“What about the sirens when they arrived?” Bernie said. “Didn’t you hear them?”
Mr. Albert got a faraway look in his eyes. “I thought it was a dream,” he said.
“It really happened,” Bernie said. “A woman-a second woman, if I’m following you right, ended up in your Dumpster. She was a reporter for the Trib named Carla Wilhite.”
“Not a teenager?”
“No.”
“The one I knew was a teenager.”
“You knew her?” Bernie said.
“Sure I did,” said Mr. Albert. “I knew all the workers on the floor, even the part-time kids who came in on weekends.”
“The girl was one of the part-time kids?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. A pretty young thing, nice smile.” Mr. Albert squeezed his eyes shut. “I can see her,” he said. “Pretty young thing, name of April.”
“April?” Bernie said. His voice didn’t rise-went the other way, if anything-but it seemed to fill the room, even push against me, like the sound was taking up space.
Mr. Albert’s eyes opened. “April something or other. But the April part’s easy to remember.” He paused for a moment or two, licked his lips. “It’s a month.”
“Who killed April?” Bernie said, tamping down that scary thing in his voice some; not scary to me, goes without mentioning-there was nothing scary between me and Bernie.
“Asking me?” said Mr. Albert. “I couldn’t tell you.”
Bernie reached out, not quickly, more like he was doing something he did all the time, and took the bottle out of Mr. Albert’s hands.
“Hey,” said Mr. Albert.
“Who killed April?” Bernie said.
“Already told you-I couldn’t say.”
“Why not?”
Mr. Albert gazed at Bernie. “Oh, good Christ-you think I’m the guilty party?”
“I’m not saying that,” Bernie said. “I just want the facts.”
“The facts?” said Mr. Albert. “Facts are scarce on the ground.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can’t have facts if they never found out who did it.”
Now Bernie got real quiet. “You’re saying it’s an unsolved crime?”
“The right way to put it,” Mr. Albert said.
“Were there any suspects?” Bernie said.
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Mr. Albert. “All I know’s what I told the detective.”
“Which was?”
“What you already know-April was a nice girl.”
“Who found the body?”
“Why, I did, of course-I’m the caretaker.”
“You went out to put something in the Dumpster?” Bernie said.
“You’re a smart one,” said Mr. Albert. “Torn strip of insulation-the pink kind.” He looked at Suzie. “And you, too, ma’am. Smart.” And then at me. “Even the pooch here. So if you’re lookin’ to find out who killed April, then maybe you will.”
“Who was the detective?” Bernie said.
“The name, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies on that,” said Mr. Albert. “But one thing I’m sure of-he had long side whiskers, like an old-time riverboat gambler. Also wore himself a tall Stetson.”
Bernie handed him back the bottle.
“But it was a long time ago,” Mr. Albert called after us as we climbed the stairs out of his little room. “So maybe you won’t.”
I heard a faint sound of metal on glass: that would be the bottle cap getting unscrewed.
TWENTY-TWO
In the car-me on the shelf, again, being very good about it, nice and quiet, nibbling from time to time at a tiny opening I’d made in the back of the shotgun seat, now occupied by Suzie, again-Bernie was talking fast, all about Red Devil’s and sideburns and Thad Perry and April and lots of other stuff that flew by faster and faster, becoming pure sound, kind of like music, until Suzie interrupted.
“Bernie?” she said. “Can you take me to the airport?”
“Whoa,” said Bernie, at the same time hitting the brakes, even though we were barreling down the passing lane in light traffic. Someone honked behind us. “Uh, I thought you weren’t in a rush to get back,” Bernie said.
“It’s not that,” Suzie said. “Well, maybe it is, partly.” She went silent. Meanwhile, Bernie had slipped over into the most inside lane, the very slowest, where we never rode except when we were headed for an exit.
“And partly what else?” he said.
“This is hard to say,” she said. “And maybe kind of stupid.”
“I doubt that,” Bernie said.
Suzie turned to him, a small smile crossing her face and vanishing fast. “And then you come up with something like that,” she said. “Let’s forget it.”
“Forget what?” said Bernie.
But why bother? I was with Suzie on this one: immediate forgetting was often the way to go.
“What I just said,” Suzie replied. “The whole thing.”
“I don’t understand,” Bernie said. “You don’t want to go to the airport?”
“Christ,” Suzie said.
Uh-oh. Were they fighting? Was this some kind of fight between Bernie and Suzie? How could that happen?
There was a long silence. In the distance I saw the head of the huge wooden cowboy who stands outside the Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon, a smiling cowboy with his big white hat tilted back on his head. He also had a six-gun in each hand, but that part was out of sight, hidden by some buildings. Were we headed to the Dry Gulch? Seemed like a good idea to me, kicking back, having a little something, getting along. But when the exit ramp appeared, we kept going.
“You do want to go the airport?” Bernie said after a while. “Is that what I’m supposed to figure out?”
“You’re good at figuring things out,” Suzie said.
I got the feeling they were still fighting. That little opening in the leather seat back in front of me? It was growing. Some interesting-looking stuff in there. I tried to concentrate on it and block out everything else, normally a real talent of mine. But not right now, for some reason.
“I’m sorry, Bernie,” Suzie said. “That was uncalled for. It’s my fault.”
“What is? I’m not getting this at all.”
“Oh, hell,” Suzie said. “Let’s just say the Post wants me back ASAP and leave it like that. And it happens to be true.”
“The part you’re leaving out,” Bernie said. “Spill it.”
Suzie thought for some time and then nodded. “Okay, Bernie, and maybe you’ll think it’s petty.” She sat up straight. “But I don’t like being silenced.”
“Huh?” Bernie said.
“My father did that to my mother all the time,” Suzie said. “I hated it.”
“Did what, exactly?” Bernie said.
“This,” said Suzie, and she made a small sideways chopping motion with her hand. “Whenever she was about
