, a rarity these days; stripped of its label it would make a pretty decent decanter. Mick was drinking his whiskey out of a small cut-glass tumbler that may have been Waterford. Whatever it was it stood a cut above the regular bar glassware, and like the whiskey it was reserved for his private use.
"I was here the night before last," I said.
"Burke told me you came by."
"I watched an old movie and waited for you. Little Caesar, Edward G. Robinson. 'Mother of Mercy, is this the end of Rico?' "
"You'd have had a long wait," he said. "I worked that night." He picked up his glass and held it to catch the light. "Tell me something, man. Do you always need money?"
"I can't go very far without it. I have to spend it and that means I have to earn it."
"But are you scratching for it all the fucking time?"
I had to think about it. "No," I said at length. "Not really. I don't earn a lot, but I don't seem to need much. My rent's cheap, I don't have a car, I don't carry any insurance, and I've got no one to support except myself. I couldn't last long without working, but some work always seems to come along before the money runs out."
"I always need money," he said. "And I go out and get it, and I turn around and it's gone. I don't know where it goes."