“Joe Wechsler?” he said. “Why, sure, I knew him. He’s got a little hardware store right down the street. Many’s the time we run over there when we needed a tool or something. A fine man, Joe was. And a terrible thing what happened to him in the bookstore.” Batista nodded. “I know Marty Fennerman, too — guy who runs the store. He had a holdup there once, you know that? Did he tell you that?”
“Yes, sir, he told us,” Brown said.
“Sure, I remember, musta been seven, eight years ago. Sure. You want a cigar?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Batista.”
“You don’t like cigars?” Batista said, offended.
“Yes, I do,” Brown said. “But I don’t like to smoke them in the morning.”
“Why not? Morning, afternoon, what’s the difference?”
“Well, I usually have one after lunch and another after dinner.”
“You mind if I smoke one?” Batista asked.
“Go right ahead.”
Batista nodded and spit the end of the cigar into a barrel of soiled rags near his scarred desk. He lighted the cigar, blew out a great stream of smoke, said “Ahhhhhh,” and then leaned back in his ancient swivel chair.
“I understand Mr. Wechsler had some work done by you a little while before the shooting, is that right, Mr. Batista?”
“That’s right,” Batista said. “A hundred percent.”
“What kind of work?”
“A paint job.”
“Did you do the job personally?”
“No, no. My body and fender man did it. It wasn’t such a big job. Some nut hit Joe while he was parked on the street in front of his store. So he brung the car in here and I—”
“The car was hit?”
“Yeah. But nothing big. You know, just a scratched fender, like that. Buddy took care of it.”
“Buddy?”
“Yeah, my body and fender man.”
“Who paid for the job? Mr. Wechsler or the man who hit him?”
“Well, truth is, nobody paid for it yet. I just billed Joe last week. ‘Course, I didn’t know he was gonna get killed. Listen, I can wait for my money. His wife’s got enough grief right now.”
“But it was Mr. Wechsler you billed?”
“Yeah. Joe didn’t know who hit him. Like, you know, he come back from lunch one day, and there was this big scratch in the fender. So he brung the car in here, and we took care of it. Buddy’s a good man. Only been with me a month or so, but much better than the last guy I had.”
“I wonder if I could talk to him.”
“Sure, go right ahead. He’s in back. He’s working on a ‘56 Ford. You can’t miss him.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Manners. Buddy Manners.”
“Thanks,” Brown said. He excused himself and walked to the back of the garage.
A tall, muscular man in paint-stained coveralls was spraying the side of a blue Ford convertible. He looked up as Brown approached, decided Brown was no one he knew, and went back to work.
“Mr. Manners?” Brown asked.
Manners cut off the spray gun and looked up inquisitively. “Yeah?”
“I’m from the police,” Brown said. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Police?” Manners said. He shrugged. “Sure, go right ahead.”
“You did some work for Joseph Wechsler, I understand.”
“For who?”
“Joseph Wechsler.”
“Wechsler, Wechsler... Oh, yeah, ’59 Chevy, that’s right. Spray job on the left front fender. Right. I can only remember them by the cars.” He grinned.
“I guess you don’t know what happened to Mr. Wechsler then.”
“I only know what happened to his car,” Manners said.
“Well, he was killed Friday night.”
“Gee, that’s a shame,” Manners said, his face going suddenly serious. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “An accident?”
“No, he was murdered. Don’t you read the papers, Mr. Manners?”
“Well, I was kind of busy this weekend, I went up to Boston — that’s where I’m from originally — to see this girl I know. So I didn’t see no papers from here.”
“Did you know Wechsler pretty well?”
Manners shrugged. “I think I met him twice. First time was when he brung the car in, and then he come in once while I was painting it. Said the color was a little off. So I mixed a new batch and sprayed the fender again. That was it.”
“Never saw him again?”
“Never. He’s dead, huh? That’s a shame. He seemed like a nice little guy. For a kike.”
Brown stared at Manners levelly and then said, “Why do you say that?”
“Well, he seemed nice,” Manners shrugged.
“I mean, why did you call him a kike?”
“Oh. Why, ‘cause that’s what he was. I mean, did you ever hear him talk? It was a riot. He sounded like he just got off the boat.”
“This spray job you did for him... Did you argue about the color of the paint?”
“Argue? No, he just said he thought the color was a little off, and I said okay, I’ll mix a new batch, and that was it. It’s hard to match exactly. You know. So I done my best.” Manners shrugged. “I guess he was satisfied. He didn’t say nothing when he picked up the car.”
“Oh, then you did talk to him again?”
“No, I only saw him those two times. But if he’d have kicked about the work, I’da heard it from the boss. So I guess he was satisfied.”
“When did you go to Boston, Mr. Manners?”
“Friday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Well, I knocked off work about three o’clock. I caught the four-ten from Union Station.”
“You go alone, or what?”
“Alone, yeah,” Manners said.
“What’s the girl’s name? The one in Boston?”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Mary Nelson. She lives in West Newton. If you think I’m lying about being in Boston—”
“I don’t think you’re lying.”
“Well, you can check anyway.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Okay.” Manners shrugged. “How’d he get killed? The kike?”
“Someone shot him.”
“That’s too bad,” Manners said. He shook his head. “He seemed like a nice little guy.”
“Yeah. Well, thanks, Mr. Manners. Sorry to have interrupted your work.”
“That’s Okay,” Manners said. “Any time.”
Brown went to the front of the garage again. He found Batista filling a customer’s gas tank. He waited until he was through and then asked, “What time did Manners leave here Friday afternoon?”
“Two-thirty, three, something like that,” Batista said.
Brown nodded. “This spray job he did for Wechsler. Did Wechsler complain about it?”
“Oh, only about the first color Buddy put on. It didn’t match right. But we fixed it for him.”
“Any static?”
“Not that I know of. I wasn’t here the day Joe came in and told Buddy about it. But Buddy’s an easygoing guy. He just mixed up a new batch of paint, and that was it.”
Brown nodded again. “Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Batista,” he said.
“Not at all,” Batista said. “You sure you don’t want a cigar? Go ahead, take one.” Batista smiled. “For after lunch.”