"Hold it. I'm not an inspector."
The tension eased from the man's face, and he said, "Well, then, who are you?"
"Somebody interested in what happened to Allan Martin and his family."
"Jesus, that's no secret. Him and his old lady were killed by their own son, and then the boy got himself killed."
"I'm interested in why the boy killed his parents, and who killed the boy afterward."
"I can't help you with that, mister. I ain't no cop."
Remo caught the look Boffa was giving him then and said, "I'm not a cop either, but I'd still like to ask you a few questions."
"What are you, private heat?"
"Something like that."
"I don't know much," the foreman said with a shrug.
"You knew Martin, didn't you?"
"Yeah, like I know my other workers. There was something, though."
"Like what?"
"Well, the last few months, Al Martin seemed a little jumpy, you know? Like something was really bothering him."
"Did you ask him about it?"
"Once, yeah. I'm interested in anything that keeps my men from working at peak efficiency, you know?"
Remo cast a dubious glance at the men on the assembly line and said, "That's obvious. What did Martin say it was?"
"Nothing. He said nothing was wrong at all."
"You didn't press him?"
"He did his work. If he wanted me to mind my own business, that was okay with me."
"Did he get a big raise anytime during the past few months?"
"A raise? You kiddin'? If he had gotten a raise, do you think he would have been so jumpy? Naw, ain't nobody around here gotten a raise in months, and nobody has gotten a big raise in years. That just ain't company policy."
Remo was about to cut off the conversation when he thought of something else.
"These cars you're working on now— where are they being shipped when they're done?"
"This lot?" the man asked. He consulted his clipboard and said, "They're earmarked for New York, New Orleans, and Los Angeles."
Remo nodded and said, "You mind if I talk to some of your men?"
"As long as you don't keep them from their work."
"I'll try not to," Remo said wryly.
"As a matter of fact, if you try that section there," the foreman said, pointing, "they're just about ready to go on a break."
"Thanks for your help."
"Sure."
Remo walked over to the section the foreman had indicated and saw that three or four men were pulling off their gloves. He decided to follow them into the lounge.
He loitered outside the door, waiting for the men to get settled, and then entered the lounge. The four men had paired off at two different tables, which was all right with him. He didn't want anyone's uncooperative attitude rubbing off on anyone else.
"Excuse me," he said, approaching two of the men, who were holding Styrofoam cups of coffee. The two at the other table were passing a flask back and forth.
"What can we do for ya?" one of the men asked.
"I'm looking into the death of Al Martin and his family, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions."
"What's to ask?" the other man asked. He was the bigger of the two, with a scar that bisected his shaggy right eyebrow. The other man was smaller and rail thin. "Al and his wife was killed by their kid, and nobody knows— or cares— who killed him."
"I care," Remo said. "I'd like to know why Billy Martin killed his parents."
"We can't help you," the man with the scar said, looking down into his coffee.
"Can't or won't?"
"Take your pick, mister," the thin man said. He looked at Remo for a moment, then nervously averted his eyes. Remo was sure that it wasn't he who was making the man nervous, but his questions.
He decided to try the other two men before forcing someone to talk to him. "Thanks," he said to the men, who merely grunted in return.
Remo left them to their coffee and walked to the table where the two men were sharing a flask. Both of these men were much like the man with the scar, large and not very bright looking. He didn't expect to have better luck with them, but he was willing to give it a try.
"Excuse me," he said. When the two men looked at him quizzically, he tried the same opening gambit on them.
"Can't help ya," one of the men said, and the other man nodded his agreement.
"Aren't you interested in why Martin was killed?"
"He was killed by that crazy kid of his," the man said, while his buddy continued to nod. "Now, look, get out of my face. I'm trying to talk with my friend here."
He reached out to accept the flask from his friend, but Remo got to it first.
"How do you think an inspector would like to find out that you men are drinking on the job?"
"You're looking for trouble, mister," the man said, standing up, "and I'm just the guy that can give it to you."
The man was much larger and heavier than Remo and obviously felt that this gave him a distinct advantage.
"Is this your flask?" Remo asked.
The man seemed surprised at the question. "Yeah, it's mine."
"Nice one," Remo said. "Sturdy, isn't it?" As he said it, Remo poked a hole in the metal container with his little finger, and the whiskey started to run out onto the floor.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I guess it wasn't as sturdy as I thought."
"What the hell…" the man said, taking the flask back and studying the hole. "How'd you do that?"
"I've got sharp nails," Remo said.
"You ruined my flask!" the man said aloud, and the other two men in the room looked up.
"You need help, Lou?" the man with the scar called.
"This guy's a wise guy," Lou answered. "He's asking a lot of questions, and he ruined my flask."
Remo heard two chairs scrape back behind him but kept his eyes on the man named Lou. "Look, fellas, all I need is a few simple answers to a few simple questions. I don't want any trouble."
"Mister, that's just what you bought," Lou said, prodding Remo's chest with his forefinger. His friend stood up and nodded his agreement.
"That's not a nice thing to do," Remo said, looking down at the man's finger, briefly considering breaking it. "How would you like it if I did that to you?" he asked.
To demonstrate, he showed the man his forefinger and then poked him in the chest with it. The man shot back across the room as if yanked from behind by a rope and crashed into the coffee machine. He fell to the floor in front of it, and the machine dumped a cup with heavy cream and sugar on his head in alternate streams of black and white.
"Hey," Lou's friend said, speaking for the first time. The two men behind Remo each grabbed an arm, and the third man pushed the table out of the way so he could front Remo.
The rail-thin man had taken hold of Remo's left arm, so Remo lifted his arm and hit the man in front of him with the thin man as if he were a club.
"Jesus," the man with the scar said. Remo looked at him, and the man released his right arm in a hurry.
Remo's right hand shot out and grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground. "Now let me ask my questions again, and we'll see if I can't get a couple of answers. Okay?"
The man tried to nod, but that only tightened the grip Remo had on his throat.
"Do you know anything about Al Martin coming into a lot of money over the past few months?"
"I can't tell you nothing, mister," the man rasped.
"Can't or won't?" Remo asked.
"I can't! I don't know nothing, I swear!"
"He doesn't know anything," the man named Lou said, using the coffee machine to help himself to his feet. "Neither do they."
"Oh, really?" Remo said. He opened his hand and allowed the man with the scar to fall to the floor. "What about you? What do you know?"