"Who is this?"
"Never mind. But I know where Byrne is and he ain't dead. If you want to know, maybe we can do some business. Do you know a bar named Willoughby's on Diamond Street?"
"Yeah..."
"You meet me there at seven." He hung up before Fred had to think up a response. He returned to his stool, feeling like a complete fool. Neither of the customers nor the bartender had so much as noticed him leave his seat.
It took two more beers and 30 minutes before a couple of men looking totally out of place in spit-and-polish business suits entered the bar. Definitely a different tailor than Nota and the late Homer Flanders. Out of towners, thought Dean. Locals would have found Willoughby's in ten minutes-not a half-hour. The two sat on bar stools midway between Dean and the painters and ordered ginger ales. They're hiring uptown hoods these days, Dean thought to himself. Fred will be disappointed. In his books the villains always order cheap whiskey and need a shave. Neither of the men seemed to pay the slightest attention to either Dean or the painters, but one of them seemed to be keeping an eye on the door while the other spoke in low tones to his companion.
After about five minutes the man furthest from the door rose and crossed to the telephone behind Dean while the detective buried his face in his beer. His mother, God bless her, wouldn't have recognized him. Dean was waiting for the sound of the coin dropping into the pay phone when he was startled to feel a hard object jammed in his rib cage and hear a voice say, "Nice and easy, guy. Don't open your mouth. Keep drinking that beer and listen really good. We're gonna get up slowly and walk out of here like a couple of old pals."
"I ain't got no money," Dean said, trying to sound frightened, which somehow came very easily. He earned himself a sharp jab in the kidney.
"I said shut up! Now stand up slowly." The other suit at the bar had not turned around and the painters and barkeeper were in their own world of batting averages and ERA's. Dean could feel perspiration form on the top of his lip. He began to rise.
"I ain't paid for my beer," he whispered through clenched teeth.
"This one's on me, asshole," chuckled a breath that smelled of clove. Dean could feel the man begin to remove his wallet. Dean figured it was the best chance he was going to get, with one of the bastard's hands on his pocketed wallet and the other on his gun. With one motion he struck downward with his right arm and swung his left elbow with all his might on a level line at the man's jaw. Bingo! He sent the son-of-a-bitch flying against the wall with a startled yelp. Pain shot up Dean's arm, hot and sharp, but he had no time to think about it as the man's partner jumped from the bar and dashed toward him. The bartender let out a yell and one of the painters knocked his beer flying as he turned to the commotion. The man Dean had hit sat on the floor, glazed eyes open, with a look of stupor on his face.