No Accounting for Murder

"The same bartender might not even be there," Paul said, as we pulled away from Pedro's. "Until Monday, we don't even know if there was a crime."

"There was," I said flatly.

It was five miles down I-5 to the Cock's Walk. Neither of us spoke again.

Paul pulled off the interstate and stopped in front of the garish neon chicken that identified the rundown lounge. Next door stood its lifeblood, an ancient seedy motel. Inside, we sat on stools at the bar, and again, Paul ordered for both of us. Beer.

"No beer," I said, "I'm full. Give me a brandy, please. Christian Brothers."

The watery-eyed bartender poured my drink with shaky, cigarette-stained fingers, then set it in front of me with a tired smile that stopped at his yellow dentures.

Without waiting for Paul to speak, I started. "Do you work week nights?"

"All but Sunday and Monday." His bored expression barely changed to quizzical.

"Tuesday night. A tall man, about sixty?" Paul clipped his words like a movie cop. "Says he spent the evening—"

I spoke over him. "He a skinny man. Wore a brown suit. Probably drank beer and sat alone at a table." I held up my hand to silence Paul whose mouth formed a word. "He smoked brown cigarettes and kept them in a silver case. Sound familiar?"

"Yeah. I remember that guy. Didn't look to be from these parts." He scratched his balding head, speaking slowly. "He never sat by his self. Had him a little blonde half his age." He paused, shifting the foot he rested on a beer case. "They wasn't real cozy. She mighta' been his kid...maybe a tart." He looked back and forth from me to Paul. "She looked like trailer trash, but he treated her nice. Lit her smokes and such." Flakes cascaded to the shoulders of his baggy brown sweater as he continued to scratch a spot over his left ear. "Cain't say for sure it was Tuesday night though," he drawled.

"Try!" Paul said, his eyes hard in the flashing red light of a Budweiser sign.

"Did they both stay all evening?" I said.

"They was here quite awhile but cain't say if they left together?" A roll-your-own stuck to his lip, bouncing as he spoke. He squinted at Paul through the drifting smoke. "You a cop? This guy do somethin'?" He shifted his weight and hiked his pants, putting on a serious air. "He damn sure weren't drunk!"

"It's nothing like that," I said. "Did he seem nervous?"

"Nah. They just set there talkin'." He gestured toward the six booths that lined the narrow room. Although it was past eight on Saturday night, only one was occupied. Two men in work clothes sat at the far end of the bar watching television.

"Not much action around here, huh?" Paul said, picking at his teeth with a plastic toothpick he took from the bar set-up. "Anybody else here Tuesday night?"

The bartender gazed at the television and tugged his ear. "Folks in and out after supper." He jerked his head southward, toward the Beacon Inn next door. "Salesmen staying in the motel. Such."

"Did you close early Tuesday night?" I asked.

"Nah. Don't believe in it. Doubt they stayed 'til closing though. They's never anybody here at 2:30." One of the men at the other end of the bar caught his eye and he turned from us, picked up their empties, and mixed them two highballs.

"It looks like this part of Benjamin's story checks out," I said to Paul. "When you questioned him, did he say anything about female companionship?"

"Not a word. S'pose it could have been that Sunny?"

"Not a chance, he's too old. Maybe Darcy?"

"Hey, I just remembered," the bartender said as he hurried back to our end of the bar waving the TV Guide. "They came in when the late news was on. Later on he asked me to turn down the teevee." He thumbed through the tattered magazine. "There was this John Wayne movie. Here." He slapped the page with the back of his fingers. "Tuesday night. Iwo Jima. Get you another beer?"

"No, thanks." Paul reached for his wallet. "We got places to go. Put your name and phone number on this card. We'll get back if we need a statement."