“And you’re sure it’s him,” Ed said.
“It’s the same guy I saw get out of the limo,” Graham said. “It sure as hell looks like Joey Beans.”
“And you saw him talking with Jack Landis,” Ed prompted.
“Are you going to repeat everything I tell you?” Graham asked. “Because this conversation is going to take a long time if we have to do it twice.”
Maybe, Ed thought. He’d spent the whole damn night poring over the accountant’s report, and it didn’t look good.
“If I have to kick this up a level, I need to be sure,” Ed answered.
“You want a positive ID?” Graham asked. He was getting irritated.
“I want a positive ID.”
“I’ll get you one,” Graham said, and hung up the phone. He worked his way across the room, sidling past cowboy boots and under cowboy hats, until he was at the bar. He ordered and got a glass of beer and leaned back to check out the scene.
This was no mob hangout. The crowd was young and affluent. The denim clothes were new and hadn’t been faded by days of work in the sun. These were honky-tonking duds, from the matte finish of the well-blocked Stetsons to the shine of the boots.
The jukebox was hammering out a Texas two-step, so Graham had a hard time hearing anything, but it looked like Joey was making some progress with the young lady. At least she found him amusing—she was leaning forward listening to him and laughing, and Joey had a smug man-of-the-world look on his face as he made big gestures with his left hand and laid his right hand on her arm.
Graham found an empty chair and dragged it over to Foglio’s table.
“You mind if I join you?”
The four of them looked a little surprised, but they were just drunk enough to give it a whirl.
Joey checked to make sure that the blonde was listening, then said, “I knew there was Sleepy, and Dopey, and Sneezy, but I didn’t know there was a dwarf named Stumpy. Hey, I got friends in Vegas; maybe I can get you a job as a slot machine.”
Harold and the blonde laughed. The redhead looked a little embarrassed. Foglio looked very pleased with himself.
“I want to tell you all a story,” Graham said.
“Hey, we got our own court jester!” Foglio bellowed. “Stumpy the Clown! You ladies want to hear a story from Stumpy the Clown?”
Graham smiled at the young women and sat down. He leaned over the table and waited for quiet. The four partyers looked at each other, smiling and laughing, and then Foglio made a go-ahead gesture with his big hands.
“Once upon a time,” Graham started as the women chuckled, “in a city far away, there was a young man named …” Graham looked up at Foglio. “Joey,” he continued.
The party laughed again.
“How’d you know?” Foglio asked, looking enormously pleased.
Graham shook his head to dismiss the question, then went on. “Now Joey was a poor young man. He lived in a small apartment with his old mother and old father and life was very hard. But Joey was a determined young man with broad shoulders, a strong back, and big muscles, and he was resolved to make a better life.”
Graham paused to take a sip of beer. He noticed that people at the next table had stopped their conversation and were listening in.
“So Joey went to see the king,” Graham said.
“The city had a king?” the blonde asked.
“Every city has a king, darling,” Graham continued, “and the name of this king was … King Alberto.”
Graham noticed that Joey was smiling, but an edgy look had come into his eyes.
Graham raised his voice to include the people at the next tables and continued: “And Joey said to King Alberto, ‘Your Majesty, I am a poor young man with a poor old mother and a poor old father, but I have broad shoulders, a strong back, and big muscles and am willing to work very hard for a better life. May I come and serve you?’
“And the king answered, ‘Joey … I know your poor old mother and your poor old father and they are poor but honest. What can you do to serve me’? And Joey answered, ‘I can walk all around your kingdom, Your Majesty, and collect your taxes,’ because every shop in the city had to pay tribute to the king.”
Graham smiled at Foglio, who didn’t look so jovial now.
“Then what happened?” asked the redhead.
“So Joey went to work collecting taxes for the king,” Graham said. “He went from shop to shop collecting taxes, and everything was going just fine until …”
“Until what?” Harold asked.
“Until one day Joey went to collect taxes from an old man who owned a vegetable stand.”
Foglio’s face turned deathly white.
“This better be a funny story, Stumpy the Clown,” he said.
Graham held up his hand for silence. He had quite an audience now.
“When Joey asked the old man for money, the old man said no. Joey asked again, and again the old man said no. Joey was getting very angry, because he knew that his job with the king was on the line. So he demanded the money … and the old man said, ‘I don’t have to pay tribute to the king.’
