True Detective

'Know where I could find Loga?'

'A speak. Not this one.'

'Oh?'

'He ain't here. Trust me.'

It seemed prudent to do so. I had left Reagan at the bar, where he sat nursing a beer, studying some of the sad faces around him. In the car, he said, 'Lot of those guys are out of work. Mighty sad situation.'

'They found dough for a drink, though, didn't they?'

'You're awful cynical. Mr. Heller. Doesn't it make you feel a little sick inside, when you see out-of-work men on street corners?'

'On street corners, yes. In bars, no.'

'Well, somebody's got to do something about it.'

'Oh yeah? Like what? Like who?'

'I can tell you what / do. Every day when I walk up the hill to the station. I give ten cents to the first guy who asks for it.'

'If it's the same guy every day. you're getting taken.'

'Very funny. I vox plenty of guys to choose from, believe me. Well, the president'll straighten this out.'

'Voted for him, did you, Dutch?'

'I'll say I did. And so did my father. He's even working for the government.'

'Your father? Doing what?'

'Giving out scrip to the unemployed to exchange for food.'

We hit a couple of roadhouses on the outskirts of Davenport, both of them on the rough side: chicken-wire ceilings and sawdust on the floor and factory and foundry workers who liked to fight when they got drunk; I was glad I was with a husky former football player, even if he was wearing glasses and a sweater. Then we headed for a place Reagan had heard of but never been in, on highway 6, a route that took us along the Mississippi and through several little towns. The night was clear, the full moon reflecting off the smooth surface of the river, turning it an eerie gray.

Reagan asked me about Jimmy, and I filled him in. He said he could sympathize with the frustration Jimmy mustVe felt, going from newspaper to newspaper looking for work.

'I had swollen feet from pounding the Chicago sidewalks,' he said. 'And I got all the reception-room fast shuffles you'd expect. It was a woman at NBC in Chicago who told me to head for the sticks. Even then, I was damn lucky, landing that WOC spot.'

'How'd you manage it?'

'The station had been advertising for an announcer, but I showed up the day after they filled the slot. It was Mr. Beame who gave me this news, after I'd driven seventy-five miles in my father's car. Instead of staying cool, I kind of lost my temper, and asked him how the hell a guy can get to be a sportscaster if he can't get inside a station? And mentioning sports did it- they needed somebody to help announce some Iowa games, and that's how I started. Five bucks per. And that's where I met Jack Hoffmann, who was Jimmy Beame's drinking buddy.'

'And you ended up taking Hoffmann's place at the station.'

'More or less. Oh, he was a capable man. and he could ad-lib and all that, but he didn't know football. Still. I learned a lot from him. and he went off to find something in radio that wasn't sports.'

'You like your work?'

'Sure. I wouldn't mind being the next Quin Ryan or Pat Flangan. Of course, my dream's to get into acting, not that this job isn't acting 'A chill wind is blowing through the stadium and the long blue shadows are settling over the field.''

'Not bad,' I admitted.

The roadhouse was up ahead, a white two-story building on the right, with a gravel lot full of cars and a small blue neon out front that said FIVE O'CLOCK CLUB. I pulled in.

This was not a workingman's joint, at least not the men who worked in the area's factories and foundries. The men at the bar were in suits and ties and hats, as were the ones at tables with women in low-cut and/or tight- fitting dresses who might have been working girls, but didn't, I thought, work here; this seemed to be a place you brought a moll. It was modern-looking: black and white and chrome with subdued lighting, a nightclub atmosphere. A five-piece band was doing some Dixieland jazz on a small platform over in the far left corner; they sounded like the reason Bix left the area.

The bartender was heavyset and pockmarked, but his apron was clean, which was a first for the evening. I asked him if he knew Jimmy Beame, and he said no. I asked him if he knew Vince Loga and he said no. I gave him a fin and asked again. He still didn't know Jimmy Beame, but Vince was in back playing cards.

He pointed to a door at the rear and I headed there, Reagan next to me. the eyes behind the dark-rimmed glasses blinking as he tried not to look down the pretty necklines at the tables we passed, and considering the size of some of the guys sitting at the same tables as those necklines, that was a wise decision. As I reached to open the door, a bouncer the size of a Buick drove over and advised me the game was closed. I gave him a buck, opened my coat to show him I wasn't armed, and he opened the door for me. and I went in.

¦

He stopped Reagan. Said to me, 'You gave me one buck. If he goes in. I want another.'

I didn't feel like giving him another, so I told Reagan to stay out there.