"What did he end up giving you for the rent?" asked Billy.
In the process of lifting the second shot, the bartender paused. Holding the tiny glass before his bulbous chest, he looked at Billy, then slid his half-lidded eyes toward Dave. Examining first one stranger, then the other, the guy seemed to be sizing them up, trying to decide if he should go into more detail. Finally, he raised the shot of whiskey to his lips; draining the glass with a backward flick of his head, he gulped and sighed, then swung the glass onto the bar with a decisive clunk.
"Gave me a watch," said the bartender. "Gold Rolex. Worth a hell of a lot more than a week's rent, but he wanted to give it away, so I took it."
"No shit," muttered Billy. "He must've been in a real hurry, dumpin' a Rolex like that."
"Could be," shrugged the bartender, stuffing a hammy hand into a pocket of his faded jeans. "Nice watch, anyway." Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he produced a glittering timepiece, stared at it musingly. "If I didn't need the cash, I'd keep the damn thing for myself."
"Wow," Billy said admiringly. "I guess you did come out ahead on the deal. Mind if I take a look at that a second?"
With a slight shrug, the bartender extended the watch to Billy, dropped it into the palm of his hand. "I can get a couple grand for that, easy," said the guy. "More'n a couple, I guess."
"Hell, yeah," nodded Billy.
"All I gotta' do is get that inscription taken off," sniffed the bartender. "I know a guy can take care of it for me, though."
Turning the watch over, Billy squinted at the back of it. "Right. I see what you mean," he said slowly. "Shouldn't be much trouble gettin' that off there."
"That's what I figured," nodded the guy.
Billy handed the Rolex to Dave, who immediately lifted it to see the inscription. Peering at the gleaming gold underside of the timepiece, he spied the markings; engraved in a delicate, cursive script at the center of the backing was a single word, a name.
"'Kimmel'," Dave said softly, reading the inscription aloud. "'Kimmel'," he repeated, searching his mind for a connection between the name and Larry Smith.
"Did he say where he got this little number?" asked Billy.
"His last name's Hoffman, not Kimmel," replied the guy, "so I guess it ain't no family heirloom."
"It was probably handed down on his mother's side of the family," Billy said sardonically.
"Yeah, right," said the bartender. "Somebody's family." With that, he sniffed several times in quick succession, laughing at the quip.
Grinning, Billy shook his head and raised his beer for a drink. "Well, anyway," he said, clapping his glass onto the bar. "Thanks a lot, man. We really appreciate you takin' a couple minutes to talk to us. Too bad we missed ol' Mike, but them's the breaks."
"Ah, whatever," said the bartender. "He comes 'round here again sometime, I'll tell 'im you're huntin' 'im."
"Whatta' we owe ya'?" asked Billy, fishing the wallet from a rear pocket of his jeans.
"Make it a buck," shrugged the guy. "Fifty cents a draft."
While Billy fumbled with his billfold, the bartender slipped a huge paw toward the Rolex. Dave was so engrossed in inspecting the mysterious inscription, he jumped when the guy's hand appeared before him.
"Uh, here you go," he said nervously, dropping the watch into the bartender's palm. "That's, uh...that is a nice watch you got there."
"Yup," nodded the guy.
"Here ya' go," said Billy, slapping a bill on the bar. "Just keep the change, man. We appreciate your helpin' us out."
"Yeah, we, uh...we really do," chimed Dave, staring at the money which Billy had deposited, noting with some surprise that it was a ten-dollar bill.
"No sweat," sniffed the guy. "Thanks for the tip."
Taking a step away from the bar, Billy bobbed his head to one side, signaling Dave to accompany him. "Later on, man," he tossed pleasantly, swinging up one hand in a nonchalant wave to the bartender. "Hope ya' get what ya' want for that Rolex."
"Me, too," said the slovenly proprietor. "I gotta' get this damn place in shape. Need some new posters." At that, he sniffled and shook, jiggling with amusement.
Chuckling good-naturedly, Billy gave a last wave and led Dave out of the dingy barroom.
"Well, that was interesting," said Billy as Dave followed him outside and shut the screen door. "That was real interesting. I'm glad we stopped here after all, man."
