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He watched my face. His eyes were a washed-out blue. I'd never seen a grown man with so many freckles.
"I'm not big on causes anymore," I said.
"I guess that's why you went out to Julio Segura's and put a hot plate under his nuts."
"This dinner is getting expensive."
"I'm sorry I've been boring you," he said, and broke up a bread stick in three pieces and stood each piece upright. "Let's talk about your immediate concerns. Let's talk about the three guys who gave you gargling lessons in the bathtub last night. I bet that'll hold your interest."
"You don't hide hostility well."
"I get a little emotional on certain subjects. You'll have to excuse me. I went to Jesuit schools. They always taught us to be up front about everything. They're the Catholic equivalent of the jarheads, you know. Get in there and kick butt and take names and all that stuff. I just think you're a lousy actor, Lieutenant."
"Look, Fitzpatrick—"
"Fuck off, man. I'm going to give you the scam and you can work out your own options. I'm surrounded by indifferent people and I don't need any more of them. I just don't want you on my conscience. Also, as a matter of principle I don't like another guy taking the heat for me, particularly when he blunders into something he doesn't know anything about. You're damn lu
cky they didn't blow out your light last night. The girl's, too."
He stopped talking while the waiter put down our plates of oyster and shrimp sandwiches, then he took a bite out of his sandwich as though he hadn't eaten for weeks.
"You don't like the food?" he said, his mouth still full.
"I lost my appetite."
"Ah, you're a sensitive fellow after all."
"Tell me, do all you guys have the same manners?"
"You want it straight, Lieutenant? We've got some firemen and pyromaniacs on the same side of the street."
"Who was that bunch last night?" I said.
"That's the easy part. The one named Erik is an Israeli. He's somebody's little brother back in Haifa and they keep him around to clean up their mess, change toilet-paper rolls, stuff like that. The one you called Bobby Joe in your report is a real cut-up. That's Robert J. Starkweather of Shady Grove, Alabama. The state took away his kid from him and his wife for the kid's own protection. They think he fragged an NCO in Vietnam but they couldn't prove it, so they eased him out on a BCD. How do you like that tattoo about killing them all and letting God sort them out? He's sincere about it, too."
"How about the guy in charge?"
"He's a little more complex. His name is Philip Murphy, at least we think it is. We've run this guy all kinds of ways and we come up with some blank spots—no addresses, no record of earnings, no tax returns for a couple of years here and there. Or he shows up owning a shoe store in Des Moines. With this kind of guy it usually means protected witness or CIA. He's probably one of those that bounces in and out of the Agency or freelances around. I suspect he's off their leash right now. But it's hard to tell sometimes."
I picked up my poor-boy sandwich and started to eat. The shrimp, oysters, lettuce, onions, tomato, and sauce piquante tasted wonderful. The shadows of the oak and willow leaves moved in etched, shifting patterns across our table.
"I still don't understand the connections. What have these guys got to do with Segura's whores and dope?" I said.
"Nothing directly." Then he started grinning again. "Come on, you're a detective. Give me your opinion."
"Are you sure these guys aren't after you because of what you fancy is a sense of humor?"
"Maybe. Come on, give me your opinion."
"I have a hard time believing you're a Treasury agent."
"Sometimes my supervisor does too. Come on."
"You're with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"Good."
"Are we talking about guns?" I said.
