“That you? Kilmer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“A guy I knew once had a mark on him, thought he was safe in downtown Pittsburgh. Then a
wheelbarrow hill of cement fell off a six-story building right on his head.”
The metaphor seemed a little vague to me, but I took a stab at retorting.
“Tell him I won?t drop any cement on his head.”
The bartender chuckled and held out a hand. “Ben Skeeler,” he said. “The place used to be called
Skeeler?s but everybody kept sayin? „Let?s go to Benny?s so I finally changed the sign.”
He shook hands like he meant it.
“Long as we?re being so formal, maybe I could see some ID,” the cautious man said.
“That?s fair enough,” I said, and showed him my buzzer.
He looked at it and nodded. “I hope you?re straight. The way I get it, you?re straight, but this town
car? bend an evangelist faster than he can say amen.”
I waited for more.
“Tough, too. I heard you was tough”
“I talk a good game,” I said finally.
“These days, you know, you never can be too sure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“County ambulance just went by actin? real serious,” he said. “You wouldn?t know anything about
that, would you?”
“Man named O?Brian just got himself killed out on the bay,” I said.
His eyes got startled for a moment and then he looked down into his beer glass. “That so” was all he
said. He pulled on his ear, then took a folded-up paper napkin out of his pocket and handed it to me.
“Dab your lips,” he said. “I gotta get back to work.”
He went outside and I unfolded the napkin. The message was written hurriedly in ballpoint that had
torn through the napkin in a couple of places and left several inkblots at the end of words. It said:
“Uncle Jolly?s Fillup, route 1-4 south about 18 miles. Tonight, 9 p.m. Come alone.”
No signature. Skeeler came back with another crate of soft drinks.
“You know a place called Jolly?s Fillup, route 14 south of town?”
“Sounds like a filling station, don?t it?” he said.
“Now that you mention it.”
“You?ll know it when you get there” he said, and went back outside. I finished my beer and followed
him.