"'Kimmel'," muttered Dave. "Who's 'Kimmel'? Do we know any 'Kimmels'?"
"Not personally," replied Billy, proceeding along the sidewalk with Dave in tow. "By the way, don't forget you owe me ten bucks for those beers."
"You're kidding, right?" chafed Dave. "I didn't tell you to put down ten bucks, for cryin' out loud."
"It was a tip, man! We had to give the guy something for his trouble."
"Yeah, but ten bucks?" griped Dave.
"Don't knock it," advised Billy. "It was worth every penny. We found out a lot, y'know? For one thing, we found out Larry's on the move, right? He left this place in a hurry, and he isn't coming back. We also found out he had a bunch of jewelry and a Rolex watch."
"Where did he get that stuff, though?" wondered Dave. "I mean, did he steal it, or what?"
"I think that's a safe bet," Billy said wryly, casting a frank sideways glance at his friend. "I don't think he bought it with his pay from Double-Doubleyoo, that's for sure."
"I don't get it," mumbled Dave. "I really don't get it."
"Anyway," continued Billy, "we know he moved outta' this place, we know he paid his rent with a Rolex, and we know he's used at least three different names. He told us he's 'Larry Smith,' he goes by 'Frank Moses' at the youth center, and the bartender here thinks he's 'Mike Hoffman'."
"He said he moves around a lot because he doesn't like to stay in one place," said Dave, "but I sort'a figured it was because he doesn't want people finding out about his psychic powers. Maybe that's why he uses different names...so if people hear about what he can do, they won't be able to track him down."
"Sure," said Billy, "or maybe he's just a crook. Maybe he's a con artist or something. Maybe he doesn't want the cops to track him down."
"I don't think so," grimaced Dave. "I mean, that can't be what he is...not after everything that's happened."
"Hey, anything's possible," shrugged Billy. "You'd be surprised at what a good con man can make you think."
"I don't think he's a con man or a crook," said Dave as he stepped from the sidewalk to the street. "I mean, he doesn't seem like the type who'd rob somebody."
"Hey," shrugged Billy. "How do you know what type he is? He's lied to you already, hasn't he? He's been lying to us all along, right? We know he's dishonest, so how hard is it to believe he's a crook, too?"
For a moment, Dave paused at the door of the Torino; car keys in hand, he frowned at his friend, realized just how possible it was that Billy's ideas were on the money. Larry had proved to be an adept liar, had managed to fib and mislead with great skill; if he could so easily conceal the truth, was it not likely that he'd fooled Dave about the nature of his character? Recalling Larry's heartfelt confession, Dave found it difficult to believe that Larry was a criminal of some sort...and yet, he'd seen the Rolex, he knew that it was probably stolen. As much as he hated to think that Larry was anything less than noble, he couldn't ignore the Rolex, couldn't dismiss his new doubts.
"We'd better get going," he said at last, opening the door of the car and glancing at his watch. "It's ten till noon now. We're already running late."
"There's no hurry," said Billy. "I think it'll be better if we get there a little late, so we can sort'a sneak around without Larry seeing us. If we get to the place before him, he's liable to spot us and bolt outta' there before we can get to him...if he's even gonna' be there, of course."
"Yeah," grunted Dave, sliding into the car. "If. Everything's 'if' these days." Shoving the key into the ignition, he started the engine, let it idle as Billy dropped onto the seat beside him.
"Y'know," said Billy as he pulled the door shut, "I can only think of one Kimmel off the top of my head...only one who could afford a Rolex, anyway."
With a tug of the gearshift and a turn of the steering wheel, Dave started the Torino down the alley. "Who's that?" he asked.
"Roger Kimmel," Billy replied thoughtfully. "You know...the big shot. The guy who owns Kimmel Corporation."
Dave searched his mind, quickly made the connection. "Oh yeah. The developer. I hadn't thought of him."
"He sure has the money for a Rolex," said Billy. "He could probably buy the whole Rolex company if he wanted to."
"You think Larry stole the watch from him?" Dave asked disbelievingly. "Isn't that kind of far-fetched?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows what Larry's been up to?"
