The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick Page B

Sisters, and no bands with idiotic names and electric instruments whose notion of music was screaming at the top of their lungs. I blew a quarter on Helen O’Connell and Bob Eberle singing “Tangerine” and ordered a cup of coffee, and just as the song ended, Drew MacDonald entered the place, peered through his thick glasses, spotted me, and walked over to sit opposite me.
    â€œGood morning, Eli,” he said. “I assume you had no trouble finding this place?”
    â€œNone,” I said. “If Tilly’s food is as good as her music, I may try to coax her into moving to Cincinnati.”
    â€œNot unless you want an even bigger war than the one over who owns the Ohio River where it runs between Kentucky and Ohio.” He smiled. “Took ’em more than a century to resolve that one in court.”
    â€œMorning, Drew,” yelled Tilly from behind the counter.
    â€œThe usual,” he replied, then turned to me. “How about you?”
    â€œI’ll have the same.”
    â€œBut you don’t even know what it is.”
    â€œI know it hasn’t killed you yet,” I said.
    â€œWhat the hell,” he said with a shrug. “Hey, Tilly, make it two—one for me, one for my friend.”
    â€œSo,” I said, “what have you got for me?”
    He sighed heavily. “Bits and pieces. I don’t know if they fit or not, but you’re welcome to them.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œLet me see. Where to start?” he said, frowning. “Or rather, who to start with?”
    â€œThere’s more than Billy Paulson?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “That’s up to you to find out. But let’s start with Paulson.”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œHe phoned the station thirty-eight days ago. He didn’t expressly ask for me, just for any cop, and my phone wasn’t in use at the moment. He told me that he’d learned something, or discovered something, or found something out—he was a little vague, not purposely; I think he just wasn’t a clear thinker, at least not that day—and that he was scared. I questioned him, but he didn’t want to tell me what was frightening him, just that he wanted a name to ask for if he came to some decision or other and wanted to call back. He also wanted us to search for him every day if he didn’t check in with us—and we did, for a few days anyway.”
    â€œDid he say what he might call back about?” I asked.
    MacDonald shook his head. “Could have been to tell me what was frightening him, could even have been to ask for police protection. He was pretty vague. All I could get out of him was name, rank, and serial number . . . which is to say his name and where he worked, which doubled as his address. Mighty few grooms go home at night. One of the benefits of being a groom is that you don’t pay room and board.” He smiled. “It’s a consideration at any level. My wife says when we retire—she’s working at Walgreen’s—we should buy a little farm, partly for some retirement income and mainly because the house comes with the farm.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “So the kid worked for Bigelow. And you never heard from him again.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œThat’s all you had last night.”
    He nodded. “That was everything I had last night. Today I’ve got a little more.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI can supply the dots. I don’t know if they can be connected, but that’ll be your job.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” I said. “What have you got?”
    He was about to answer when Tilly approached the table and gave us each a plate of eggs Benedict smothered in hollandaise sauce, plus hash browns and toast, as well as a cup of coffee for MacDonald and a refill for me.
    â€œLooks good,” I remarked.
    â€œTastes even better,” he said.