“McFey had been in the employ of Dalton Wiseheart.”
He laughed. “The oilman who does business on the veranda of the Rice Hotel? That’s who you’re trying to tie the tin can on?”
“You think that’s funny?”
“No, I don’t.” He opened a folder on his desk. “McFey came out of a bar and was crossing the street to his car. A truck hit him and kept going. There was one witness: a Mexican kid who shines shoes in the beer joints on the north side. He didn’t get a plate number, and he couldn’t describe the truck except to say it didn’t have its lights on.”
“Does the last detail seem significant?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. It was twilight.” He closed the folder and tilted back in his swivel chair.
“I have a feeling this isn’t going anywhere.”
He laced his fingers behind his head. “If you find out anything, let us know.”
“Is that a joke?”
“A feeble attempt at one. You’ve got an attitude, and it’s not helping your cause. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I think you’ve found the right line of work.”
AFTER I LEFT the police department, I started to drive back to the Heights. It was Friday, and I had been working at home, with no plans of returning to the job site in Louisiana for another week. I had gotten nowhere in my attempt to find out whom McFey had been working for, or where my father had died. I stopped at a drugstore and called Roy Wiseheart’s house. His wife told me he was at a boxing gym downtown.
“Roy is a boxer?” I said.
She hung up.
I suppose I should not have gotten more involved with him than I already was. But so far, he was the only conduit I had into the mystery surrounding my father’s death. Second, I wanted to believe he was not having an affair with Linda Gail. Or maybe I’d learn they’d made a brief mistake and had put it behind them. It happens. The world doesn’t end. Hadn’t
I told Hershel as much?
The gym was in a borderline neighborhood between the business district and a decayed residential area that was mostly black and Mexican. I saw Roy on the far side of the gym. He was wearing a pair of scarlet Everlast trunks and a sweat-streaked jersey, the sleeves scissored off at the armpits. He was hitting a speed bag with such precision and force that the bag was a black blur, the rat-a-tat-tat rebound like a machine gun.
“How’d you know I was here?” he said.
“Your wife.”
“I’m surprised she’d admit I was here. I’ve got some extra gym clothes in the car. You want to work out?”
“I need another favor. I tried to get some information from the Houston Police Department on McFey’s death. I hit a dead end.”
He began unwrapping the leather bands on his gloves. “Nobody is going to help you with McFey, Weldon. He was disposable, a wad of soiled Kleenex. Who knows, maybe he was working for himself. Watch this.” Using his bare fists, he hit the heavy bag with a combination of punches that sent it spinning on its suspension chain. “Hang around. I’m about to go three rounds with this fellow who was supposed to be the middleweight champion of Huntsville Prison.”
“Did your father tell you Rosita and I went to see him at the Rice Hotel?”
“No, he didn’t. My father and I were never close. You know who my brother was?”
“No.”
“He was a fighter pilot in Europe. He had nine kills when a couple of Messerschmitts nailed him. He’s buried in Germany. My father always felt the wrong son came back home.”
I lowered my eyes, my hand on the chain of the heavy bag. His confessional tone made me trust him less. I looked up at him. “Are you on the square, Roy?”
“Regarding what?”
“My friend Hershel.”
“You think I’m milking through his fence?”