When Old Men Die by Bill Crider

meaning a word of it.
    Oh, Becker could find people if he got a tip, and he had plenty of people who were eager to feed him information, but no one was going to tip him to Harry.   He could also bring people in if someone else located them by phone, and lately that someone else was always me.
    "I don't know that I can give you any time off, Smith," Zintner said.   "Tomorrow's Tuesday.   Check-in day.   We'll need you on the phones."
    On check-in day, the clients, well over a hundred of them, would be calling in to report their whereabouts.   All of them would call, because Zintner had a hand on their pocketbooks.   Something like that got their attention in a way that a probation officer never could.
    "What about Dale?" I asked.   "He could take a few calls."
    Becker laughed again.   "I don't do calls," he said.   "I nab the bail jumpers."
    "You might as well give it a shot," Zintner told Dale.   "Why not?   It wouldn't hurt you to do a little phone work.   Nobody's jumped, as far as I know.   But if I need you here, Smith, you better get your ass back whether you've found Harry or not."
    "No problem," I said.
    "You think there's any connection between Harry and what happened to Macklin?" he asked.
    "Macklin?" Becker said.   " Braddy Macklin?   Didn't somebody ice him last night?"
    That's the way Becker talks.   He thinks it makes him sound tough.   Maybe it does.
    "Yeah, somebody whacked him," Zintner said.   "You know, Harry has been around a long time.   He was as old as Macklin, or maybe older.   Two old guys like that, one of 'em dead and another one missing, there might be some connection."
    "Who cares?" Becker asked.   "Two dudes that old, they got no business taking up space."
    I wondered if he'd feel that way if he happened to live as long as Harry and Macklin had.   He was a sensitive guy, Becker was, and it was no wonder I didn't like him.   But at least he hadn't asked about my face.   I had to give him credit for that.
    "Tell you what, Smith," Zintner said.   "You can take all the time you need.   I didn't know Harry, but I've been seeing him on the streets since I was a kid.   And if you need any help, give Becker a call.   He might as well be out and doing something as sitting on his ass here.   After tomorrow that is.   I gotta have somebody on the phones tomorrow."
    Becker started to protest at the mention of the phones, but then he changed his mind.   He just grunted, turned in the doorway, which wasn't easy considering his size, and walked back into the main room.
    "Listen, Smith," Zintner said, "you don't want to go getting mixed up in anything that might get you killed.   Braddy Macklin was a tough old bird."
    "I'm not going to get killed," I said.   "I'm just looking for Harry."
    "Sure.   You got a gun?"
    "Not with me," I said.
    He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a Glock 17.
    "You carrying?
    "No," I said.   "It's against law."
    "Better safe than sorry."
    He sounded like something out of Poor Richard's Almanac .   He must have been really worried about me.   Maybe he knew something I didn't know.   But when I asked him, he denied it.
    "I just don't believe in taking chances," he said, putting the Glock back in the drawer and closing it.
    "Me neither," I told him.   And I meant it.

Thirteen
    Â 
    I was on my way out of the building when Nancy Lamb called me over to her desk.   Her client was gone, and she was holding the phone.
    "Telephone for you, Tru," she said, and handed it to me.
    "Truman Smith," I said into the mouthpiece.
    "Good morning, Mr. Smith."   The voice was a little shaky, and had a wheeze in it.   An old man's voice.   "This is Patrick Lytle."
    "Good morning, Mr. Lytle."   I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.   Lytle was a member of one of the oldest families on the Island.   I couldn't imagine what he could possibly want