He offered Tiny a butt, but his old friend shook his head with a slightly nauseated look. Bud put the pack away “You look like hell, Tiny.”
“I feel worse, and it ain’t gettin’ better. It’s catchin’ up with me fast. I guess that’s another reason why I took the train up. I got nothin’ to lose by tellin’ ya what they done to Chuck.”
The drinks came, but Tiny merely stared at his beer and shot. He had always had a presence larger than his physique, but it seemed hidden now behind a twelve-ounce glass. He pushed aside his infirmity, however, and got right to it.
“They didn’t know anyone was left in the locker room that night. I was kinda wiped out, tryin’ to get up the energy to go home, when I heard Rose rip Marty a new one. He says, ‘I didn’t say to kill the punk, ya stupid bastard! I just told ya to send him on a nice vacation!’ He’s got Marty doin’ his policin’ now, see? And Marty can’t kick back because Rose has stuff on him. I’ve heard him threatenin’ to tell Marty’s wife about the arena rats Marty was bangin’. Rose yells, ‘And now look what you did! Screw the kid, I’m happy he’s outta the way, but if they lock you up for this, there goes my gate on the twenty-third.’ Marty, he blames it on the trainer, but it wasn’t Stiglitz cut your kid.”
Big Tiny downed the shot and chased it with a gulp of beer before it could come back up again. He seemed to be listening intently to his stomach.
“I shouldn’ta told you, but we go way back, pal. What’s right is right. Look, I gotta go. Sorry about your son. And if I don’t see ya again — I’ll see ya.”
Bud sat blinded and straitjacketed by fresh anger. When he finally shook himself out of it, Tiny had gone, disappearing into the recesses as he always seemed to do.
Saturday — 9 A.M.
Steady drizzle fell upon the tiny gathering of dark figures. Eventually, Bud and Brewer were alone at the graveside, hat brims dripping.
Bud meant to wait until the diggers came to lower Chuck into the ground. In the meantime, he related Tiny’s story in the way people ramble about a dream. Brewer said it was no help unless the witness went on record.
“You got the tape,” Bud said.
“The tape’s no good as evidence.”
“Whattaya mean no good?”
“It didn’t show what we needed. You say Tiny took the train up here? Considering the hour you saw him, he might have missed the last one going back.”
“He ain’t gonna tell you what he told me.”
“We’ll see.”
Within ten minutes, Brewer was at the train station. Big Tiny, asleep against the cinder-block wall, had the small waiting room to himself. Likely, he’d been on the bench all night and had scared off anyone else wanting to wait inside; he looked contagious.
Feeling like a bully, Brewer shook Tiny several times before the tired expression became a shut-eyed scowl. One more shake and the eyes opened on the badge held six inches away.
“I got a ticket,” Tiny said.
“Wake up, Tiny. I’m a friend of Bud’s. I know what you told him, and I need it on record to nail Delaney and Rose.”
Tiny pushed himself erect with obvious effort. His face was peevish and sickly.
“Screw you,” Tiny said, feet dangling above the concrete floor.
Brewer noticed his shadow had fallen across the dwarf, perhaps to bad effect. He sat down beside him. “Hey, I said I’m Bud’s friend — a war buddy. He told me you came here special to clear things up for him.”
Tiny leaned on his hands and hung his head like someone getting ready to puke.
“I came up to pay my respects, and then we had a drink. When I left him, he was just gettin’ started on a bender, so whatever he told you musta come outta the bottle.”
“Look, I can’t prove foul play in this thing if you don’t back me up.”
Tiny’s head turned slowly toward Brewer. The dark, bloodshot eyes looked malarial.
“I didn’t hear nothin’. I didn’t see nothin’. If Bud’s a frienda yours, you know he’s prob’ly half in the bag allatime. Nobody did nothin’ to nobody. I got nothin’ else to say, so piss off.”
Brewer mulled over all the “nothin’s.”
“Look, Tiny, this is a murder, or at least manslaughter. Don’t you want to see justice done for your friend?”
Tiny was hanging his head again.
“I ain’t got enough time left to see your kinda justice.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It don’t mean nothin’ ’cause I don’t know nothin’” Brewer could feel the man clenching himself off in kayfabe, commitment as fanatical as a Japanese soldier’s.
“Bud wouldn’t have let me in on what you told him if he didn’t want this handled the right way.”
Outside, the clang and rumble of the arriving diesel charged into their hearing. Tiny hopped to the floor, heading for the door. He wobbled at first but got control of his stride by the time he reached up to the knob. His strange silhouette stood out against the braking cars for a moment; then he was gone into the rain.
What am I going to do, Brewer thought, tackle a sick midget?
Sunday — 6 P.M.
Bud answered his phone, his voice sounding smoky but sober enough. Brewer didn’t ask where he’d been all day.
“Tiny wouldn’t level with me, Bud. Why did he tell you one thing and me another?”
Silence on the other end.
“Even though the tape doesn’t help us, I hinted the opposite to Delaney to see what he does. It’s just a matter of staying patient.”
Bud said, “I got hired to push an open-deck job startin’ tomorrow. I’ll check with you later in the week.”
Was that an acceptance of Brewer’s advice, or lip service?
He had to figure a way of closing this thing.
Monday — 8 A.M.
The boss beckoned to Brewer as he entered the squad room. “Well?”
“The tape don’t help. Only two cameras and they weren’t placed right. If Bud hadn’t tipped me on what to look or listen for I wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary. I think Wendt’s going to release it back. Meantime, I’ve been leaning on Delaney and Tiny Blair.”
“Who?”
Brewer explained.
“A giant and a leprechaun.”
“One or the other of those consciences has got to give.”
“When? Yeah, you’re done with this. You told Wendt what you think, right? Let him run with it if he wants. And your buddy, what’s he gonna do?”
“Don’t know. Lieutenant...”
“You’re done.”
Tuesday — 1 P.M.
Brewer’s phone rang.
Bud’s voice was more forceful than it had been on Sunday. Maybe that came from running a crew of ironworkers for two days. “Tell me what’s new, Al.”
“What’s new is I’m officially off the case.”
“But what about the tape?”
“It’s gone, Bud; we just couldn’t sort out what was staged and what wasn’t. Not conclusively. But I’m not quitting on this. I may be off the case as far as the brass is concerned, but that doesn’t mean I have to let it go.”
After a pause, Bud said, “It’s okay, Al, just drop it. I don’t want you hanging yourself out to dry.”
The dial tone was loud, like an air-raid warning.
Wednesday — 7:15 P.M.
Brewer ran aground with his paperwork, left the office, and walked toward the Imperial. It was jammed with exuberant kids so he kept walking. Up ahead he saw the vertical neon for Larkin’s, a bowling alley with good grinders at the snack bar.
He nursed a draft beer waiting for his sandwich and stared up at the TV. A coffee commercial finished up its jingle and then he was watching Wednesday-night wrestling.