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“No coffee,” the bartender said.
“One more, and then I’ll drive you home,” Milham said.
“What the hell,” Matt said. “Why not?”
When the bartender served the beer, Milham laid a five-dollar bill on the bar.
“Where are we?” he asked the bartender.
“What do you mean, where are you? This place is called Meagan’s.”
“I mean where, where. What is this, Jackson Street?”
“Jackson and Mole streets.”
“Doesn’t Frank Foley live around here?”
“Frank who?”
“Frankie Foley. My cousin. I thought he lived right around here, on South Mole Street.”
“Short fat guy? Works for Strawbridge’s?”
“No. Ordinary-sized. Maybe a little bigger. And I thought he worked for Wanamaker’s.”
“Right. Yeah. He comes in here every once in a while.”
“He been in tonight?”
“Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Yeah, well, what the hell. Listen, if he does come in, tell him his cousin Marty, from Conshohocken, said hi, will you?”
“Yeah, if I see him, I’ll do that.”
“I’d be obliged.”
“You’re a long way from Conshohocken.”
“Went to a wake. Jack O’Neill. May he rest in peace.”
“Didn’t know him.”
“He retired from Budd Company.”
“Didn’t know him,” the bartender said, made change, and went back to his stool.
Milham looked at Matt and raised his beer glass.
“Good ol’ Jack,” he said.
“May he rest in peace,” Matt said.
“I think he made me,” Milham said when they were back in his car. “He was being cute with that ‘short fat guy?’ line. And I got lucky when I said Wanamaker’s. I’ll bet when we finally find Mr. Foley, he will work in Wanamaker’s, and now we know he lives around here. It may not be our Frankie, but you never can tell. Sometimes you get lucky.”“If he made you,” Matt said, “and was cute, he’s going to tell this guy somebody, a cop, was looking for him.”
“Good. If it is our Frankie, it will make him nervous. Unless he’s got a cousin from Conshohocken. Give me the clipboard.”
Milham switched on the light, consulted the Xerox pages of the telephone book, and drew a circle around the name “Foley, Mary” of 2320 South Eighteenth Street.
