Keller, who hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud, now had the opportunity to wish he hadn’t. While he was at it, he wished he’d saved fifty cents and ten or twelve minutes and left the Spotted Tiger while he had the chance.
“Um,” he said. “I don’t think we know each other.”
“Hell, I know you,” Cowboy Hat said. He turned to the shorter fellow on his right, who unsurprisingly turned out to be Tom Cruise. “Hey, Pete,” he said. “Remember this fellow?”
“Can’t say I do,” said Tom Cruise, whose name was evidently Pete.
“I can believe it, drunk as you was.” He shook his head, turned to Keller. “Last week,” he said. “We was right here, and you was right there. Except we was all three of us in the Wet Spot, not here in the Tiger. But you, you didn’t say a word, just drank your beer like a gentleman, and one minute you was there and the next minute you was gone.”
“Well,” Keller said.
“Is it coming back to you now, Pete?”
“Nope.”
“See, that’s the difference between you and me. I’m a man never forgets a face.”
“Can’t say the same,” Pete admitted. “Now I got a memory for vehicles. Show me a car, I’ll say, ‘Damn, I seen that car before.’ Unless I didn’t, in which case I won’t.”
“You and your cars,” Cowboy Hat said. “How about hats, little buddy? You got any kind of a memory for hats?”
“I remember yours,” Pete said. “I ought to, I see that ugly thing enough times.”
“Last time you saw this here gentleman, that you can’t remember ever seeing before, he was wearing one of the nicest looking hats you’ll ever hope to see.” He laid a hand on Keller’s shoulder. “What happened to that hat, pardner?”
“Uh,” Keller said.
“Nice gray felt hat, had a little turned-down brim, little crease right here—” he ran an illustrative forefinger along the top of Keller’s head “—and dimples here—” he used his thumb and forefinger to give a light pinch to Keller’s forehead. “There’s a name for that kind of hat, but I disremember what it is.”
“A fedora,” Keller murmured.
“Say again? Couldn’t quite hear you, what with all the noise in this place.”
“A fedora.”
“Yep, that’s it. Had it right on the tip of my tongue. A fedora.” He heaved a sigh, stuck out his hand. “Roy Savage,” he said.
“Jim,” Keller said, and shook Roy’s hand.
“And this here’s Pete, though it’s a waste of time introducing you, on account of he won’t remember.”
Another solemn handshake, with Pete assuring his new friend Jim that he’d sure remember him. “And your car, too,” he added.
Wonderful, just wonderful.
The last thing Keller ever wanted to do was get acquainted with the subject of an assignment. All he liked to have, really, was enough information so he could make a positive identification of the intended target. That often entailed knowing his name, but it was even better if he didn’t. It might not have made it more difficult to swing a hammer into the temple of the Marlboro Man if he’d known his name was Harold, but neither would it have made it easier.
It was Cowboy Hat — no, dammit, make that Roy — who supplied the name. Harold Garber, he said, after they’d all moved from the bar to a table, where Roy said they’d be able to hear better. Keller didn’t want to hear better, he didn’t want to hear anything at all, but he couldn’t figure out a way to leave that wouldn’t be even more memorable than if he were to stay.
Hell.
“Old Harold,” he said. “Man couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
“And look what you done,” Pete said.
“What?”
“Before Harold was even in the ground,” he said, “you was hitting on the widow.”
“Widow? Harold wasn’t married.”
“No, but she was,” Pete said. “Jim, you remember when we was in here that night? You was wearing your hat. And I remember that hat, matter of fact. Remember it perfectly well.”
Well, that was a comfort.
“I don’t remember all that much myself,” Keller volunteered.
“Harold couldn’t stop talking about this babe he spent the afternoon with,” Pete said. “And then the next thing we heard was Harold was dead. Killed right there in the parking lot at the Wet Spot, found dead in his truck with his head bashed in.”
Keller said that was terrible.
“With his own hammer,” Roy said, “which they called a crime of opportunity. You all of a sudden decide to kill a man, you look around for something, and there’s his hammer. Wham, and it’s done.”
“And Roy here was so shocked,” Pete said, “that the first chance he gets he’s over at the house on Robin’s Nest Road comforting the widow.”
“You are so wrong.”
“Oh yeah?”
“First of all, it’s Robin’s Nest Drive, not Road.”
“You look up Same Fucking Difference in the dictionary, what do you suppose you’re gonna see?”
“And on top of that, she wasn’t anybody’s widow, on account of her husband’s still alive. And that’s why I went there, you moron.”
“Because you’re a hound is why.”
“I was being considerate,” he said, and turned to Keller for support. “You’d do the same thing, right?”
“Uh—”
“Okay, bringing you up to speed. Harold had this girlfriend, rich lady, husband, old story. Saw her and didn’t exactly keep it to hisself.”
“‘Smell my finger,’” Pete said.
“Liked to boast a bit,” Roy said, “but who’s he hurting? None of us knows the woman.”
“One of us does now.”
“Pete, shut up, okay? Point is Harold died sudden.”
“On account of somebody killed him.”
“Followed him out the door and back to his van,” Roy said. “That’s what happened, most likely. There’s Harold, boasting the way he’d do, and there’s a roomful of men can’t help overhearing him—”
“On account of he’d raise his voice to make damn sure they heard him.”
“Well, that was Harold, all right. And I’m a little fuzzy on the details, I had a few beers myself, but we all of us decided to get out of there and come to the Tiger instead.”
“Too many tattoos,” Pete said.
“Anyway, Pete here took off.”
“Drove from there to here,” Pete said. “Nothing to it.”
“And I figured to let Harold go next, and I’d bring up the rear, but what happened was he was waiting for me to go, so it was like the two Frenchies. What’s their damn names, Pete?”
“Frenchies?”
“You know. ‘After you, my friend.’ ‘No, after you!’ Couple of Froggies, and what are their damn names?”
“Only Frenchman I know is that guy Giuseppe, and he’s Italian.”
“You’re a big help, Pete.”
Alphonse and Gaston, Keller thought, but kept it to himself.
“Pierre,” Roy said, “and Lucky Pierre. That’s not it, but it’ll do. So I headed for the Tiger, and Pete was already here when I pulled in.”
“Took you long enough,” Pete said.
“And we waited for Harold, and when we got tired of waiting we went in and had a couple of beers. And it wasn’t until the next day that we heard what happened to Harold.”
“He got hammered,” Pete offered.
“We all got hammered,” Roy said, “but with Harold it wasn’t just an expression. Guy followed him out, had to be a case of Harold got it on with somebody’s wife or girlfriend—”
“Or daughter.”
“Yeah, coulda been a daughter. Cops are working their way through the Wet Spot’s regulars, checking out everybody that mighta had it in for Harold.”