‘Yes. When this guy talks, it’s bankable.’
‘So that retires Dantzler, Tiffany, and the mark in Texas as possibles,’ Livingston said.
Friscoe shook his head. ‘Too bad. They would have been the easiest shot we bad.’
At that point The Nosh arrived, alert, ebullient, and smiling. Friscoe glared at him sourly. ‘You look like you just come back from a week at the beach,’ he said.
‘I think I’m on to something,’ The Nosh said.
‘Okay, everybody gets their turn. Papa there just made himself an A-plus. Now it’s Sharky’s turn at bat.’
Sharky quickly described the deal on red devils made by Shoes and the layoff bets made by Arnold, the bartender at the Matador. Before he was through, the waitress returned with the coffee and demanded their orders while The Nosh complained bitterly that they might at least have selected a place that had bagels on the menu.
‘This here’s a diner, not a deli,’ Friscoe said.
When the waitress had gone again, Sharky said, ‘We didn’t make Shoes. He never showed up on the street last night. But both these leads tell Arch and me that the shooter’s still in town.
‘Could be coincidence, Shark,’ The Nosh said.
‘if it was just one or the other, I’d agree’ said Livingston. ‘But here we got information from two completely different sources and it dovetails.’
‘Yeah,’ Friscoe said, ‘I never been big on coincidence myself. It’s like circumstantial evidence. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.’
‘Arch and I are going to move on Shoes tonight,’ Sharky said. ‘But we need somebody to get on this Arnold, find out who the big better is.’
‘Can you maybe get a line on this Shoes before tonight, bit him in his nest?’ Friscoe asked.
‘It’s pushy. If we move too bard on him we could blow Ben’s cover,’ Sharky said.
‘Okay, I’ll worry about Arnold, there, sc. what I can come up with,’ Friscoe said. ‘We just don’t have time. We got nothing but maybes and probablies, and what we need, we ain’t got. We ain’t got a face, we ain’t got a name, we ain’t got a motive, we ain’t got shit.’
‘Is it my turn yet?’ The Nosh asked.
‘Jeez, you’re like some kid in grammar school thinks he’s got all the answers,’ Friscoe said.
‘Go ahead, Nosh,’ Sharky said. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘Okay, I got a positive make on the prints.’
Friscoe almost swallowed his coffee cup. Sharky, Livingston, and Papa froze in mid-bite, like sculptured figures.
‘You know who the killer is?’ Sharky said.
The Nosh nodded. ‘Howard Burns. Male Caucasian, age 59, owned a short-haul trucking outfit in Lincoln, Nebraska.’
‘A trucking company?’ Friscoe said, ‘This Mafia button owns a trucking company?’
‘What do you mean, owned?’ Sharky said.
The Nosh smiled. ‘According to the Bureau, Howard
Burns was killed in an automobile accident on October twentieth.’
Again silence, broken finally by Friscoe. ‘That ain’t possible.’
‘That’s right. It sure ain’t,’ The Nosh said. ‘I checked it out again with George Barret. He says the prints are fresh, no question about it.’
‘What kind of accident?’ Sharky asked.
‘A single-vehicle wreck on the outskirts of Omaha. Car went off the road, bit a tree, and exploded. Burns’s wife made the identification using dental charts.’
‘Ub oh,’ Friscoe said, and a smile began spreading across his face.
‘Neat,’ Livingston said.
‘Now that ain’t a coincidence,’ Papa said.
‘And think about the date,’ Livingston said.
‘Yeah about two weeks before he surfaced here looking for red devils and a healthy bookmaker,’ Sharky said.
‘There’s more,’ The Nosh said.
‘I shoulda stayed in bed,’ said Friscoe.
‘Look at this Bureau telex on Burns. Notice anything funny?’ The Nosh asked.
They all looked it over, reading the lines, the background information on the questionably deceased Howard Burns. Born in Newark, raised in Philadelphia, worked as truck driver and then in the navy yard there during World War
