“Yes, ma’am,” Rawlings said. “I’ll keep that in mind.… Drive that heap of yours carefully on the way home, Vic. I don’t want to hear any of the boys had to pull you over.”

45

A New Profession Beckons

“Do you think I killed him, doll?” Mr. Contreras asked when we were back in the car.

His anxiety robbed me of any desire to upbraid him for warning Eddie Mohr this morning. “Of course not. If either of us did, it was me, pushing on the investigation.”

“You don’t think he was shot by gangs, do you?”

“Nope. Someone got him to go out to Barney’s and shot him as he walked home. I just wish …” I cut myself off.

“What, doll? What do you wish?”

“I wish I hadn’t found Mitch’s picture. Of Eddie with Hector Beauregard. And at the same time I wish I knew who he called this morning. Maybe Conrad can find out more than we could, although it’s not too likely with Cindy and Gladys thinking of him as a barely articulate lesser ape.”

“Conrad, huh? You getting kind of friendly with a cop if you’re starting to talk about him by his first name.”

I felt myself blushing. “Let’s see if Barney will tell us anything.”

During the short drive to the tavern I suggested a strategy to Mr. Contreras. He agreed readily, anxious to make what amends he could for his disastrous phone call.

Barney’s was a small place, with one room for the pool table and one room for the bar. A handful of old men sat at two of the scarred tables in the bar. Some had drinks, but most seemed to be there for companionship. When they caught sight of strangers in their midst, they stopped talking and stared straight ahead.

A solidly built man in his early seventies got up from one of the tables and went back to the bar. “Can I help you folks?”

We walked up to him, Mr. Contreras taking the lead. He asked for a beer and drank a little, then offered a comment on the weather, which Barney greeted in silence. Mr. Contreras surveyed the room, studying the men one at a time, while they sat stonily, occasionally directing glances of outright hostility in my direction. It was a men’s bar, and whatever the libbers might do downtown to places like Berghoff’s, Barney’s was going to stay pure.

Finally Mr. Contreras gave a little grunt of recognition and turned to Barney. “I’m Sal Contreras. Me and Eddie Mohr worked together at Diamond Head for more than thirty-five years.”

Barney drew back slightly, but Mr. Contreras pointed at one of the tables and said, “Ain’t that right, Greg?”

A man with an enormous beer belly shook his head slowly. “Maybe so, but … well, light ain’t so good in here. Shine some on him, Barney.”