Out on the Cutting Edge

"Didn't say much of anything, just stood in front of me waiting for me to order. I didn't let on that I knew him."

"Good."

"But, see, he didn't let on that he knew me, either, but I could see he did. The way he sent little glances my way. Ha! Guilty knowledge, isn't that what they call it?"

"That's what they call it."

"It's not a bad little store. I like the tile floor and all the dark wood.

I had a bottle of Harp, and then I took a second bottle and watched two fellows shooting darts. One of them, I'm sure he must have spent a past life as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I kept thinking he was going to fall on the floor, but he never did."

"I know who you mean."

"He was drinking Guinness. That's a shade too primal a flavor for my tastebuds to come to terms with. I suppose you could mix it with orange juice." He shuddered. "I wonder what it's like to work in a place like that, where the closest you get to a mixed drink is scotch and water or the odd vodka tonic. You could live your whole life and never hear anyone order a mimosa. Or a Harvey Wallbanger. Or a hickory dickory daiquiri."

"What the hell is that?"

"You don't want to know." He shuddered again. I asked him if he'd recognized anyone else in the room.

"No," he said. "Only the bartender."

"And he was the one you saw with Paula."

"The very lad himself, as the boyos in Grogan's might put it." He mused again on the delights of working in a simple, honest bar, unadorned with potted ferns or earnest yuppies. "Of course," he reminded himself, "the tips are pretty awful."

And that reminded me. I'd set aside a bill earlier, and now I dug it out and slipped it to him.

I couldn't get him to take it. "You brought a little excitement into my life," he said. "What did it cost me, ten minutes and the price of two beers? Someday we'll sit down and you can tell me how the whole thing turns out, and I'll even let you buy the beers that night. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough. But they don't always turn out. Sometimes they just trail off."

"I'll take my chances," he said.

I killed fifteen minutes, then went back to Grogan's myself. I didn't see Mickey Ballou in the room. Andy Buckley was in the back at the dart board, and Neil was behind the bar. He was dressed as he'd been Friday night, with the leather vest over the red buffalo-plaid shirt.

I stood at the bar and ordered a glass of plain soda water. When he brought it I asked if Ballou had been around. "He looked in earlier," he said. "He might be back later on. You want me to tell him you were looking for him?"

I said it wasn't important.

He moved off to the far end of the bar. I took a sip or two of my soda water and glanced his way from time to time. Guilty knowledge, Gary had called it, and that was what it felt like. It was hard to be sure of his voice, my caller the other morning had spoken in a hoarse half-whisper, but I had to figure it was him.

I didn't know how much more I could find out. Or what I could possibly do with whatever I learned.

I must have stood there for half an hour, and he spent all that time down at the other end of the bar.

When I left, my glass of soda wasn't down more than half an inch from the top. He'd forgotten to charge me for it, and I didn't bother to leave him a tip.

The manager at the Druid's Castle said, "Oh, sure, Neil. Neil Tillman, sure. What about him?"

"He used to work here?"

"For around six months, something like that. He left sometime in the spring."

"So he would have been here the same time Paula was here."

"I think so, but I couldn't say for certain without looking it up. And the book's in the owner's office, and that's locked up right now."

"Why did he leave?"

His hesitation was brief. "People come and go," he said. "Our turnover rate would amaze you."

"Why did you let him go?"

"I didn't say we did."

"But you did, didn't you?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I'd rather not say."

"What was his problem? Was he dealing out of the restaurant?

Stealing too much of what came in over the bar?"

"I really don't feel right talking about it. If you come back tomorrow during the day, you can probably learn what you want to know from the owner. But—"

"He's a possible suspect," I said, "in a possible homicide."

"She's dead?"

"It's beginning to look that way."

He frowned. "I really shouldn't say anything."

"You're not talking for the record. It'll just be for my own information."

"Credit cards," he said. "There was no hard evidence, that's why I didn't want to say anything. But it looked as though he was running duplicate slips with customers' cards. I don't know just what he was doing or how he was doing it, but there was something shady going on."

"What did you say when you fired him?"

"I didn't do it, the owner did. He just told Neil it wasn't working out, and Neil didn't push it. That looked pretty much like an admission of guilt, don't you think? He'd worked here long enough so that you wouldn't fire him without telling him the reason, but he didn't want to know."

"How did Paula fit in?"