the backbreaking soft chair. I lit another cigarette.
“I wish I smoked,” he said.
“Passes the time,” I agreed, then coughed.
“Passes it right into an early grave.”
“There’s that, too.”
The lobby door opened, and we looked up, expecting some official police presence. Instead, we heard singing, in a deep baritone which made up in volume for what it lacked in tune.
“I could have daaaaanced all night . . .”
The sound was followed quickly by a small, portly gentleman clad in what some call “full Cleveland,” his white shoes and matching belt setting off plaid trousers, a striped shirt, and a patterned bow tie. The man’s hair was white, but he had a lusty sparkle in his eye and a heartbreaker’s smile as he waltzed his companion through the lobby. She, thickened in the middle, with freshly permed hair and an embarrassed but loving look on her face, was wearing a powder-blue shirtwaist dress in some sort of silky synthetic.
“
Jerry
, there are people watching,” she said.
He stopped in mid-twirl, looked over his shoulder at us, and winked.
“More night-owls,” he said. “What’s the matter, locked out of your room?”
“That’s none of our business, honey,” his wife said, then turned to us. “Please forgive my husband. We’ve been to a celebration.”
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s not every day my first grandson gets married. Wouldn’t you say that was a reason to kick up my heels?”
“The best,” I said.
“We’ve just come from the rehearsal dinner,” his wife explained. “At the country club. It was a barbecue.”
“Steaks this thick,” he said, measuring two inches between his thumb and forefinger. “Martinis. Wine. Dancing. They sure know how to entertain down here. Where are you folks from?”
“Canada,” Jeff said.
“Toronto, I bet. The Titans train here,” he said. We allowed that he was right on the money. “We sure hate them where we come from. Almost as much as the Yankees.”
“Where’s that?” Jeff asked.
“Akron, Ohio,” he said. Close. “We’re Indians fans. And the Reds, in the other league. We’re the Johnsons, Jerry and Judy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
We began to introduce ourselves, but were interrupted by the arrival of Detective Sargent.
“Excuse me folks,” he said, politely. “We have some police business here.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Jerry said, quickly. “It’s about time I took my beautiful bride off to bed. Come on, sugar-pie.”
As the elevator doors closed, I heard her voice, saying “They don’t look like criminals, do they, honey-bun?”
Sargent grunted at us and went to pour himself a coffee.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, coming back across the lobby and sitting down. “That’s what this business is about. Hurry up and wait.”
“Hey, we had nothing better to do,” said Jeff. “Except maybe sleep.”
“Makes two of us,” Sargent said. “Three of us.”
“Can I ask you a question first?” I asked.
Sargent grunted again.
“Some of your men were talking about a splatter guy. What’s that?”
Sargent almost smiled.
“That’s what Doc Wilson calls Guy Charon,” he said, pronouncing the name nothing like its obvious French-Canadian roots. “He’s one of her crime-scene investigators. Specializes in blood stains.”
“I knew I didn’t want to know,” Jeff said.
“There are some really interesting patterns out there,” Sargent said, obviously wishing he didn’t have to babysit witnesses.
Jeff shut his eyes.
“I forgot. Your friend’s a bit squeamish,” he said, not bothering to disguise his contempt.
“It’s hardly surprising,” I said, wanting to defend Jeff. It felt like his manhood was under attack, and he was in no condition to defend himself.
“Takes some people that way,” Sargent said.
“Ours is not a line of work where we see a lot of gore,” I explained.
“Didn’t seem to bother you any.”
Was that an
“I wish I smoked,” he said.
“Passes the time,” I agreed, then coughed.
“Passes it right into an early grave.”
“There’s that, too.”
The lobby door opened, and we looked up, expecting some official police presence. Instead, we heard singing, in a deep baritone which made up in volume for what it lacked in tune.
“I could have daaaaanced all night . . .”
The sound was followed quickly by a small, portly gentleman clad in what some call “full Cleveland,” his white shoes and matching belt setting off plaid trousers, a striped shirt, and a patterned bow tie. The man’s hair was white, but he had a lusty sparkle in his eye and a heartbreaker’s smile as he waltzed his companion through the lobby. She, thickened in the middle, with freshly permed hair and an embarrassed but loving look on her face, was wearing a powder-blue shirtwaist dress in some sort of silky synthetic.
“
Jerry
, there are people watching,” she said.
He stopped in mid-twirl, looked over his shoulder at us, and winked.
“More night-owls,” he said. “What’s the matter, locked out of your room?”
“That’s none of our business, honey,” his wife said, then turned to us. “Please forgive my husband. We’ve been to a celebration.”
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s not every day my first grandson gets married. Wouldn’t you say that was a reason to kick up my heels?”
“The best,” I said.
“We’ve just come from the rehearsal dinner,” his wife explained. “At the country club. It was a barbecue.”
“Steaks this thick,” he said, measuring two inches between his thumb and forefinger. “Martinis. Wine. Dancing. They sure know how to entertain down here. Where are you folks from?”
“Canada,” Jeff said.
“Toronto, I bet. The Titans train here,” he said. We allowed that he was right on the money. “We sure hate them where we come from. Almost as much as the Yankees.”
“Where’s that?” Jeff asked.
“Akron, Ohio,” he said. Close. “We’re Indians fans. And the Reds, in the other league. We’re the Johnsons, Jerry and Judy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
We began to introduce ourselves, but were interrupted by the arrival of Detective Sargent.
“Excuse me folks,” he said, politely. “We have some police business here.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Jerry said, quickly. “It’s about time I took my beautiful bride off to bed. Come on, sugar-pie.”
As the elevator doors closed, I heard her voice, saying “They don’t look like criminals, do they, honey-bun?”
Sargent grunted at us and went to pour himself a coffee.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, coming back across the lobby and sitting down. “That’s what this business is about. Hurry up and wait.”
“Hey, we had nothing better to do,” said Jeff. “Except maybe sleep.”
“Makes two of us,” Sargent said. “Three of us.”
“Can I ask you a question first?” I asked.
Sargent grunted again.
“Some of your men were talking about a splatter guy. What’s that?”
Sargent almost smiled.
“That’s what Doc Wilson calls Guy Charon,” he said, pronouncing the name nothing like its obvious French-Canadian roots. “He’s one of her crime-scene investigators. Specializes in blood stains.”
“I knew I didn’t want to know,” Jeff said.
“There are some really interesting patterns out there,” Sargent said, obviously wishing he didn’t have to babysit witnesses.
Jeff shut his eyes.
“I forgot. Your friend’s a bit squeamish,” he said, not bothering to disguise his contempt.
“It’s hardly surprising,” I said, wanting to defend Jeff. It felt like his manhood was under attack, and he was in no condition to defend himself.
“Takes some people that way,” Sargent said.
“Ours is not a line of work where we see a lot of gore,” I explained.
“Didn’t seem to bother you any.”
Was that an
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