“I don’t.”

Finally Steve/Carl rolled in, a cigarette drooping from his cupid’s bow mouth. He looked sloppy, the houndstooth jacket rumpled. His baggy brown slacks bore dirt stains. What had he been up to?

But his manner was upbeat and his eyes had more life than I’d seen before. He came over, grinning, and gestured with open arms like a ringmaster. “Gents, you are looking at an idiot!”

Tell me something I don’t know, I thought.

“I was sitting at the bar across the street,” Steve said, still grinning, jerking a thumb in that direction, “at Angelo’s. Waiting for you fellas! Thought that was the Pink House! They both got a red roof, y’know? Anyway, I was grousing to the bartender, a gal, about people who can’t keep their appointments on time, and then I went outa there to go back to the motel and, bingo, I see this place across the street! What a dummy!”

His words were flying.

“Johnny boy!” he said. “Man, you really look sharp. That a Hickey-Freeman suit?”

“Yup.”

Steve laughed twice. “We’re gonna both of us buy a whole closet of new clothes. Two closets, each! Nate here already knows how to dress, but you and me, Johnny Boy, we gotta spruce up our style!”

Bennies.

“You guys want sandwiches? I could eat. I’ll get us sandwiches. Burgers okay? Cheeseburgers with everything, onions too? French fries?”

“Sure,” I said, and Hagan nodded.

Steve got up and went to the bar, fast.

“He’s sure in a good mood,” Hagan observed.

“He’s high as a fucking kite. You see his pupils? They look like black polka dots.”

Steve came back, informed us we’d be having chips not fries because “this fine establishment doesn’t seem to have a frier,” and leaned in, settling a hand on Hagan’s shoulder. I was starting to suspect this guy’s gate swung both ways. He was an ex-con, after all, and being inside could expand a man’s horizons.

“You got that I.D. for me?” Steve asked the cabbie, thinking he was whispering but wasn’t. Booze and bennies are a tricky combo.

Hagan said he did and got from his suitcoat pocket an Army discharge photostat, a Social Security card and a medical record, all in the name John Byrne of Kirkwood, Missouri.

“Man, you did fine!” Steve said, looking the things over, then slapping Hagan on the back and sitting back down. “You find me new digs?”

“Yeah. Two-room suite at the Town House in the Central West End. Apartment annex of the Congress Hotel.”

“Nice?”

“Oh, yeah. Living room with a couple of couches, bath, kitchen, bedroom, whatchamacallit French doors out to a balcony. Class all the way.”

“Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Who needs more beer? I need more beer.”

He got us more beer.

“You know who I miss?” Steve was drinking Schlitz. All three of us were. It made Milwaukee famous, after all. Of course we were in St. Louis.

“You know who I miss?” Steve repeated. “Sandy. What a great gal.”