“Where did you get this?”
“Out of a company file.”
The furrows in McFey’s face resembled erosion in a pan full of dirt. His eyes contained a darkness I had seen in few men. A canine tooth shone just behind his lip. “Maybe I shouldn’t show you this last one, but here it is. The explosion down in that hole flat blew them to hell. You can see the smoke rising off what’s left of their clothes.”
My left hand was crimped on the edge of the photograph; my right hand held the penlight. I felt a tremolo in my fingers that I could hardly control.
He said, “As I understand it, when a bell hole blows out, it’s for one reason only: Somebody at the pump station left the shutoff valve open. Am I correct on that?”
“That’s right.”
“These photos were taken for a company magazine article. After the explosion, they got buried in a file cabinet. They probably could have handled a negligence suit for pennies, but the man who owns that company knows how to make the eagle scream.”
“You need to tell me the company’s name, Mr. McFey.”
“Mine to know, lessen we strike us a deal.”
I got up from the booth and draped my coat over my forearm. I put on my hat. Three motorcyclists were drinking at the bar, their bare arms swollen with gristle and wrapped with hair. Someone was playing a pinball machine, smashing its corners with the heels of his hands. “How long were you outside my window?”
“I wasn’t. I was standing on your front porch. I was gonna ring the bell, then decided to call instead.”
“I see. You’re no voyeur?”
He put the photos back in the manila envelope and closed it. “I can make your life easier. Take it or leave it.”
“My guess is your employer fired you, Mr. McFey. I have the feeling you’re not particularly employable right now.”
He looked up at me, the corner of his mouth wrinkling. “You’re not curious about who Miss Linda Gail was entertaining?”
I went out into the sudden coolness of the wind and the smell of rain and the heat lightning coursing through the clouds. I put on my raincoat and stood in the doorway of an abandoned brick building three doors down from the beer joint. Ten minutes later, Harlan McFey walked out on the street and blew his nose in a handkerchief. He looked in both directions and replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, then walked to a darkened filling station on the corner where he had parked his car. He never heard me until I was two feet from him. I shoved him inside his car.
“Do you know what I’m holding?” I asked.
He stared at my hand. “A Luger.”
“If the Waffen SS captured you with one of these, they shot you with it. My wife was a guest of the SS. Did you discover that in your research?”
“Yes.”
“What else did you learn about her?”
“She’s a Red.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No.”
“Do you believe I’m capable of killing you?”
His eyes left mine. He looked at nothing. I hit him across the bridge of the nose with the butt of the Luger. He made a muffled sound that could have been a word but probably wasn’t; he bent over, cupping his nose with both hands, blood dripping on the front of his shirt.
“Do you want to tell me who you work for?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. I already know. If you come near my wife or me again, I’ll shoot you through the face.” I caught him by the necktie and pulled him out on the concrete. I removed the photo of my father wearing his slug cap and threw the rest of the folder down a storm drain. I squatted next to McFey. “Are you all right?”
“What do I look like?”