"Yeah, but...Roger Kimmel?" said Dave. "If Larry wanted to rob somebody, why would he pick Roger Kimmel, of all people? I mean, he's probably the most powerful guy in town. If Larry robbed him, Roger Kimmel would have the whole police department hunting him down."
"Wait a minute," said Billy. "Y'know, I didn't think of it till just now, but I remember hearing about something that happened to that Kimmel guy. I heard about it on the news, oh...I don't know, about two weeks ago."
"What?" asked Dave, frowning apprehensively. "What was it?"
Billy was silent for a moment. Eyes closed, he placed a hand against his forehead, grimaced in concentration...and then he suddenly cried out. "Geez!" he hollered. "I don't know why I didn't remember this sooner. I should've thought of it right away. It was a real big deal, man!"
"What?" pressed Dave.
"There was a big fire. Roger Kimmel's house burned right to the ground. You know the place, right? That big mansion out near Stanley?"
"Sure," nodded Dave. "It's on top of that mountain."
"Not anymore it isn't," said Billy. "Man, I can't believe you didn't hear about this. It was all over the TV and the newspaper."
"Just tell me what happened, okay?" Dave said insistently.
"Okay, okay," said Billy. "Anyway, the mansion burned, and Roger Kimmel's son died in the fire. The place was a total loss, this kid burned with it, and they still aren't sure what caused the fire. At first, they thought it was an accident...like, something short-circuited, the kid was asleep, and he never woke up. Then, they thought maybe it was a suicide, that this kid wanted to go out with a bang."
Wide-eyed, incredulous, Dave stared straight ahead. "What else?" he asked. "Do you remember anything else?"
"Well, just that they still haven't decided what caused it," said Billy. "The fire marshals say it might've been an accident, a suicide, anything. Here's the good part, though: last I heard, they were saying there might've been a break-in...like, somebody was robbing the place, and they started the fire on their way out the door. I mean, they don't know, maybe they never will...but still..."
"Geez," said Dave in a soft, lost voice. The implication of Billy's words left him reeling; another stone had been turned over, yet another surprise exposed.
"Looks like ol' Larry's mixed up in another big 'coincidence'," said Billy. "He pays his rent with a Rolex...the Rolex has an inscription that says 'Kimmel'...and it just so happens that Roger Kimmel's house burned down and his son died in the fire about two weeks ago."
As he guided the Torino down a side-street, Dave slowly shook his head. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Maybe the watch...maybe it belonged to a different Kimmel."
"Oh, come on," Billy piped cynically. "No way, man. Larry's 'Mr. Coincidence,' isn't he? Every time something bad happens, he's in on it somehow. When Boris tried to kill himself, Larry was right there! Before Ernie's mom and dad died, he asked all kinds of questions about where they were going! He was at Tom Martin's house the night Tom did himself in! You think there's the slightest chance that Rolex didn't belong to Roger Kimmel?"
Dave was silent for a moment; he could feel Billy's eyes upon him, expectant and convinced. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe...maybe Larry had a flash about the fire, and he was at the house trying to prevent it."
"Okay," Billy said peremptorily. "Then how did he end up with Roger Kimmel's Rolex? You think he just accidentally walked out with it? You think he took it as payment for trying to stop the fire, a little something for his trouble?
"He must've had a reason," said Dave. "Maybe...maybe the watch had something to do with the fire somehow. Maybe it was important in his vision, and he took it, but the fire started anyway."
"You're grabbin' at straws," sighed Billy. "Isn't it possible, isn't it remotely possible that he just stole the damn thing?"
"Maybe he needed the money then," Dave said halfheartedly. "Maybe he really desperately needed the money, and this was just a one-time thing."
"Y'know," said Billy, "I don't understand why you keep defending him. I mean, the son-of-a-bitch lied to you. He uses a different name everywhere he goes. He's got you worried that your whole family's gonna' die, but he doesn't even have the decency to let you know what's going on!"
"I know," said Dave. "You're right. I just...I still think he must have a good reason for whatever he's done."
"Okay. Whatever," said Billy, and he sighed. "If that's what you wanna' think, go on thinking it. You just better be prepared."
