“Take a look at the picture again. He would’ve been here last night at eight o’clock.”
“I don’t remember seeing him.”
“Were you working last night?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember seeing this guy.”
“He would’ve been meeting somebody’s mother.”
“Well, we get a lot of mothers in here, but I don’t remember this guy sitting with anybody’s mother,” O’Hare said.
“Were you working the bar alone?”
“All alone.”
“So he couldn’t have been sitting at the bar.”
“Not without my noticing him.” O’Hare looked at the newspaper clipping again. “This is a French movie?” he asked.
“No, it’s American.”
“Then why is this written in French?”
“Because that’s where they showed it.”
“I can understand why they never showed it here. That sounds really shitty, don’t it, War and Solitude? Would you go see a movie called War and Solitude?”
“They did show it here.”
“Here? In New York?”
“I think so.”
“I never heard of it. War and Solitude. I never heard of it. It sounds shitty.”
“A lot of people agreed with you,” Michael said.
“Don’t she speak English?” O’Hare asked, jerking his head toward Connie.
“I speak English,” she said.
“‘Cause I thought maybe you spoke only Chinese, sitting there like a dummy.”
“I don’t have anything to say,” Connie said.
“You’re a very pretty lady,” O’Hare said.
“Thank you,” Connie said.
“She’s very pretty,” O’Hare said to Michael.
“Thank you,” Michael said. “Who would’ve been working the booths last night? And the tables.”
“Molly.”
Michael looked around. He didn’t see any waitresses in the place.
“Is she here now?”
“She was here a minute ago,” O’Hare said. He craned his neck, looking. The door to the ladies’ room opened. A woman who looked like Detective O’Brien, except that she was fully clothed, came out and walked directly toward where someone signaled to her from one of the booths. She had flaming red hair like O’Brien’s and she was short and stout like O’Brien, and she waddled toward the bar now with a sort of cop swagger that made Michael think maybe she was O’Brien in another disguise.
“Two Red Eyes,” she said. “Water chasers.”
O’Hare took from the shelf behind him a bottle of what looked like house whiskey, the label unfamiliar to Michael. He poured liberally into two glasses, filled two taller glasses with water, and put everything onto Molly’s tray.
“When you got a minute,” he said, “this gentleman would like a few words with you.”
Molly looked Michael up and down.
“Sure,” she said, and swaggered over to the booth.
“Molly used to wrestle in Jersey,” O’Hare said.
“Really?”
“They called her the Red Menace.”
“I see.”
“Because of the red hair.”
“Yes.”
“Which is real, by the way,” O’Hare said, and winked.
Molly came back to the bar.
“So?” she said. “What now?”
Michael showed her the newspaper clipping. “Ever see this man in here?” he asked.
“You a cop?” Molly asked.
“No,” Michael said.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“‘Cause I was thinking of calling the cops.”
“No, I don’t think we need …”
“Last night, I mean. When I heard what the two of them were talking about.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Mr. Crandall. And the Spanish guy with him.”
“You mean you know him?”
“No, I don’t know him. I only recognize him.”
“Arthur Crandall?”
“I don’t know his first name. I only know he’s Mr. Crandall.”
“How do you happen to know that?”
“Because of the phone call.”
“What phone call?”
“The phone call that came in the phone booth over there. For Mr. Crandall.”
“Who turned out to be the man in this picture, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Arthur Crandall.”
“If that’s his first name.”
“That’s his first name.”
“Then that’s who it was.”
“What about this phone call?”
“Don’t rush me. That was later. Earlier, they were sitting at that table over there,” she said, and gestured vaguely, “which is when I heard them talking.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight-fifteen.”
“And you’re sure this is the man?” Michael asked, and showed her the clipping again.
“Yeah, that’s him all right. Though he’s fatter now.”
“But you say he was with another man? Not a woman?”
“Not unless she had a thick black mustache,” Molly said.
“Why’d you want to call the cops?” Connie asked.
“Who’s this?” Molly said, and looked her up and down.
“Connie Kee,” Michael said.
“Is she Chinese?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” Molly said. “Is it okay to talk in front of her?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Because Chinese people are funny, you know,” Molly said.
“Funny how?” Connie asked, truly interested.
“They’re always yelling,” Molly said.
“That’s true,” Connie said. “But that’s because they’re not sure of the language. If they yell, they think you’ll understand them better.”
“Well, I wish they wouldn’t yell all the time.”
“Me, too,” Connie said.
“It makes me feel like I did something wrong.”
“Japanese people never yell, did you notice that?” O’Hare said.
“Excuse me,” Michael said, “but why did you …?”
“Yes, they’re very quiet and polite,” Molly said.
“Why did you want to …?”
“Well, they’re two very different cultures,” Connie said.
“Oh, certainly,” Molly said. “The Korean, too. And also the Vietna …”
“Excuse me,” Michael said, “but why did you want to call the police?”
“What?”
“Last night.”