“Yeah, right, Myron. That’s it. You guys gonna start hanging out here?”
“I don’t know.”
“We get a pretty exclusive celebrity clientele,” Joe said, wiping the bar with what looked like a gas station rag. “You know who was in here once? Cousin Brucie. The disc jockey. Real regular guy, you know.”
“Sorry I missed that,” Myron said.
“Yeah, well we’ve had other celebs, right, Bone?”
The guy with the Astros hat and bushy mustache pepped up and nodded. “Like that guy who looked like Soupy Sales. Remember him?”
“Right. Celebrities.”
“Except that wasn’t really Soupy Sales. Just someone who looked like him.”
“Same difference.”
Myron said, “Do you know Carla?”
“Carla?”
“The girl Greg was with.”
“That her name? No, never got a chance to meet her. Didn’t meet Greg either. He just kinda ducked in, cognito-like. We didn’t bother them.” He sort of puffed out his chest like he was about to salute. “At the Swiss Chalet, we protect our celebrities.” He pointed at Myron with the dishrag. “You tell the other guys that, okay?”
“Will do,” Myron said.
“Fact, we weren’t even sure it was Greg Downing at first.”
“Like with Soupy Sales,” Bone added.
“Right, like that. Except this was really him.”
“Guy looked like Soupy though. Great actor, that Soupy.”
“And what a nickname.”
“Talent all the way round,” Bone agreed.
Myron said, “Had he ever been in here before?”
“The guy who looked like Soupy?”
“Moron,” Joe said, snapping the rag at Bone. “Why the fuck would he want to know about that? He’s talking about Greg Downing.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know? I look like I work for one of those psychic networks or something?”
“Fellas,” Myron tried.
Joe held up a hand. “Sorry, Myron. Believe me, this don’t normally happen here at the Swiss Chalet. We all get along, right, Bone?”
Bone spread his arms. “Who’s not getting along?”
“My point exactly. And no, Myron, Greg isn’t one of our regulars. That was his first time here.”
“Same with Cousin Brucie,” Bone added. “He only came in that one time.”
“Right. But Cousin Brucie liked the place, I could tell.”
“He ordered a second drink. That shoulda told you something.”
“Right you are. Two drinks. Coulda just had one and left. Course, they were only Diet Cokes.”
Myron said, “How about Carla?”
“Who?”
“The woman Greg was with.”
“What about her?”
“Had she been here before?”
“I never seen her here before. Bone?”
Bone shook his head. “Nope. I woulda remembered.”
“What makes you say that?”
Without hesitation, Joe said, “Serious hooters.”
Bone cupped his hands and stuck them in front of his chest. “Major Charlies.”
“Not that she was good looking or anything.”
“Not at all,” Bone agreed. “Kinda old for a young guy.”
“How old?” Myron asked.
“Older than Greg Downing, that’s for sure. I’d say late forties. Bone?”
Bone nodded. “But a first-rate set of ta-tas.”
“Humongous.”
“Mammoth.”
“Yeah, I think I got that,” Myron interrupted. “Anything else?”
They looked puzzled.
“Eye color?” Myron tried.
Joe blinked, looked at Bone. “Did she have eyes?”
“Damn if I know.”
“Hair color?” Myron said.
“Brown,” Joe said. “Light brown.”
“Black,” Bone said.
“Maybe he’s right,” Joe said.
“No, maybe it was on the lighter side.”
“But I’m telling you, Myron. That was some rack. Major guns.”
“Guns of Navarone,” Bone agreed.
“Did she and Greg leave together?”
Joe looked at Bone. Bone shrugged. “I think so,” Joe said.
“Do you know what time?”
Joe shook his head.
“Bones, you know?” Myron tried.
The bill of the Astros hat jerked toward Myron like a string had been pulled. “Not Bones, dammit!” he shrieked. “Bone! No S at the end. Bone! B-O-N-E! No S! And what the fuck do I look like, Big Ben?”
Joe snapped the dishrag again. “Don’t insult a celebrity, moron.”
“Celebrity? Shit, Joe, he’s just a scrub. Not like he’s Soupy or something. He’s a nobody, a zero.” Bone turned to Myron. The hostility was completely gone now. “No offense, Myron.”
“Why would I take offense?”
“Say,” Joe said, “you got a photograph? We can put your picture on the wall. You could autograph it to your pals at the Swiss Chalet. We should start like a celebrity wall, you know?”
“Sorry,” Myron said. “I don’t have one on me.”
“Can you send us one? Autographed, I mean. Or bring it next time you come.”
“Er, next time.”
Myron continued to question them but learned nothing more except Soupy Sales’s birthday. He left and headed up the block. He passed a Chinese restaurant with dead ducks hung in the window. Duck carcasses, the ideal appetite whetter. Maybe Burger King should hang slaughtered cows in the window. Really draw the kids in.
He tried putting the pieces together a bit. Carla calls Greg on the phone and tells him to meet her at the Swiss Chalet. Why? Why there of all places? Did they not want to be seen? Why not? And who the hell is Carla anyway? How does all this fit into Greg’s vanishing act? And what about the blood in the basement? Did they go back to Greg’s house or did Greg go home alone? Was Carla the girl he lived with? And if so, why meet here?
Myron was so preoccupied he didn’t spot the man until he almost bumped into him. Of course calling him a man might be a bit of an understatement. More like a brick wall doubling as a human being. He stood in Myron’s way. He wore one of those pectoral-displaying ribbed T-shirts under an unbuttoned flower-patterned semiblouse. A gold horn dangled between his near-cleavage. Muscle-head. Myron tried to pass him on the left. The brick wall blocked his path. Myron tried to pass him on the right. The brick wall blocked his path. Myron went back and forth one more time. Brick Wall followed suit.
“Say,” Myron said, “you know the cha-cha?”
