Free The Blind Pig by Jon A. Jackson

known mob hardcases. Dick assured them that if the police had a picture of either man, he'd be able to identify them. “I'd know them noses anywhere,” he said. “I'm a expert on noses.”
    The door swung open and a man came in. He was shortand dark, with black hair and carried himself with a certain cheerful self-assurance. He wore a fleece-lined leather coat and Levis. On his feet were cowboy boots. “Whew,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “getting chilly out.”
    He looked around at the mess, now almost cleaned up. “Hey, looks like you had a brawl, eh?” He hopped up onto a stool.
    “Brother, you wouldn't believe it,” Dick said. “What'll it be?”
    The stranger looked down the bar and noticed the bottle of Jack Daniel's. “Black Jack Ditch,” he said.
    “Black Jack Ditch,” Dick repeated, “which is . . . ?”
    “Jack Daniels and water,” the stranger said. He nodded to Mulheisen and Maki. “What happened here?” he asked. Maki turned away. He didn't like questions.
    Mulheisen said, “Some guy came in and didn't like the jukebox, so he took a couple of shots at it.”
    “No kidding?” the man said. “He must have been packing a cannon.”
    Mulheisen nodded. “Probably a .44.”
    “I saw something like that out in Wyoming once,” the man said, “in Sheridan.”
    “You from out West?” Mulheisen asked.
    The man drank off his Black Jack Ditch and called for another, tossing a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “I've spent some time out there,” he said. He seemed to lose interest in the conversation and gazed at Mandy Cecil for a while. She looked up and caught him. The stranger smiled at her. She smiled and went back to counting coins. The man drank down his whiskey again and picked up his change, leaving a couple of dollars on the bar. “Buy these fellows one,” he said to Dick and strolled out.
    “You know him?” Mulheisen asked Dick.
    “Never saw him in my life,” Dick said, pouring out a couple more drinks for the detectives. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, a promotional item from Hamm's Brewers that showed a continuously changing panorama of a Northerntrout stream. It was 1:30 A.M. , bar time. “Don't look like I'm gonna get much more business. Think I'll close her up. You fellows just sit tight.” He went over to the front and turned out the tavern sign, then locked the door.
    “Time to head home,” Maki said. He didn't look very enthusiastic. Mulheisen wondered where he was living, now that he had broken up with his third wife. Maki had left behind him a string of furnished apartments. “Do yourself a favor, Mul, and don't go back to the precinct tonight. The blue boys got a report on this.”
    “I won't,” Mulheisen said, “but I don't feel much like driving all the way out to St. Clair Flats. Nobody home, anyway.”
    “Where's your mother?” Maki asked.
    “Texas.”
    “Texas? What the hell is she doing in Texas?”
    “She belongs to some bird-watching outfit,” Mulheisen said. “She's gone on a bird-watching tour. I think I'll cruise around town a little more tonight. Maybe I'll head over to Benny's and see what's cooking.”
    Maki got up and slapped Mulheisen on the shoulder. “Don't get caught in a raid,” he said. “It'll look bad on your record.”
    “Nobody raids Benny,” Mulheisen said. “See you.”
    After Maki left, Mulheisen had another drink then strolled over to the table where Cecil and Vanni were both counting change from the jukebox and the cigarette machine. “I guess I'll take off,” he told them. “Let me know if DeCrosta rises to your bait. I'll let you know if anything comes up on your hit man.”
    Mandy Cecil looked up from a pile of quarters. “Nothing new on him?”
    “So far, all we know is that he liked to swim. Well, good night.”
    Dick let him out into the cold, windy night.
    •    •    •
    Benny Singleton was a short black man with a thick mustache. He was handsome, with large brown eyes and a neat