Milo produced another panatela. “Smoke?”
“Don’t do that shit, used to do Viceroys,” said Walters. “Quit last year. Being healthy. Been here since six thirty, gotta get the fuck out.”
“Sorry for your inconvenience. Could you please tell us what happened when you got here at six thirty?”
“More like six twenty.” Walters looked at the cigar, snatched it, and slipped it into a jean pocket. “Why not, you tried to stick me in that death wagon so yeah, you owe me.”
His eyes bounced around. “I’m being a citizen and you hold me. You guys are something.”
Milo said, “When you got here at six twenty—”
“Yeah, yeah yeah,” said Walters. “Listen carefully, I ain’t repeating.”
Rocking on his feet and fighting for concentration, he told the story, the pace picking up with each sentence until he was racing, spewing out words, barely intelligible.
Brain alleyways detoured permanently by speed. When the verbal flash flood stopped, Walters was mouth-breathing hard.
Lots of words, no revelations.
Milo said, “Thanks. Could I please have your address and phone number?”
“Why?”
“For the record.”
“I don’t do the record,” said Walters. “And I don’t got no phone.”
“You called 911—”
“On this.” Fishing a burner out of his jeans. “Runs out in a few minutes, you won’t reach me so don’t waste my time.”
“How about your address?”
“The Cyril.”
“On Main?”
“Yeah.”
“Room number?”
“It changes,” said Walters. “Now let me outta—”
“The company you work for, Bright Dawn—”
“Bright Dawn Assholes Corporated. I’m finished with that shit.”
“ ’Cause of this?” said Milo.
“ ’Cause of everything. Start early, end late, fuck-all pay.”
“You ever clean this property before?”
“First time. Last time.”
“Who’s the owner of the company?”
“How should I know?” said Walters.
