ago. Who're you?'
'Richard Wilcox. You guys find Jimmy Antonelli yet?'
'Who's Richard Wilcox?'
'Jimmy's lawyer. Are you holding him, or is the sheriff?'
'Far as I know, no one is,' she said cautiously. 'You hear different?'
'My mistake,' I said. 'Thanks, Sergeant.' I hung up.
Out in the kitchen an old refrigerator started to hum. I went back there, looked around. A cast-iron pan with a half inch of pale grease and crumbs in the bottom sat on a splattered gas stove. Dishes and crusted silverware were piled in the sink and a breadboard held a hunk of bread you could have thrown through a plate-glass window. I opened the fridge. What was in it I wouldn't have touched on a bet.
Except the three green bottles of Rolling Rock, lying on their sides on the bottom shelf. I took one out, twisted off the top, and went back to the living room. I moved one of the brown chairs so that I could see the front door from it, but someone looking in the window couldn't see me. I sat, lit a cigarette, sipped the Rolling Rock, and waited.
I was on the second bottle when I heard the faint rumble of an engine, coming closer fast. A minute later a pair of headlights swept into the front windows, stopped moving, went out. The engine stopped abruptly. Doors slammed, footsteps sounded on the loose boards of the porch.
I raised the automatic, held it steady in my right hand. The beer was in my left. The front door opened. Frank Grice stepped into the little hall, trailed by the big, friendly- faced guy with the mustache. Grice turned into the living room doorway, his mouth open as though he were about to say something.
Then he saw me. He stopped, frozen in a half-completed motion. The big guy stopped too, then started again, moved forward with a little growl. Grice put his hand up without taking his eyes off mine. The big guy stopped.
'Hi, Frank,' I said. 'Disgusting place you've got here.'
He still didn't move. 'Where are Ted and Otis?'
'Downstairs,' I said. 'They're not very good, Frank.' I sipped the beer, waved the gun. 'Sit down.'
He came through the doorway, sat on the other chair, facing me. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. His twisted face was bruised; there were two Band-Aids over his right eye.
'You too,' I said to the big guy. He looked at Grice, who nodded. He crossed to the couch and sat, leaning forward, eyes a little wide, hands rubbing his knees in opposite circles. In the light I could see that his lip was split and swollen under the mustache.
'You wanted me,' I said. 'I'm here. Why?'
'Last night,' Grice said easily, 'I didn't know who you were.”
'If you had?'
'I'd have shaken your hand. Your trick-pony lawyer saved me a lot of trouble last fall, when they dropped the charges against Jimmy. I never got to thank you.'
'If I saved you any trouble, Grice, it was an accident. Any trouble I can make for you,' I said, finishing the beer, 'will be a pleasure. What do you want from Tony?'
He shook his head, dismissing the question. 'Just business.' He smiled a cockeyed smile. 'You're right,' he said. 'Otis and Ted aren't very good. They're typical of what's available around here. You ever get tired of working for Tony, I could find a place for you.'
'First, I don't work for Tony Second, I don't work for assholes like you.'
'That's too bad. That was what I wanted to see you about.'
I stared at him. 'You sent two armed morons after me so you could offer me a job?'
He nodded. 'What do you get?'
'Fifty an hour, plus expenses. Working for a guy like you, expenses could be high.'
He lifted his uneven eyebrows, smiled his crooked smile. 'That's all? Jesus, you're in a chickenshit business, Smith. I pay Arnold more than that.' He gestured at the big guy, who smiled through his split hp. Arnold? Well, what did I know? Maybe since Schwarzenegger, Arnold was a tough name.
'What did you pay Wally Gould?'
He shook his head. 'That was too bad, wasn't it? Wally was valuable. I'll miss him.'
'Then why'd you kill him?'
'Me? You've got to be kidding.' He looked at Arnold, who snickered. 'Maybe you're not as smart as I thought. Why would I kill Wally? And if I did, why would I do it in Tony's basement?'
'Damned if I know. You were trying to shake Tony down for something last night. Maybe Wally wanted too big a piece of the action.'
'Wally wasn't bright enough to want anything, except to be allowed to kill something once in a while.'
'Like Tony or me, last night?'
'Sure, he would've enjoyed that. But like I say, I didn't know who you were.'
'Well,' I said, standing, the gun held loosely in my right hand, 'you know now. Sorry I can't help you, Frank.' I moved toward the door.
'Don't you at least want to hear the offer?'
