Free So Like Sleep by Jeremiah Healy

a vodka tonic?”
    “Fine.”
    Ramelli made it quick and strong. No lime. He paused to freshen his. About three ounces’ worth. No mixer.
    Ramelli came back around, gave me the drink. “Sit down, sit down.” He gestured toward the TV. “Twi-nighter, to make up for the rainout. The score’s already three to one, Oakland.”
    I watched Rice send the next pitch towering toward the left-field wall at Fenway. It caught the screen halfway up. Nobody was on base in front of him.
    “Christ, he’s something, isn’t he? Fucking eight other guys like him, though, they’d still lose ten to nine every game. No pitching. Never had any pitching.”
    I remembered Jim Lonborg and Dick Radatz and half a dozen others, but said, “I understand you were there the night Jennifer Creasey was shot?”
    “You ‘understand’? Aren’t you a Calem cop?”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Which department you with, then? Not ours.”
    “No, no department. I’m a private investigator.” I dug out my ID. Ramelli studied it from several angles, then handed it back.
    “Who you workin’ for?”
    “Willa Daniels, William’s mother.”
    “Hoo, you’d better be Magnum, P.I., buddy. They got Daniels so wrapped up, Houdini couldn’t get out of it.” He drank from his glass as though it were lemonade. “Poor shit.”
    “Did you know William well?”
    “Just through the group,” said Ramelli, answering me but watching the game. “C’mon, Tony. Lose one, lose one.”
    “What’d you think of him?”
    “Think of him? Shit, that was way outside, Ump, way out. Think of him, huh? Well, I thought William was a pretty good kid who was getting sucked in way past his depth.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well”—drinking—“here he is, a kid who would probably be a top-ten-percenter in his element, at U Mass, you know, and instead he comes out here. And look.” Ramelli spread his hands, sloshing a little liquor. He changed hands, licked the wet fingers. “I got nothing against the colored, they never took anything from me, but one look at that Jennifer, and you knew old Willie wasn’t going to be her ‘one-and-only,’ you know?”
    “Did she have somebody else on the string?”
    “Wouldn’t surprise me. Jennifer was a real”—he looked at me, trying to gauge something—“she was like a blond-haired Katharine Ross, from The Graduate ? Refined like that, but a hooker at heart. She had plenty before old Willie, if I’m any judge.”
    “Do you think she had somebody along with William Daniels, though?”
    “Like I said, wouldn’t be surprised. Never saw her with anyone, but you never know with kids these days. Not like us, you know?”
    I said I knew. Over the next two innings we covered Ramelli’s profession (selling wholesale auto parts) and avocation (watching any sport involving a ball). Regarding the night of the killing, Ramelli was a little fuzzy on certain points, but said nothing to contradict what Homer and Lainie had given me. I didn’t bother asking him why he’d joined the group.
    I glanced at the set. Jim Rice was back up, which seemed an omen. I stood to leave. Ramelli and his booze escorted me back upstairs.
    “Thanks again for the information and the drink.”
    “Hey, no problem. Sorry about the o.j. Fuckin’ Bliss, I don’t know where her head’s at anymore.”
    A cat scooted across my path and out of sight. A cat with only one ear.
    Ramelli closed the door. I got into my car and out of town as fast as I could find my way.
    Between Cointreau’s and Ramelli, I was too depressed and tired to drive to Goreham College and hunt for Richard McCatty. He’d be easier to find through a student directory the next morning.
    When I got in the apartment, the tape machine’s window showed one message. I called my answering service as I rewound the tape. My service said Lieutenant Murphy had called and that I had the number. I thanked the woman and played back the tape. It was Murphy also. “Call me tonight.”
    I