The old man winked. Watery eyes dropped to a spot behind the bar. "Gotta be seeing as how normal people can't get carry permits for firearms, only rich dumb-asses who know the mayor."

"You got that right," said Milo. "Sal ever hit you up with easy-money schemes?"

"People don't do that with me."

"He ever hit up your patrons?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

"People drink, their lips flap. Sal flaps a lot even before the first beer. But he never impresses anyone. I ignore all that noise and think about my grandchildren."

"Hear no evil?"

"Crap floats by me, why would I touch it?"

"Still," said Milo, "you smell it. What kinds of things is Sal into?"

"Mostly he bitches about how he used to have money. Stocks, bonds, real estate. Back when kids played instruments. You believe that, I'll sell you GM. Want anything, a soft drink? On the house."

"No, thanks. Tell us about the blonde."

"Not much to tell," said the barkeep. "Quiet, but not friendly quiet, more like nose in the air, she was too good for the place. She'd drink her one Goose, get all fidgety, make Sal leave. He followed her like a puppy dog."

Lifting the towel with deft fingers, he snapped it midair. "You want Doris, she's on shift right around now. Don't tell her I sent you."

"Doris likes her privacy?"

The old man returned the bat to its hiding place. "I don't give a rat's ass what she or anyone else likes. My age, I keep things simple."

Fat Boy was a holdout against franchise fever, a glass-fronted fifties cube with an upwardly thrusting roof that evoked manned space travel. Breakfast special banner taped to the glass, breakfast smells late in the afternoon. Blue Naugahyde booths, counter stools, and aqua carpeting had long conceded the war against dirt and wear.

The place was empty but for two bearded truckers inhaling bacon and eggs at the counter and a young Hispanic woman tending to them with good cheer and banter. Same unflattering pink uniform as Doris but she made it work.

"You guys can sit up here."

No sign of Doris. Then she emerged through rear doors, carrying a two-foot stack of yellow paper napkins.

Milo waved.

She ignored him and began filling dispensers. Her name tag said Dorrie.

"Afternoon, Dorrie."

"To you it's Doris," she said. "What now?"

"A few more questions about Sal."

"I already told you what I know." Moving on to the next booth, she spotted a crumb, flicked it away before dry-wiping the Formica, pressed the spring-latch of the dispenser, crammed in paper.

Letting go with an audible snap, she did the same at the neighboring booth.

"Soon as you're done, Doris."

"I'll be done in five hours."

"Doesn't look too crowded."

"Rub it in."

"How about we help you load the napkins, you spare us a few minutes."

"Soon you'll be wanting to split tips."