by Paul Hina
girl, he was usually with Kevin."
"Emma's brother?"
"That's right."
"Brett ever talk to you about what went on at these card games?"
"Only to brag if he'd had a good night at the table, which didn't seem to happen very often," Sid says smiling. "Otherwise, he kept pretty quiet about it."
"Sid," Clay says, holding out his hand to him. "You've given me just about all I need, I think. You've been a great help."
Sid grabs his hand, grips it real tight. "You'll put in a good word for me with Boston?"
"Sure will," Clay says, and turns around and starts toward the steps of the dugout. Johnny, the first base coach, is standing on the steps now, his newspaper folded under his arm.
"What's in the news, Johnny?"
"No surprises."
"Yeah?"
"That's right," Johnny says. "What's new with you?"
"Nothing but surprises."
Four
Eddie's Bar is the closest bar to the ballpark in town. It's a big place at the end of the downtown strip. Everybody in town knows about Eddie's, and it seems like everyone, other than the temperance stragglers and holy rollers, find their way inside on one occasion or another. And, though the bar makes a killing on game nights, it mostly has the feel of a smalltime pub during the days and on nights when the Braves aren't playing.
The characters that decorate the place on a weekday afternoon are the same sad characters that are here everyday, and they'll be sitting in the same spots they're sitting in now for the remainder of the day. But in another two hours—just before the game—the bar will be completely packed. Then, outside of the regulars, the entire place will clear out for two hours while almost everyone takes their temporary leave from Eddie's to watch the Braves. After the game, a good portion of them will find their way back to Eddie's to celebrate a win, or to drink to 'getting 'em next time.' Win or lose, though, they always come back to Eddie's. It's the city's home base.
And one thing you can always count on at Eddie's is that Eddie himself will be inside tending bar. He was tending bar the first time Clay came here in 1946, and he's been there every night Clay's been inside since. He's standing there right now, under the dim lights behind the bar, wiping the wet off a glass, staring into space.
"Scotch and soda, Eddie."
"Sure thing," he says, never once looking in Clay's direction.
"Ready for the game day rush?"
"Never ready, always prepared," Eddie says as he pours scotch into the glass he was wiping only a moment before.
"Could I get some change for the phone when you get a second?" Clay says, sitting a dollar on the bar.
"The one behind the bar is free if you need it," Eddie says, motioning toward a phone at the far end of the bar, near the bathrooms.
"Thanks, I'll be quick," Clay says, walking to the end of the bar to the phone. He picks up the receiver, and asks the operator to connect him to Wayne's office. He waits, looking into the mirror that sits behind the bar. It's covered in wipe marks, and it adds some age to Clay's face. Clay looks away from it.
"Parker Law Office," Wayne's receptionist says.
"Is Wayne in?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Tell him it's Clay."
"One moment, please."
A couple seconds pass where Clay can hear some quiet muttering in the background, and then he hears some fumbling with the receiver.
"Clay?" Wayne asks.
"I've got some news for you."
"Already? I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
"Don't get too excited. I haven't solved anything yet. If anything, I've got more questions than I'd bargained for."
"But you have news?"
"I do."
"Well?"
"I'd rather not talk about it over the phone."
"You wanna arrange for a place to meet," Wayne says, and then his voice goes quiet. "There's a place over by the scrapyard we could go. I don't think anyone will see us over there."
"That's not necessary," Clay says, shaking his head. "There's no reason to be clandestine about it. We're not exchanging nuclear secrets here—just talking."
"Right, but I'd rather people didn't know that I've hired you," Wayne whispers.
"You're giving folks around here too much credit."
"Well, where are you now?"
"I'm at Eddie's."
"You want me to meet you over there?"
"That's what I had in mind."
"Now?"
"Now or later. I'll be here until game time. Just come in and have a seat next to me at the bar, and we'll talk over drinks. No one will suspect a thing."
"Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can get out of here. I might be a bit longer, though."
"Take your time," Clay says and sits the receiver down. He walks back to his stool at the bar, sits down in front of his scotch, and takes a long, steady drink.
Eddie starts wiping the bar near Clay.
"Looks like you needed to take the edge off," Eddie says.
"You could say that."
