Free Witch House by Dana Donovan Page B

He’s doing well. I’ll tell him
you were asking.”
    “So, you’re a cop, too?”
    “He’s a detective, grade one,” said Carlos,
“just like his old man.”
    “Is that right?” Pete grabbed a couple of
tall glasses off a rubber mat by the sink and plunged them into the
ice pit. “Well, I guess the apple don’t fall far from the tree,
huh?”
    “Guess not,” I said, guarding a veiled smile.
“Folks have always said I was my father’s son.”
    “Yeah, you sure look it.” He gave me a wink
that once more made me think he was on to me somehow. “You know,
I’ve known your old man since he was about your age.” He lifted one
of the glasses to me and pointed. “You are his spitting image.”
    I smiled again, this time not so veiled. “I
get that a lot,” I told him, and I could not resist adding, “in
many ways, he and I are like one and the same.”
    He filled the glasses from a jet spray nozzle
and walked them to us. By then, Carlos had scoffed down several
fistfuls of salted peanuts and was eyeing the drinks like a desert
oasis. He snatched the first Coke before it had a chance to leave a
water ring on the napkin, and began guzzling it down. I watched the
ice cubes dam against his nose, as he emptied the glass, tipping it
back until every drop had drained. He set the glass back on the bar
and then trained his sights on mine. I gave him the nod, and just
as quickly, my Coke was gone.
    I said to Pete, “I suppose you know why we
are here.”
    He grabbed the glasses and topped them off
with the jet spray. “You’re here about the guy that got whacked
last night.”
    “That’s right. We were hoping you could tell
us something we don’t already know.”
    He walked the drinks back and set them down
in front of us. This time Carlos merely positioned his at the
ready, pending his decision regarding the rest of the peanuts, I
supposed. “Cops were here already,” said Pete. “I gave them a full
statement.”
    “I know, but we’ve been out making the
rounds, talking to a couple of people. We have just a few new
questions that maybe no one thought of asking. I hope you don’t
mind.”
    He looked back over his shoulder at the old
man sipping suds. We had time. “Sure, what do you want to
know?”
    “The man killed last night; his name was René
Landau. Did you know him?”
    He shook his head. “Not before he walked into
this place. I did talk to him a bit, though.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah, it wasn’t real busy then. He came in
around ten. Sat right there where you are. I asked if he was new in
town, and he told me he had just gotten out of the pen.”
    “He volunteered that?”
    “Yeah, you’d be surprised what people tell
their bartenders, especially when they’re in the mood to talk, and
this guy was in the mood.”
    “Did he seem troubled to you?”
    “Troubled? Detective, a guy walks into a bar
and starts slamming down drinks, I gotta believe he’s got something
on his mind. Sometimes they want to keep it to themselves;
sometimes they don’t. If they got troubles, though, you can bet I
don’t want to hear them. I’ll talk if it keeps them drinking, but I
keep the subject light, you know, sports, weather, cars,
movies—anything that ain’t what they’re trying to forget.
    “I see.” I turned to Carlos and gave him the
look. He understood that meant it was his turn to fish.
    “Pete,” said Carlos, “did you say René Landau
came here alone?”
    “I didn’t, but yeah, he came alone.”
    “Did he talk to anyone else while he was
here, meet with anyone?”
    Pete laughed. “You know it’s funny you should
ask. For a guy fresh outta prison, he sure seemed popular.”
    “How so?”
    “Well, about an hour after he got here,
business began picking up some. We often get a wave like that after
the movie theater lets out. I hadn’t noticed at first, but at some
point,” Pete directed our attention to the corner of the bar by the
jukebox, “your man picked up his drink and moved to