Still talking quietly, he said, 'Good. Order me a pea soup with a ham bone and the breast of chicken with the cornbread stuffing, extra stuffing.'
They're only making sandwiches right now.'
'By the time I get there, they'll be serving real food. Tell 'em it's for me. Remember the order?'
Soup, bone, chicken, extra stuffing.''
'They ever remake The Thirty-nine Steps, you can play Mr. Memory. Have em time the order so nothing's cold. Also a dark draft. The Irish.'
I returned to the bar, relayed Milo's order to the bartender, and told her to delay my sandwich until he arrived. She nodded, called the kitchen, then served my beer with a dish of almonds. I asked her if she had a newspaper.
'Sorry,' she said, glancing toward the barflies. 'No one around here reads. Try the machines out front.
I went back to Hillhurst and caught a faceful of sunglare. Four coin-op newspaper dispensers lined the sidewalk. Three were empty; one of them was vandalized and graffitied. The last one was fully stocked with a tabloid promising SAFE SEX, RAUNCHY GIRLS, AND DIRN FUN.
I went back into the lounge. The channel had been switched to an old western. Square jaws, roping dogies, and long shots of scrubland. The barflies stared up at the screen, entranced. As if it hadn't been filmed just over the hill, in Burbank.
Thirty-six minutes later Milo appeared, waving me over as he strode past the bar, toward the restaurant section. I took my beer and caught up with him. His jacket was over his shoulder and his tie was tucked into his waistband. The band was crushed by the weight of his belly.
A couple of the lushes looked up and watched him, dulled, but still wary. He never noticed. But I knew he would've been pleased to see how much cop-scent he still gave off.
The main dining room was empty except for a busboy running a manual carpet-sweeper over a corner. A stringy old waiter appeared-American Gothic on a crash diet-bearing soft rolls, Milo's ale, and a plate of cherry peppers and stuffed olives.
'Him, too, Irv,' said Milo.
'Certainly, Mr. Sturgis.'
When the waiter left, Milo touched my beer glass and said, 'You're replacing that with dark draft, lad. From the weariness in your eyes, I'd say you've earned it.'
'Gee, thanks, Dad. Can I have a two-wheeler without training wheels too?'
He grinned, tugged his tie lower, then loosened the knot completely and pulled it off. Running his hand over his face, he sat back in the booth and snorted.
'How'd you find out about Herbert's murder?' he said.
'From her former landlords.' I summarized my talk with Bobby and Ben Murtaugh.
'They seem on the level?'
I nodded. 'They're still pretty shaken.'
'Well,' he said, 'there's nothing new on the case. She's on file as a Central Division open. The overall picture is a sadistic-psycho thing.
Very little physical evidence.'
Another low-probability one?'
'Uh-huh. Best bet on these wacko ones is the bad guy does it again and gets caught. Nasty one, too. She was hit over the head, had her throat cut and something wooden shoved up her vagina coroner found splinters. That's about all they've got physically. It happened near a punk club operating out of a garment contractor's place in the Union District. Not far from the Convention Center.'
'The Moody Mayan,' I said.