“Joey lost his temper. He knew he had to teach this old man a lesson. So Joey, who had a strong back and broad shoulders and big muscles, tipped over the vegetable cart. Then he grabbed every crate and picked them up and threw the vegetables all over the street, called … Sullivan Street.”
“Shut up, Stumpy,” Foglio hissed.
“Hush!” the blonde said, and slapped Foglio’s arm.
“By this time,” Graham said, “a large crowd had gathered. They were shocked at what they saw, but Joey was very proud, and he shouted, ‘This is what happens to anyone who refuses to pay tribute to the king!’ And then … suddenly … standing there in Sullivan Street … was King Alberto himself, looking very angry indeed, and he asked, ‘Did you do this, Joey?’ And Joey was very proud and said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty, I did!’
“That’s the end of the story,” Foglio said through clenched jaws.
Graham shook his head.
“The king walked very slowly up to Joey and said, ‘Joey, this old man is my uncle! My uncle does not pay tribute. Now, if you want to keep your job and the head on your broad shoulders, you will pick up all these vegetables you have thrown on the street and you will pay for any you have ruined out of your salary.’ ”
“Awww,” the blonde said.
“Serves him right,” said the redhead.
“There’s more,” Graham added. “The crowd was laughing at Joey. His poor old mother and his poor old father were standing there ashamed. And then, just when Joey thought things couldn’t get any worse, King Alberto said, ‘And Joey, because it is a sin to waste food, you will eat any vegetables you destroyed in your foolishness.’ And there in the gutter, in the mud and the muck and the mire, was a pile of green beans that Joey had smashed. And the crowd watched … and laughed … and hooted as Joey knelt down on that dirty street, picked up a handful of filthy muddy beans and started to eat them.”
“Icky,” the blonde said.
“And from then on, everyone in the kingdom called him ‘Joey Beans.’ ”
The crowd burst into laughter.
“You son of a bitch!” Joey yelled as he lunged across the table.
Graham pushed his chair back and stood up. Joey’s fingers grazed the front of his shirt.
“The end,” Graham said.
Joey grabbed the bottom of the table and pushed it over. The women screamed and drinks crashed onto the floor.
“Careful, Joey,” Graham warned as he stepped back, “or Albert Annunzio will make you lap those up.”
Joey went for him, but Harold grabbed his arms and held him back.
“You bastard!” Joey screamed. “I’ll kill you, you little prick! I’ll chop your other arm off!”
“And eat it?” Graham asked.
As Joey tried to tear himself from Harold’s grasp, the young blond woman said, “Wait a second. Are
you
Joey Beans?”
The cruel sound of feminine laughter set Joey Beans off again. The whole bar watched as Harold had to wrestle him to the floor, where Joey kicked, roared, generally foamed at the mouth, and screamed, “I don’t know who you are, you slimy little runt, but if I catch you, I’ll take a week to kill you! I’ll find you, you bastard! I’ll bury you alive! You don’t know who you’re messing with.…”
Joe Graham smiled and backed out of the bar and onto the street. He could still hear Joey’s muffled curses as he walked past the Alamo to the cabstand. He hopped a taxi back to his hotel, went up to his room, called Levine, and said, “I’m pretty sure it’s him, Ed.”
Karen answered the phone. “Hawley’s Home for Wayward Women. Hawley speaking.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
Then Graham said, “Karen, have you been drinking?”
“Yep.”
“Can I speak to Neal?”
“You could if he was here, but he’s not here,” Karen answered. “May I take a message?”
There was another silence while Graham considered what, if anything, to tell her. Just because Joey Beans was involved with Jack Landis didn’t mean there was necessarily any danger, and he didn’t want to alarm Karen.
“Yeah, why don’t you have him call in, okay?” Graham said.
“No reason, I guess.”
“How’s everything going there?” Graham asked. “Okay?”
“Yeah …” Karen said as she debated what to tell Graham. She thought it would be better if Neal told him such little things as the fact that Candy Landis was sitting at her kitchen table eating frozen pizza with Polly Paget and discussing baby names. “Everything’s fine.”
“How’s our friend?”
“Late.”
“Huh?”
“I mean radiant,” Karen said. “Our friend is radiant.”
“Hey, Karen, take it easy on the sauce, okay?”
“You betcha.”
“Have Neal call,” Graham repeated. “Right away.”
