insurance policy. Fifty grand. Besides the estate.
“Nobody ever has enough,” McIntyre said dryly.
The beer was good but his head was getting a little light. He knew it was time to make a move. He had better sense than to talk to a copper when he was drinking. He wasn’t a drinking guy, never had been. That was one reason he’d stayed in the Sen’s inner circle. The Sen could trust him not to get woozy and muff things. Strictly a one-bottle-of-beer guy. Two bottles wasn’t too much, only he hadn’t had anything to eat today. Coffee and a cinnamon roll for breakfast, dry sandwich and coffee for lunch. He’d finish the beer and go. He took another long drink. It was good, good.
“I don’t think he’ll ever be governor,” McIntyre mused.
The Sen was getting up on the floor now. She was getting up too. He was going to dance with her. He was putting his arm around her clean white waist. Sailor clenched the bottle with hard knuckles. He spat through his teeth, “Son of a bitch.”
McIntyre heard him. He’d said it under his breath and the juke was blaring the Woody Herman “Apple Honey” and men were bellowing at each other and glasses were clanking and women were squealing and chairs were bumping but McIntyre heard him say it. McIntyre turned his steady colorless eyes on Sailor.
Sailor said, “He’ll be governor if he wants it.” He laughed just as if he’d not said son of a bitch and McIntyre hadn’t heard him.
The homicide detective studied him mildly for a moment then repeated, “I don’t think he’ll ever be governor.” He turned back to the dance floor.
Sailor didn’t know what McIntyre was trying to say. He didn’t know because that was the way McIntyre was. He never said anything out straight like dumb flatfeet. He let you guess. He could be trying to say the Sen would never be governor because he was going to fry. Fry for the murder of his wife.
Sailor finished the beer. The Sen was still hopping around, his arm clamped around white Iris. Sailor said thickly, “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m going to go get something to eat.”
“You can order here,” McIntyre said.
Sailor pushed away from the table. “I’m going where I can taste it. Be seeing you, Mac.”
McIntyre nodded. “Take care of yourself.”
He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t even tight but his head was light. He bumped through the aperture. Bumped into one drunk shoving out from the table. The drunk was in fancy pants like the Sen’s. The drunk threatened, “Watch where you’re going.”
Sailor said, “Button your lip.” He didn’t stop to button it for the drunk, he pushed on out of the dump into the night. He pumped the stale air out of his lungs, pumped in the night freshness. The night was sweet and chill, there was a faint smoke smell in it, like fresh pine burning. He walked back to the Plaza, to the museum corner. The Plaza was dark and quiet, only the circlet of dim colored lights hung over its darkness. He saw deeper shadows under the shadows of the portal. Mounds, blanket-wrapped, shawl-wrapped. The Indian peddlers were asleep, the stuff they’d had spread out earlier wrapped now in big calico bundles like laundry in a dirty sheet. He might borrow a blanket and sleep with the Indians. He put a filthy word into a vicious whisper. He’d never had to sleep on the ground yet.
There was no place to eat on the Plaza. The Plaza was asleep dark, quiet, asleep. The thatched booths were asleep and the smokestacks which had trickled thin smoke. The shops squaring the Plaza were dark, asleep. The cheap hotel was only a dim light. He crossed into the park and took the path to the right. He hadn’t investigated the street that led down away from the square. There could be another hotel. With no rooms. Fiesta, you know. There must be, somewhere, an all-night eating joint. Even hick towns must have some place for night workers to feed their faces. He turned sharp where a street came up to meet this one. He’d
“Nobody ever has enough,” McIntyre said dryly.
The beer was good but his head was getting a little light. He knew it was time to make a move. He had better sense than to talk to a copper when he was drinking. He wasn’t a drinking guy, never had been. That was one reason he’d stayed in the Sen’s inner circle. The Sen could trust him not to get woozy and muff things. Strictly a one-bottle-of-beer guy. Two bottles wasn’t too much, only he hadn’t had anything to eat today. Coffee and a cinnamon roll for breakfast, dry sandwich and coffee for lunch. He’d finish the beer and go. He took another long drink. It was good, good.
“I don’t think he’ll ever be governor,” McIntyre mused.
The Sen was getting up on the floor now. She was getting up too. He was going to dance with her. He was putting his arm around her clean white waist. Sailor clenched the bottle with hard knuckles. He spat through his teeth, “Son of a bitch.”
McIntyre heard him. He’d said it under his breath and the juke was blaring the Woody Herman “Apple Honey” and men were bellowing at each other and glasses were clanking and women were squealing and chairs were bumping but McIntyre heard him say it. McIntyre turned his steady colorless eyes on Sailor.
Sailor said, “He’ll be governor if he wants it.” He laughed just as if he’d not said son of a bitch and McIntyre hadn’t heard him.
The homicide detective studied him mildly for a moment then repeated, “I don’t think he’ll ever be governor.” He turned back to the dance floor.
Sailor didn’t know what McIntyre was trying to say. He didn’t know because that was the way McIntyre was. He never said anything out straight like dumb flatfeet. He let you guess. He could be trying to say the Sen would never be governor because he was going to fry. Fry for the murder of his wife.
Sailor finished the beer. The Sen was still hopping around, his arm clamped around white Iris. Sailor said thickly, “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m going to go get something to eat.”
“You can order here,” McIntyre said.
Sailor pushed away from the table. “I’m going where I can taste it. Be seeing you, Mac.”
McIntyre nodded. “Take care of yourself.”
He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t even tight but his head was light. He bumped through the aperture. Bumped into one drunk shoving out from the table. The drunk was in fancy pants like the Sen’s. The drunk threatened, “Watch where you’re going.”
Sailor said, “Button your lip.” He didn’t stop to button it for the drunk, he pushed on out of the dump into the night. He pumped the stale air out of his lungs, pumped in the night freshness. The night was sweet and chill, there was a faint smoke smell in it, like fresh pine burning. He walked back to the Plaza, to the museum corner. The Plaza was dark and quiet, only the circlet of dim colored lights hung over its darkness. He saw deeper shadows under the shadows of the portal. Mounds, blanket-wrapped, shawl-wrapped. The Indian peddlers were asleep, the stuff they’d had spread out earlier wrapped now in big calico bundles like laundry in a dirty sheet. He might borrow a blanket and sleep with the Indians. He put a filthy word into a vicious whisper. He’d never had to sleep on the ground yet.
There was no place to eat on the Plaza. The Plaza was asleep dark, quiet, asleep. The thatched booths were asleep and the smokestacks which had trickled thin smoke. The shops squaring the Plaza were dark, asleep. The cheap hotel was only a dim light. He crossed into the park and took the path to the right. He hadn’t investigated the street that led down away from the square. There could be another hotel. With no rooms. Fiesta, you know. There must be, somewhere, an all-night eating joint. Even hick towns must have some place for night workers to feed their faces. He turned sharp where a street came up to meet this one. He’d
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