"Prepared for what?" asked Dave as he turned the car onto a busy main street.
"Prepared for anything," said Billy Bristol.
*****
Chapter 24
Though he desperately wanted to bolt out of the car and dash into the youth center, Dave sat and waited. At Billy's behest, he restrained the urge to barrel into the place immediately and hunt down Larry. It wasn't an easy thing to do; for all that he knew, Larry might be inside at that very moment, ripe with answers, ready to quell all fears and doubts with succinct explanations.
Dave and Billy had been keeping watch over the youth center and surrounding buildings for fifteen minutes. They were well-positioned for the reconnaissance; the Torino was parked in a small lot across the street from the center, hidden among other cars yet angled in a way which provided a clear view of the premises. Gazing over hoods and through the windows of other vehicles, Dave and Billy could clearly see the front of the youth center and the adjacent church...but, unless he crossed the street and walked right up to the lot, Larry probably wouldn't be able to glimpse the observers.
For what seemed like the millionth time, Dave scanned the structures across the street, starting with the church. Saint Mark's wasn't large, didn't have an ornate exterior; it was constructed of plain gray stone and was only about fifty feet wide. A low tier of steps led to a set of wide double doors, at either side of which were mounted cast-iron lamps; above the doors, a single window interrupted the gray stone, a circle of stained glass which was darkened and colorless in the mid-day sun. The face of the structure rose past the peaked roof in a stone steeple, a spire which was unadorned save for a cross standing at its summit.
As had been the case since the partners' arrival, the doors of the church remained closed, didn't swing open, as Dave kept hoping that they would, to reveal Larry Smith. Dave cast his gaze onward, to the right of the church, again examined the next-door youth center. This second building was longer, but even plainer than the first; built of cement block, painted white, the structure was featureless except for three small windows and a door at its far end. There was a low sign posted along the sidewalk by the door, a marker with the heading "Saint Mark's Hall and Youth Center"; the sign was enclosed in Plexiglas and included a listing of upcoming events beneath the bold heading.
Since Dave and Billy had begun their watch, they had seen many people enter the youth center, mostly teenagers and kids dressed in sweatsuits and athletic shoes. There had been a steady stream of arrivals, but no Larry Smith; if he was inside, he hadn't shown himself, and if he was on his way to the place, he wasn't yet in the vicinity.
Dave again scanned the area, peered up the street, then down the street; a pickup rolled past,
but Larry wasn't at the wheel, and the only pedestrians in sight were a young black man and woman. Anxiously, Dave watched the sidewalk, the bar on the corner, the dilapidated row houses...but there was no trace of the man whom he sought. If Larry was anywhere in Doddsville, that hard-luck, run-down sector of Confluence, he was currently concealed from Dave's view.
Caught by a sudden wave of weariness, Dave yawned and rubbed his aching eyes. Staying cooped-up in the car for fifteen minutes hadn't helped his alertness; for the first time since leaving the house, he was starting to feel the effects of an entire night without sleep. His body ached dully, especially his arms and neck, and he felt sluggish and light-headed; there was a creeping sense of disorientation, a lag between his thoughts and movements.
Shaking his head vigorously, trying to blow away some of the cobwebs clogging it, Dave turned to his friend. Gazing through the windshield, Billy appeared as collected and patient as ever, unafflicted by the anxiousness and exhaustion from which Dave was suffering. Elbow propped on the armrest of the door, chin resting between his thumb and forefinger, Billy looked perfectly at ease; his bright blue eyes were calmly focused ahead as if he weren't necessarily waiting for anything to happen.
Dave emitted a long sigh and slapped the seat with the palm of his hand. "Let's just go in," he said. "He's probably been in there the whole time we've been sitting here."
Billy continued to watch the site across the street. "Could be," he said coolly. "If he's in there, it won't hurt to wait another minute or two."
Dave clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Aw, come on," he said disgustedly. "I'm sick of waiting. If he's inside, why the hell should we keep pissing around out here?"
"Because we wanna' make sure he's in there. If he isn't in the place yet, it's better if we wait. If we're just standing around in there, and he walks in the door and spots us, he might beat it before we can nab him."
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