“Right away.”
“Good night.”
“Back at ya.”
Karen hung up.
“Who was that?” Polly asked.
“Neal’s dad,” Karen answered. “And his mom, his grandfather, his best friend, teacher, and boss.”
“We have one of those speaker phones,” Candy said as she poured herself another glass of white zinfandel. This was her fifth glass, which matched her normal biannual intake of alcohol.
“You sounded a little tipsy on the phone,” she warned Karen. “I think that Polly should answer the phone from now on, seeing as how she is not drinking. She can be the designated talker.”
“Friends don’t let friends talk drunk,” Karen agreed.
Polly asked, “Is there any pizza left?”
Neal was halfway through his first beer at Brogan’s when Walter Withers staggered in. Dust covered his rumpled suit and sweat stained his white shirt. The briefcase in his hand looked as if it weighed a good eighty pounds. And he was drunk.
But his tie is still knotted, Neal noticed with a mixture of admiration and disdain.
Withers’s eyes narrowed like the gun slits on a tank as he shuffled toward Neal. When he was at least an inch from Neal’s face, he spit out, “That was a low thing you did, Neal. I must have walked six miles before I got picked up.”
Neal swiveled on his stool to face Withers.
“You walked!”
“Disappointed?”
“Didn’t your buddy Charles come looking for you?” Neal asked.
“Who’s Charles?”
“You can drop the act,” Neal said. “You got the job done. Your client is sitting with Polly as we speak.”
Withers hauled himself onto the bar stool, an action that his sore muscles might have made a lot more difficult save for a lifetime of practice.
“I don’t think so,” he answered. He couldn’t imagine Ron Scarpelli even coming to this godforsaken wilderness, and besides, he hadn’t told the lascivious voyeur where he was. Or had he?
“I’m telling you, Walter,” Neal answered. “Candy Landis is bonding with Polly right now. Congratulations. You beat me, okay?”
As gratifying as that might be, my boy, although I do detect a trace of rancor in your inflection, Withers thought, the euphoniously named Candice Landis is not my client. However, if you do persist in believing that, there might be some small advantage to be found.…
“Experience, my boy, that’s all,” Walter said. “May I make it up to you by buying you a drink?”
“I have a drink,” Neal answered. He swallowed some beer to demonstrate.
“Then may I make it up to you by buying myself a drink?” Withers asked. “A whiskey, please.”
Brogan poured a shot, then set the glass and Withers’s car keys on the bar. Walt picked up the glass.
“You can tell me where the ‘Jehovah’s Witness’ went,” Neal said.
Have I suffered that dreaded first blackout? Withers wondered. I seemed to have missed a Candy Landis and a Jehovah’s Witness—at least.
“Perhaps into the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program,” Withers suggested. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not,” Neal said. “So what are you going to do now?
“Well,” Withers answered, “now that Chuck has seemingly abandoned me, I suppose I will try to find a room and then return to Reno in the morning. Unless, of course, you’d like to put me up.”
I’d like to put you up on a sharp pole, Neal thought.
“Why don’t you go to Reno tonight? The hotels are much better there.”
“I’m a little tired, my boy,” Withers answered. He drained his glass and added, “From all the exercise, I suppose.”
“There’s a motel across the street,” Neal said.
“Yes, I think I’ll just have a nightcap and hit the hay.” He yawned dramatically.
Neal didn’t believe him—not the nightcap, not the yawn, not one damn word he had to say. There was no reason on earth Walter Withers would hike even one mile if he thought he’d done his job, and he’d have been cocky, not angry, when he walked in. And most of all, he wouldn’t be hanging around a bar with the opposition—he’d get his car keys and get the hell out of town.
“Open the briefcase,” Neal ordered.
“I’m sure that you meant to say, ‘Would you mind opening the briefcase, please?’ ” Withers said. “In either case, the answer is no.”
“What I meant to say was, ‘Open the briefcase,’ ” Neal repeated. “When I want a lesson in etiquette, I’ll write to Miss Manners. Now open the briefcase and show me what’s inside.”
Withers ignored Neal and turned to Brogan. “May I have another drink, please, my good man?”
“I ain’t your good man,” Brogan rumbled. His voice blended into the dog’s low growl. “And I ain’t selling you another drink. I ain’t going to get my ass sued off when you drive that car into somebody, either.”