Free Troublemaker by Joseph Hansen

him wrong. They remodeled last year. Did it all over in leather." On the towel lay an empty soft drink can, Kleenex in a little box printed with antique cars, a brown squeeze bottle of suntan lotion, a pack of Marlboros. Bobby groped among them for sunglasses, hooked them on. Polaroids. They mirrored Dave in silver. "Why would they remodel it already? It cost a bundle and it still looks like new."
    "Right." Dave picked up the books, shuffled them. 30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary. Contemporary American Poetry. A Zen Primer. The Best and the Brightest. "At a guess, you're supposed to be studying."
    "Yeah, well, Christ. I'm tired. I was in that God damn bar till two." Now he probed a cigarette from his pack and worked at lighting paper matches the sea wind blew out. "You know, Ace is great on working you. All energy, you know? He really can't figure somebody it doesn't mean the world to to win that stupid contest."
    Dave brought out his lighter, cupped the flame, held it till Bobby got the light. "It's for your own good," he said.
    "Shee-it." Bobby turned onto his belly, rested his chin on folded arms. The smoke blew away from his mouth along the sand. "Anyway, he doesn't see I can't do three things at once. He wants a bartender, a college student and a body-building freak all in one."
    Dave set the books down. "You tend bar much?"
    "Ace is nervous, runs around like a white rat in one of those labs. He'll phone anytime and say, 'Get your ass over here.' "
    Dave watched surfers crest a long blue swell and vanish in a kick and flail of arms and legs. He said very carefully, "Like Monday?"
    "Yeah, for instance," Bobby said, "All of a sudden, about eight. I mean, he's stacked up operas and symphonies for me to listen to, half a library to read. Not just read, man —memorize, you know? Then he calls and I've got to take over The Hang Ten for the night." He turned onto his back again, onto his elbows. "And at seven the next morning he starts asking questions with my boiled eggs. Big treat, two days a week—boiled eggs. Quizzing me on the music, on the books. How could I read the fucking books? I was working. You slop beer for a hundred faggots all by yourself sometime—you'll know what work is."
    "I'll bet," Dave said. "Did he tell you why he had to go out?"
    "Wait a minute." Bobby sat up. "That was the night Rick was killed." He poked the cigarette into the sand. "Who are you?" He pulled off the sunglasses. "Some kind of cop?" He got to his knees. "Yeah. What else is new? Shit!" He punched the sand with a fist. He looked ready to cry. "Now I've got him in trouble."
    "He was already there." Dave stood up, brushed sand off his suit. "That's probably why he's seeing that lawyer."
    "It's about the partnership," Bobby said loudly. "There's a lot to straighten out, now Rick's dead."
    Dave said, "When did he come back to the bar on Monday night?"
    "He didn't. He was home when I got there. Passed out, if you want to know. He'd killed half a fifth of Canadian Club." His eyes came up suddenly, scared.
    "He doesn't drink," Dave said.
    "That's why he passed out," Bobby said. "Look —what do you want? To stick him for Rick's murder?"
    "No. That's up to the police," Dave said. "But I'm uneasy about their present choice. It doesn't make sense. What do you think? You know Ace. Could he have murdered Rick Wendell?"
    "Listen." Bobby was shaking and under the saffron mustache his mouth was a bad color. "Get away from me. Will you? Please? Just get away from me."
    "Easy," Dave said. "I'm not a cop. And I can't hurt anybody. Not you. Not Ace. It doesn't work that way, Bobby. People hurt themselves. Sometimes their friends can turn that around. Like possibly now."
    Bobby said sulkily, "He's got a lousy temper." He hooked the glasses on again, knelt, gathered up his traps. "Now leave me alone, will you? I don't want to talk to you —all right?" He walked off, dragging the flowered towel. Dave went after him.
    "A bad enough temper to shoot