"Tough day?"
"Tough enough. They sure don't seem to be getting any easier," Clay says, and takes another big drink. "You mind filling me up?"
"That's why I'm here," Eddie says, and grabs Clay's glass.
"Terrible what happened to Brett Lattimore, huh?"
"Awful. Just awful. Couldn't believe it when I heard the news."
"He was in here that night, right?"
"Yeah, he and the rest of the guys," Eddie says, sitting a fresh scotch and soda in front of Clay.
"I hear he tied one on."
"I don't know. That boy could really put it away. And he did that night too. But I'd certainly seen him worse."
"How do you mean?"
"Different guys have different stages of drink. He'd been coming in here long enough that I started to learn his stages. He'd start off happy and loose—a jolly drunk. He'd be boisterous and friendly, the-life-of-the-party kind of guy. When he was like that, he could be very generous. He often bought a round of drinks for the other players, and sometimes, on rare occasions, he would buy a round for the bar. But once he came out of the jolly drunk stage, he'd get obnoxious and mean. It was night and day too, and you could hardly see it coming until it was too late."
"No kidding?"
"Oh, yeah. I had to throw that boy out of here on more than a few occasions."
"What'd he do?"
"He'd start fights."
"Over what?"
"You know, standard schoolboy stuff. Maybe somebody looked at him the wrong way or something."
"I didn't know that."
"Yeah, and it's none of my business, but I saw him get pretty rough with Emma in here one night too."
"How do you mean?"
"Pushed her against the wall over by the bathroom and gave her a good, hard slap across the face," Eddie says, motioning toward the bathrooms.
"When was this?"
"I don't know. I guess it would've been about a month or two ago."
"You say anything?"
"Sure I did. I told him to get lost or I was going to call the police."
"What'd he do?"
"He said something nasty to me, got all puffed up, but then they just left," Eddie says.
"She left with him."
"Sure did. I was surprised to see it after the shot he gave her, but, like I said, it was none of my business."
"Do you think he'd reached that violent line the night of the accident?"
"Not that I saw. He was still in the jolly drunk stage."
"Emma with him that night?"
"Nope, just him and the other guys."
"And when he left that night, he left alone?
"As far as I could tell."
"Was Kevin Dunham in here with him?
"Nope. Not that night."
"Brett ever bring any girls in here?"
"No, just Emma."
"You ever hear anything about h
im being with other women."
"Sure, I heard stuff, but I never saw anything."
"He ever say anything to you about playing in any card games?"
"Yeah, the night of the accident he said he was headed up to Fremont to play some cards," Eddie says, and then he stops wiping the bar. He looks up at nothing in particular, and then turns to Clay. "Come to think of it, he said he was going up to Fremont, and I remember saying something about the drive, just making conversation. Then he said something about having to stop off in Milpitas to pick someone up."
"Did he say who?"
"Nope. He paid his bill, and, after a few goodbyes to the other guys, he was off. That was the last time I saw him."
"That's strange. The accident was only a few miles outside of Milpitas."
"That's right," Eddie says, and goes back to wiping the bar.
Clay takes another slow drink of his scotch and soda.
"About those stages of drink?" Clay asks.
"Yeah?"
"You figured out my stages?"
"Sure. You're the kind of guy who seems to get smaller and smaller the more you drink, and you drink until you just about disappear."
"Good. That's just what I've been aiming for."
Eddie smiles and walks down to the other side of the bar.
As Clay takes another drink, he looks into the mirror that lines the wall behind the bar. He watches the sunlight from the front door pour in from the mirror's reflection, and sees what looks like Wayne's silhouette enter the bar.
When he hears Wayne's footsteps approach him from behind, Clay says, "That was fast."
"I got here as soon as I could. I just had to rearrange a couple things," Wayne says, taking the stool to Clay's right at the bar.
"I meant what I said. There was no rush."
"I know, but I was curious."
"You do seem mighty curious," Clay says, taking a quick drink of his scotch.
"Can I buy you another drink?"
"Why not? You've bought me two already."
"Your drinks count as expenses?"
"I'm working, aren't I?"
"If you say so."
"I'd say I've done enough for one day's pay and a couple drinks."
"Well, let's hear
