Barney’s was a small place, with one room for the pool table and one room for the bar. A handful of old men sat at two of the scarred tables in the bar. Some had drinks, but most seemed to be there for companionship. When they caught sight of strangers in their midst, they stopped talking and stared straight ahead.
A solidly built man in his early seventies got up from one of the tables and went back to the bar. “Can I help you folks?”
We walked up to him, Mr. Contreras taking the lead. He asked for a beer and drank a little, then offered a comment on the weather, which Barney greeted in silence. Mr. Contreras surveyed the room, studying the men one at a time, while they sat stonily, occasionally directing glances of outright hostility in my direction. It was a men’s bar, and whatever the libbers might do downtown to places like Berghoff’s, Barney’s was going to stay pure.
Finally Mr. Contreras gave a little grunt of recognition and turned to Barney. “I’m Sal Contreras. Me and Eddie Mohr worked together at Diamond Head for more than thirty-five years.” Barney drew back slightly, but Mr. Contreras pointed at one of the tables and said, “Ain’t that right, Greg?”
A man with an enormous beer belly shook his head slowly. “Maybe so, but… well, light ain’t so good in here. Shine some on him, Barney.”
The owner leaned behind the counter for a switch and turned on an overhead bulb. Greg looked at my neighbor for a long, doubtful minute. His face cleared suddenly into a big grin.
“That’s right, Sal. Ain’t seen you since you retired. We’ve all been getting older, though you look pretty good. You moved north, what I heard.”
The other men started moving in their chairs, finishing drinks, murmuring to each other. We belonged, after all. They didn’t have to form a posse.
“Yeah,” Mr. Contreras said. “After Clara died I just couldn’t stay in the old neighborhood. I got me a nice little place up on Racine.”
“That your daughter? She turned out mighty nice. I thought your kid was older, though.”
“Nah. This here’s my neighbor. Vic Warshawski. She was driving me down to visit Eddie this afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to take the el. Then we found out he was dead. I guess you probably heard all about that.”
“Yup.” Barney intervened, anxious to regain control of his bar. “He was just in here not five minutes before. Then they shot him on his way home. Clarence here, his wife saw Eddie die. When the cops and all finished talking to her she came and got him.”
A bald man next to Greg nodded portentously. Either Mr. Yuall or Mr. Joyce. Having comforted his wife in her shock, he had hastened back to Barney’s to share it with his friends.
“Mrs. Mohr thought he’d come here to meet someone,” I ventured, hoping our bona fides were now well enough established for me to speak.
“That’s what Eddie said,” Barney agreed. “He was expecting to meet some man here for lunch. He waited for an hour and finally decided he’d had enough. He ate a hamburger by himself and left for home.”
“Did he leave a message—in case the man he was waiting for showed up after all?” I asked.
“Yeah, he did, Barney,” Greg said. “Remember? He said it was some management squirt and he was tired of waiting on management squirts, so if the guy showed up to tell him to call when he really wanted to have a meeting.”
“That’s right. Him getting shot like that, it went out of my mind.” Barney scratched his thin gray hair. “But what name did he say?”
I waited while he pondered. “Milt Chamfers? Or Ben Loring?” I finally offered.
Barney nodded slowly. “I believe it was one of them. Chamfers. I believe that’s the name all right.”
Greg agreed that Chamfers was the name Eddie had given, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He’d apparently left Diamond Head before the new owners took over. No, Eddie had never mentioned Milt Chamfers to him or to any of them.
“That’s quite a nice addition Eddie put on his house,” Mr. Contreras said, remembering the script we were trying to follow. “I wish I could afford me a swimming pool and a Buick and all. I was at Diamond Head thirty-eight years, not counting the war, but I sure never got me a retirement deal like that.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the tables, but Clarence explained that Eddie had come into some money. No, he hadn’t known Eddie had rich relatives. Must have been some distant cousin back in Germany remembering his poor American relations.
“Used to be the other way around,” one of the other men said bitterly. “Didn’t used to be Americans had to be someone else’s poor cousins.”
The conversation turned to the usual complaints of the helpless, over the niggers and lesbians and Japs and everyone else who was ruining the country. Mr. Contreras had a shot and a beer to be sociable. We left under cover of a flurry of newcomers eager to discuss Eddie’s death. I was just as glad to get out before Conrad Rawlings showed up, anyway. Assuming Mrs. Mohr made him privy to the news that Eddie had been here right before his death.
When we were back outside I stood on the walk, not moving for a minute.
“What is it, doll?”