'He also said—'
'Shit.'
'Billie rarely says 'shit.' He says 'fuck' a lot, but rarely 'shit,' and he didn't say it now. What's the matter?'
But I was up from the table and on my way to the bar. Billie ambled over, polishing a glass with a towel.
He said, 'You move fast for a big man, stranger.'
'My mind moves slow. That customer you had—'
'The Marlboro man, Trina calls him.'
'That's the one. I don't suppose you got around to washing his glass yet, did you?'
'Yes, as a matter of fact I did. This is it here, as best I recall.' He held it up for my inspection. 'See?
Spotless.'
'Shit.'
'That's what Jimmie says when I don't wash them. What's the matter?'
'Well, unless the bastard was wearing gloves, I have just done something stupid.'
'Gloves. Oh. Fingerprints?'
'Uh-huh.'
'I thought that only worked on the tube.'
'Not when they come as a gift. Like on a beer glass. Shit. If he ever comes in again, which would be too much to hope for—'
'I pick up the glass with a towel and put it some place very safe.'
'That's the idea.'
'If you'd told me…'
'I know. I should have thought of it.'
'All I was interested in was seeing the last of him. I don't like people like him anywhere, and especially in bars. He made two beers last an hour apiece, and that was just fine with me. I was not about to push drinks on him. The less he drank and the sooner he left, the happier he made me.'
'Did he talk at all?'
'Just to order the beers.'
'You catch any kind of an accent?'
'Didn't notice it at the time. Let me think.' He closed his eyes for a few seconds. 'No. Standard American nondescript. I usually notice voices, and I can't dredge up anything special about his. I can't believe he's fromNew York , but what does that prove?'
'Not too much. Trina said you didn't like his eyes.'
'I didn't like them at all.'
'How so?'
'The feeling they gave me. It's hard to describe. I couldn't even tell you what color they were, although I think they were light rather than dark. But there was something about them, they stopped at the surface.'
'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'
'There was no depth to them. They could have been glass eyes, almost. Did you happen to watch Watergate?'
'Some of it. Not much.'
'One of those pricks, one of the ones with a German name—'
'They all had German names, didn't they?'
'No, but there were two of them. Not Haldeman. The other one.'
'Ehrlichman.'
'That's the prick. Did you happen to see him? Did you notice his eyes? No depth to them.'
'A Marlboro man with eyes like Ehrlichman.'
'This isn't connected with Watergate or anything, is it, Matt?'
'Only in spirit.'
I went back to my table and had a cup of coffee. I'd have liked to sweeten it with bourbon, but I decided it wasn't sensible. The Marlboro man didn't figure to try to take me tonight. There were too many people who could place him at the scene. This was simple reconnaissance. If he was going to try anything on, it would be some other time.
That was the way it looked to me, but I wasn't sure enough by my reasoning to walk home with too much bourbon in my bloodstream. I was probably right, but I didn't want to risk being very wrong.
I took what I'd seen of the guy and pasted in Ehrlichman's eyes and Billie's general impression of him, and I tried to match up the picture with my three angels.
