He put a quarter in my palm. “Get me a Coca-Cola.”
“Anything else?”
“Don’t be smart,” he said.
I brought him his Coke and change.
“Get in,” he said.
I sat down next to him, the door open to catch the breeze. He chugged half the Coke and burped. “Where’s Loren Nichols?”
“At home or at work, I guess.”
“Lose the act.”
“I don’t know where he is, Detective Jenks.”
“After you fled the church campground last night, where’d you take him?”
“To a drive-in. He made a phone call and went off on his own.”
“He went off where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who did he leave the drive-in with?”
“I can’t tell you that, Detective Jenks.”
“How’d you like to be sitting in a jail cell?”
I shook my head.
“That means no, you don’t want to be in a jail cell or no, you’re not going to tell me anything?”
“It means Loren is a good guy and was trying to help us.”
“Right,” he said. “Photo time.”
He opened a manila folder on a black-and-white photograph of a large man in a baggy suit hooked to a wrist chain with several other men stringing out of a police van. “Does this guy look familiar?”
“He was at the church campground.”
“Driving the car Nichols pushed into the ditch?”
“That’s the guy.”
“His name is Devon Horowitz. He was doing hundred-dollar hits when he was fifteen. His partner in bargain-basement murder was Jaime Atlas.”
I could feel my heart thud. “You have him in custody?”
“Would I be here?” he replied.
“They’re planning to kill me, aren’t they.”
He propped his elbow on the window jamb and kneaded his brow. “The word is that two or three button men are in town. They’re here about Clint Harrelson’s money. Nobody stiffs the Mob. Maybe they’re not after you. Maybe they just want the money. I can’t say for sure. I’m trying to be square with you, Aaron. You know why I’m driving this beer can?”
“No, sir.”