“Who pays you?”
“Irma.”
“Last name?”
“How should I know? Why’s it matter?”
“Filling in details, sir.”
“I was a sir, you wouldn’t detain me like a fucking prisoner. For doing the right thing.”
“Appreciate your help, Mr. Walters. Irma—”
“In the office. Ask for the bitch with the fat ass.”
Milo smiled.
Walters said, “You think I’m kidding? Like this.” Stretching his arms.
“The people in the limo, recognize any of them?”
“Why would I?”
“Okay, thanks, Mr. Walters. You can go now.”
Walters’s gnarled hands slapped his hips. He stood there.
“Something the matter?” said Milo.
“How the hell’m I gonna do that? I got dropped off.”
“The company won’t pick you up?”
“I’m over with them. Don’t want nothin’ from them.” Walters jutted his negligible mandible and stretched out a palm. Tattoo on his inside wrist. Ridiculously buxom naked woman smoking a cigarette. Below that:Viceroys. Taste That’s Right.
Below that what could have been an old razor scar.
Milo pulled out his wallet and handed over two twenties.
Walters inspected the money. His eyebrows rose. “Huh.” He teetered away.
Milo said, “He’ll probably walk all the way downtown and use my money for crank.”
I said, “Oh, you enabler.”
“Does that mean I have to attend meetings? Anyway, he didn’t add a thing.”
“He’s emotionally unstable so I don’t see him helping you in court.”
“Court? Talk about jumping guns, you just vaulted an arsenal. Yeah, so much for ol’ Eno. You know why I asked about knowing the vics.”
“The Cyril’s downtown.”
He nodded. “SRO, a dump among dumps. But Walters didn’t throw off any tells and he’s not exactly a criminal mastermind.”
He hitched his trousers. “Time to deliver some really bad news. Whose day do we ruin first?”
“Gurnsey lived the closest.”
