“Yeah, that’s right. Reno, Nevada; my check used to come from there. Pain in the took-ass because it didn’t clear for five days. Stupid.”
“The murder I’m talking about is a guy named Felix Barnard. Ex–private eye. The article said you found him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Old guy, bare-assed, his pecker in his hand.” Shaking his head. “Yeah, that was bad, finding that. He got shot up in the face.”
He stuck out his tongue.
“What else do you remember about it?” I said.
“That’s about it. Finding him was disgusting, I wanted to quit the stupid job after that. I was working too hard anyway. Used to get off at five in the morning, get home, try to sleep for a couple of hours before going off to clean gutters. I had four kids, I was a good daddy to all of them. Bought ’em stuff. The best shoes. My sons wore Florsheim in high school, none of that sneaker stupidity.”
“You inspected the rooms at 5 A.M.?”
“I finished by then. Started at a quarter to, so I could finish and get the hell out of there by five. If a room was empty, I’d tell the Mexican girl to clean it. If someone was still in it, I’d put a mark in the ledger for the day clerk. Day clerk’s job was easy, no one used the damn place during the day.”
“You looked in Barnard’s room. Does that mean it was supposed to be empty?”
“Supposed to be. He only paid for a short time—couple of hours, I think. He shoulda been out.”
“You didn’t check the room before?”
“Man,” he said, “I didn’t do more than I had to, it was a nasty place. Someone else didn’t want to use the room, what did I care if some stupid idiot stayed twenty minutes longer? People that owned it didn’t give a damn.”
“A two-hour rental,” I said. “So Barnard wasn’t there to sleep.”
He laughed. “Right. You must be a college boy.”
“What’d you do when you found him?”
“Called the po-lice, what else? You think I’m stupid?”
“What about the manager? Mullins. Darnel Mullins.”
He frowned. “Yeah, Darnel.”
“You call him, too?”
“Nah, Darnel wasn’t there. He was never around except to kick me out of the office.”
“Why’d he do that??”
“Thought he was some kind of writer. Showed up every once in a while, looking down his nose at me and kicking me out so he could use the typewriter. Fine with me. I’d go get something to eat—no drinking, don’t put in that I drank, ’cause I didn’t. Only ale, once in a while. In the privacy of my own home, not on the job.”
“Sure,” I said. “So Darnel considered himself a writer?”
“Yeah, like you—only he was writing a book.” He laughed at the absurdity of that. “Stupid.”
“He wasn’t a good writer?” I said.
“How would I know? He never showed me nothing.”
“Did he ever get anything published?”
“Not that I heard, and he sure woulda told me; he liked to toot his own trombone.”
“Well,” I said. “I could ask him if I could find him. Been trying to reach him but haven’t been able to. Any idea where he is?”
“Nope. And don’t waste your time. Even if you find him, he won’t help you.”
“Why not?”
“He was an uptight dude.”
“Uptight how?”
“Uptight and uppity. And mad. Always mad about something, like he was too good for everyone and everything. Looking down his nose. And telling stories. Like he’d went to college, too good for this damned job; he was gonna write his book and get the hell outa here.”
He looked at me.
“Like he had somewhere to go and the rest of us didn’t.”
“Do you remember where he said he went to college?”
“Some place in New York. I never paid attention to any of his stupid stories, all the man did was bitch and brag. His daddy was a doctor; he worked for some movie hotshot, met all these movie stars at parties.” He laughed. “Writing a book. Like I’m stupid. Why would a brother who could do all those things be working at a hole like the Adventure? Not that he admitted he was a brother.”