“You don’t need my blessing…”

“Oh, I do. You have that much coming. I’d think you would want me to go forward. But I need to hear it from you.”

His hands were in his pockets. He looked at me like I was an apparition and he was trying to decide whether to be scared or not.

“I don’t give a good goddamn about the money,” he said finally. “But I can’t stomach the idea that anyone is out there profiting off the murder of my son.”

I gestured for him to return to the couch.

He did. Sat. His hands were folded in his lap again. His head was lowered but his shoulders were straight.

“What would you have me do?” I asked.

“If you can get the money back, I’ll give it to my wife for her Catholic charities. Maybe somebody will build something in Bobby’s honor. But what I really want is…I’m not going to say what it is. I’m not Catholic but I like to think I’m a good Christian. Some of what I’ve read about you, in the cheap true detective magazines, indicates you are thought to have on occasion employed what some might call…rough justice. It seems bad people who have crossed your path, at times, sometimes …simply disappear. Or have died under violent circumstances about which opinions vary as to the party responsible.”

“Such rumors add color in my profession,” I said. “There are clients of mine who appreciate an ability to cut a corner now and then.”

“Or a throat?” He gripped my right wrist; it was remarkably firm, coming from a bony hand. “I will not only okay your efforts, Nate, I will take over as your client. And I will pay you well.”

I patted his hand on my wrist, gently. He relaxed the grip, withdrew his hand.

I said, “I already have two clients. I don’t need another. Anyway, you’ve already paid me enough on this job.”

He accepted that reluctantly, then said, “You must do what you think is…appropriate. I ask only two things.”

“Yes?”

“I want a detailed report on what you’re able, and not able, to accomplish. Client confidentiality should cover both of us in that regard.”

“Of course. What’s the other thing?”

“My wife is to know nothing of this. She is a gentle soul and she would not…approve.”

“Understood.”

I rose and he walked me to the door. “When will you start?”

“I’ll rent a car and head to St. Louis tonight or tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll loan you a Cadillac. And if you’re staying overnight, I’ll book you at the Hotel President. As my guest.”

Like old times, I thought.

“Matter of fact,” he said, “there’s someone you should talk to before you go to St. Louis. You’ll need to make time for that.”

* * *

On my previous visit to the President Hotel’s Drum Room, I had barely eaten half of my evening meal. Now here I was again, the identical menu selections before me, seated at a small table designed mostly for drinking in the snare-shaped bar bordered by red pillars. The bar’s garish, dominant red with yellow trim and circus touches would have been perfect for a six-year-old boy, if they let kids in. Any who weren’t buried in the back yard anyway.