‘Only of this particular crossword.’
‘Looks like you finished it.’
‘I always complete it, although some days it takes longer than others.’
‘I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, or a lesson for life.’
‘If I discover it, I’ll be sure to pass it on.’
‘That would be just fine. Do you have a name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Care to share it?’
‘No.’
Parker nodded once, as though Quayle had just confirmed everything he needed to know about him, before turning his attention to Giller.
‘You I think I’ve seen before.’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘I have a good memory for faces. How’s your memory for faces?’
Giller shrugged, but didn’t answer.
‘I ask because it seemed that you were paying some attention to my face this evening. I’m just wondering if on those other occasions when I’ve seen you here, you might have been doing the same thing?’
‘I think you’re mistaken.’
Parker considered this.
‘You could be right,’ he said, ‘but I doubt it. And I bet you’re not the sharing kind either when it comes to names.’
‘Smith,’ said Giller. ‘My friend across the table is also Smith.’
‘Well, Smith and Smith,’ said Parker, ‘or Smith One and Smith Two as I’ll think of you from now on, I’m glad we got the formalities out of the way, broke the ice. Next time, we’ll all be more comfortable with one another. I’ll keep my eyes open, because I wouldn’t want to miss you. Until then, you enjoy the rest of your evening.’ He backed away from them, pausing only to tap the bar, just to the right of where Pallida Mors was sitting. ‘You too, miss.’
Quayle watched him rejoin the group, but Parker only stayed a few moments longer before leaving through the front door.
‘Will he wait?’ asked Quayle.
‘Possibly,’ said Giller. ‘But he can’t follow both of us at once, and if we leave now, he won’t have time to call for assistance.’
‘So which one of us will he go after?’
‘We’ll just have to see.’
‘And the matter of the child?’
‘I’m already working on it. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Sooner would be preferable.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
They made their way from the bar, Mors behind them. The owner, the birthday boy himself, gave no sign of noticing their departure, nor did anyone else. Once they were outside, Giller turned left without another word, then left again, and was quickly gone from sight. Quayle and Mors headed right, in the direction of their rental car, but as they approached it, Mors took Quayle’s arm. ‘Let’s walk awhile.’
‘What about the car?’
‘We’ll come back for it later.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s watching, and the car can be traced. He’s sharp.’
‘Sharp enough to have spotted you.’
Mors bristled. ‘Yes.’
Mors checked behind her, but saw no sign of the detective. She looked puzzled, even disappointed.
‘Why doesn’t he come?’ she said.
‘Because he knows we’re here, and what we look like,’ said Quayle. ‘Perhaps he’ll use other channels to find out why.’
Eventually they neared the ramp for 295, where Mors hailed a passing cab. As they climbed in, neither of them paid any attention to the figure limping along the other side of the street, his progress assisted by a bright red Rollator. Only when the cab had slipped onto the highway did he reach into his pocket and carefully text the company name and license number of the cab to the number he had been given by the man outside the Great Lost Bear.
It was the easiest twenty dollars he’d ever made.
54
Bobby Ocean was also in a bar that night, in his case the Gull’s Nest over in South Portland’s West End. Bobby had recently used one of his subsidiary corporations to take ownership of the Gull, as it was universally known. Over the preceding eighteen months, related companies had also acquired rental properties in the Brick Hill and Redbank neighborhoods, and along Western Avenue. The city council was planning to revitalize the area by improving roads and building sidewalks, as well as authorizing zoning changes and implementing a public-private proposal for affordable housing. The West End was on its way up, and Bobby Ocean would be in an ideal position to exploit this ascent.
The only blot on the horizon was Bobby’s son, who was currently holding court in a corner of the Gull, and had already begun shooting his mouth off about the new proprietors. Billy had petitioned his father to be permitted to manage the Gull, and his mother had added her voice to her son’s. How could Billy be expected to become more responsible, she argued, if his father wouldn’t trust him with leadership? This seemed to Bobby to be putting the cart before the horse, but his protest fell on deaf ears, just as his wife preferred to ignore all the times Billy had failed to step up in the past. Those jobs, she claimed, just weren’t right for their son. They were too restrictive. He was a sociable boy, she said. People liked him.
Maybe she really believed this, but Bobby thought she spoke more in hope than anything else. Their son was not sociable, just easily led. Folks didn’t like him: they liked his money, which Billy threw around freely enough to buy himself a circle of regular acquaintances. Some were plain old bottom-feeders, but others were of a more dangerous stripe. Bobby wasn’t planning on dying anytime soon, but he still worried about the future of the businesses he had so painstakingly built up over the years. Billy was his only child, and the only one Bobby Ocean was ever likely to have. He was also, unfortunately, an asshole.
That fucking truck: if only Billy hadn’t bedecked it with Confederate banners, but there was no talking to him. True, he might have inherited his fundamentalist views on race – not to mention women, homosexuals, and the poor – from his old man, but that didn’t mean he had to go around advertising them. The truck flags were just part of it: Billy had also involved himself with that Klan nonsense up in Augusta, which was arrant stupidity. Billy had been smiling when he told his father about it, as though expecting to be praised for what he’d done. But Bobby Ocean was a respectable figure in the state, and ensured his support for far right causes was discreet and largely anonymous. What effect did his son think it would have on the family name if he were questioned for disseminating hate literature? What the fuck was he thinking?
But Bobby Ocean shouldn’t have struck him for it. That was a mistake. The open-handed blow had landed on the side of Billy’s head almost before his father realized he had thrown it. And then – goddamn it, goddamn it all – the boy had started weeping.
Jesus Lord.
So maybe he’d have to throw the Gull to Billy. It was a shithole anyway, and eventually Bobby would have to close it for refurbishment, maybe put in a pizza oven once the hipsters began gathering. Billy could do what he wanted with it for a year or two, so long as he didn’t run the place into the ground. And if Bobby gave him the Gull, Billy might stop brooding on his truck, and that would be a good thing. There was no proof that Parker and his Negro had been responsible for what occurred, even if Bobby knew they were involved, knew it in his heart. He’d find a way to punish them for what they’d done, given time, but he didn’t want his son going up against a man like Parker.
From the heart of a group of laughing men and women, all morons and blowhards, his son raised a glass to his father, and Bobby returned the gesture. After all, he loved his son, and perhaps it was partly his fault that Billy had turned out this way. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that some better version of the boy had dripped from his mother’s vagina before it could reach the egg.
55