Three A.M. by Steven John

him.” I leaned back in my chair, taking a drag and then stubbing out the cigarette. Well, there it was. Knew it, called it, got it.
    “Right.” My face was placid. Eyes cold. It was so strange to see her here, nervous, fidgeting, dressed like a secretary and acting like a scared kid. Even if it was just that, an act, if I had met her today for the first time, I would have been sold. I pulled a pen and one of my yellow pads from a creaky desk drawer and started scratching down notes. No info on Ayers aside from middle-age and government job, police asked for large bribe, Fallon is jailed suspect, lover … I noted how she was acting and dressed … scribbled all this down for a couple minutes, letting her squirm a bit.
    “Okay … how are you certain of Fallon’s innocence?”
    “Well, he was with me the night it happened. Every night. And he’d never hurt a fly even if I didn’t have a perfect alibi for him. He—”
    “What’s his last name?” I interrupted.
    She stumbled. “He—his what?”
    “His last name. What’s his last name? Shouldn’t take you so long to answer, kid.”
    “Samson. It’s Samson.”
    “Okay. It’s Samson,” I said, jotting that down and noting her awkwardness. “So … Fallon Samson is with you every night.… Who’s blaming him for killing people out in the fog, then?”
    “I don’t know. He was arrested and they wouldn’t tell me anything, because we’re not married or anything. And you know what it’s like trying to learn about trials and get answers from the government and all these days, I’m sure.”
    “Yeah. They don’t like questions, do they?”
    She shook her head, smiling ruefully, and took a sip of coffee. She choked it down, looking at the dirty linoleum floor.
    “Rebecca.” She looked up. “You don’t have to keep drinking that shit to be polite. I know it’s awful.”
    Her smile turned from wistful to bright for a fleeting moment. She set the mug down and dabbed at her lips with a gray woolen sleeve. “It’s, um—yeah, it’s a bit rough.”
    “It’s horrible. Years I’ve been renting this little box of an office, and it’s consistently the worst fucking coffee you can find in a city full of awful coffee.”
    She leaned back, seemed to relax a bit.
    “How did you know my bar and my drink? How did you find me?” I asked.
    “I … I watched you. I wore a hat, sat there … I watched you from a booth. That’s all. I swear. Nothing sneaky, nothing—”
    “Spying on me long enough to know my drink and my habits isn’t sneaky?”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. There’s no one that can help people with this kind of thing anymore. You know that. You’re a dying breed, Tom.”
    I nodded, looked away, and pretended to be reflective. Pretended to be satisfied with that answer. But really, I was uneasy: she had not been watching me from a booth in Albergue. I notice strangers. Always. The first time she and I had ever been in a room together, she had been a red-dressed, cigarette-smoking seductress. More lies, sweetheart. Fuck. I needed to see proof of the cash. A hefty advance. Soon.
    “Okay. Fine. You watched me. How did you know I was someone worth watching? I find my clients these days; they don’t find me.”
    “Yeah, I thought you’d be concerned about that. Here—” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper. I took it from her outstretched hand. It was yellow with age, fragile … familiar.
    “No fuckin’ way,” I muttered as I gingerly unfolded it. But there it was.
    THOMAS VALE
    PRIVATE DETECTIVE &
    CLAIMS RECOVERY
    My old ad. Sure enough, there was my office number—still 1023—and the number of the phone I keep unplugged except when I want to call out. The last phone book circulated, what, five years ago? I think it was five years back … the same year I first rented out the cell we sat in now.
    “Wow … there’s memory lane for you.…” I held the