Orchestra Left, Row T

The detectives found Boyer ensconced on his throne at the bar, drinking beer. Maggie was right: he was a character, a Norman Rockwell character--fat as a tub, front tooth missing, a reedy ponytail his proud trademark. With a beer in his hand, he ushered them to a table at the far end of the social quarters. Except for an in-and-out bartender, they were alone. As they began their questioning, the sharp crack of flying pins in the bowling alleys provided tympani for Boyer’s spiel. All they had to do was wind him up. With a mischievous smile bordering on the salacious, he began with Sperling’s sister, Barbara. “She’s a real character--illegitimate son, and, holding up fingers,” two live-in boyfriends, one of them maybe the father, and --arching his eyebrows—“get this, the escort of Barbara’s mother at the time.” Tugging on his Santa Claus beard, he said, “I’ll bet you guys never expected juicy hanky-panky in this little town.” Breathing hard, he went on to the bomb in Mark’s car, threatening letters and crank calls, Mark’s visits to Dutch Mary’s, his alcoholism--jumping back and forth from one story to another hit or miss as he recalled more details. He kept both officers busy scribbling furiously. Puffed up, full of himself, Boyer was the man of the hour. He struggled to get up, then waddled to the bar for a refill.

He came back to the table, taking a gulp as he sat down. “Ah, that’s good.” “These two males,”Reardon said. “Are they living with Miss Sperling now?” Yeah, Schoener and Miller. That’s a little funny. She moved back to her mother and has the place up for sale. But they’re still there. Where do they work? Connors asked. Schoener’s a manufacturer’s rep, I think you call it, out of town a lot, but come to think of it, not as much as he used to be. Why’s that? Connors said. Don’t know. Maybe it’s because he and Jeff Sperling became thick as thieves. Boyer let out a single burst of laughter, like a cymbal.Hah, that’s a good one. See, they were caught stealing at the plant. That was after Jeff put him on his payroll. Reardon raised his hands. Stealing at the plant? On Jeff Sperling’s payroll? Slow down, Mr. Boyer. Yeah, Mark was tipped off and caught ‘em in the act. Expensive Air Force Pliers. But he never brought no charges, gave in to his mother, I bet. ;Did I mention the town called Jeff a draft dodger? Anyway, I liked Mark Sperling, he said, his breathing heavy and loud. When he started playing poker in our game, hell, he didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. He soon owed me over eight hundred bucks, but I never worried about it.; He toyed with his gold chain. I knew he’d pay up. The guy had class. He lit a cigarette and shook his head. If he didn’t lose a foot in that plane crash, he woulda really been somebody big. He was big all right--the biggest wh**emaster and boozehound around. I always felt sorry for his mother. She’s a real lady. Yeah, Schoener and Jeff became asshole buddies all right. Here’s what happened. Schoener got pissed off somethin’ terrible when Sperling stole his steady piece, Alicia What’s-Her-Name. I don’t know if this is true, but a few guys said Phil told them he’d get Mark Sperling sooner or later. I mean really get him. Jesus! So, when Jeff wanted a snoop, he hired Schoener. It was a natural, and probably cheap as hell. Boyer shuffled to the bar and came back with another beer. He picked up his story without dropping a beat. But there was another tail--that was Chief Morgan himself Reardon and Connors exchanged glances. Wanna know why? Well, he found out his old lady and Sperling were shacking up.