Page 33 of Not a Word

“What other guy?”

“I didn’t get his fucking name. I don’t know how the hell he knew mine. Louis rat me out?”

“Louis?”

“Runs the place. He show you my credit card receipts? Isn’t that a violation of my rights? Should’ve paid cash.”

“Why don’t you tell me your version of the story,” she said.

“I’m having a beer, minding my own business, when this guy, he says, ‘Hey, I thought Chris Farley was dead.’”

McCabe had to think. Farley, Farley. “The Saturday Night Live comic?” Stanhope did bear a passing resemblance to the late performer.

“I ignore him at first, minding my own business, but then he says, ‘You ever heard of Weight Watchers?’ Like, I’m the only heavy guy in the bar? I don’t even know this asshole and he’s making cracks at me, so yeah, maybe I got a little pissed off and I might have hit him.”

“Might have?”

“It all happened so fast. I spun around, had the beer bottle in my hand, and it kind of crashed into the side of his head. But it’s not like it broke or anything. The bottle, I mean. Not his head either. No blood. He just went down. But I waited to see if he woke up, and he did, so I figured he wasn’t dead.”

“Which bar was this?”

He turned around, looked at her, puzzled she didn’t already know this.

“Village Idiot.”

A bar named after its clientele, McCabe thought.

“Where’d you go after you left the bar?”

“Home.”

“And what time’d you get into work today?”

“Seven thirty. You don’t believe me, ask Terry.”

“Mr. Stanhope, I’m going to remove your cuffs. Try not to do anything else stupid.”

He was quiet while she freed him. He turned around, rubbed his wrists, rolled his head on his shoulders.

“So, like, did the guy file a complaint or something?”

His brow furrowed. He waited.

“Tell me about Leah Kennard.”

“Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head. “What shit from the distant past is that bitch dredging up?”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know. Got to be a year, at least, but even then, I didn’t talk to her. She was here getting her car fixed. I saw her waiting. But I didn’t say shit to her. We were done. Look, I admit, there was this one time, we kind of got into it, and maybe I kind of—it wasn’t even like a hit, more just a slap—and it was really more like an accident, and I’m sorry about that, but there was blame on both sides. I was basically defending myself. What am I supposed to do when she starts swinging a frying pan at me?”

“When’s the last time you actually talked to her?”

“When she kicked me out.”

“When was that?”

“Couple years ago. What’s this about?”