Forty-Two

 

I was awakened by the sound of something pounding. It took a while to remember where I was, and even longer to figure out that the noise was coming from the front door and not from inside my skull. I lifted my head from the table. “We’re closed!” I yelled.

It felt like the top of my head had fallen off.

The door opened. Toohey strode in, dressed like he was going hiking through a Land’s End catalog.

“Oh, it’s you,” I said, my mouth full of cotton.

“Nice to see you, too.”

The bar was dark and the shattered jukebox was still playing old country tunes from the fifties. Vince slept right through it, snoring like a jet engine, a puddle of drool spilling out of his open mouth. Toohey went behind the bar, found a rocks glass, and filled it with ice. He pulled up a chair and unscrewed the cap on a bottle of whiskey and splashed a little over the cubes. He nodded toward Vince. “He all right?”

“Not a care in the world.”

Toohey smiled. “What are we listening to?”

“That’s old Hank.”

“Williams?”

“Thompson.”

“Cool.”

The hangover was bad. One of those poisonous ones that’d last a whole day if you let it, so you’re better off if you start drinking again. After a moment I said, “Stakoff was in earlier. Wanted me to help him find the chick that’s trying to frame me for murdering her uncle.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Told him I’m a little busy right now watching my world crumble around my ears.”

Toohey took a sip of whiskey. I wondered what it must be like never to have money problems. Or family problems. Any kind of problems. A guy who drinks whiskey for the mere pleasure of it.

I hated the fucker.

“This is good,” Toohey said. “What are we drinking?” He examined the label. “Ah. George Dickel. Sour mash. Number 12. Good stuff.” He savored a mouthful, then said, “About Goodwin—”

Vince let out a loud sleep fart.

Toohey grinned and continued. “The killer’s trail gets colder by the day. Won’t be long and it’ll be in the cold case file.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said and slammed back the last of my whiskey. Toohey sipped his drink and frowned at me. “Denis, Dickel is meant to be savored, not slammed.”

“Don’t tell me how to drink my booze,” I said. “What about Sheppard?”

“Right. That’s what I came by to tell you. I talked to the prosecutor this morning. For now they’re going with your version of events. I think one cold case at a time is enough for them. That could change, but I don’t think it will.”

Vince stirred and lifted his head. “What could change?”

“Go back to sleep,” I said.

Toohey said, “I don’t suppose we have to worry about that letter anymore.”

“Letter? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I refilled my glass. The booze was working. The hangover felt like it was melting away.

One record finished and another began. An old Kitty Wells tune. After a moment Toohey said, “You still need my help with that other issue?”

I nodded toward Vince. “He already knows,” I said. “And yes.”

“What do I know?” Vince said. He reached for the bottle of Dickel, which I moved just out of his reach.

“About me and Reva.”

“Oh yeah. That sucks.”

Toohey killed his drink and set the empty glass on the table. “Come by tomorrow at one o’clock. We’ll get things rolling.”

“I don’t know. I’d like to talk to her one more time. Maybe…you know…”

He gave me a pathetic look and stood up and zipped up his thousand-dollar Canada Goose jacket. “Thanks for the drink.”

After Toohey left, Vince reached for the bottle and I moved it again. “Who was that asshole?” he said.

“My lawyer,” I said.

He thought about that. “Nice jacket,” he said.