something a gangster would want to take over."
"He do any work for them?"
"For gangsters?"
"For organized crime."
"Jesus," I said.
"It's not as farfetched as it sounds, Matt. Criminal enterprises need the same kinds of goods and services as everybody else. They need letterhead and invoice forms and order blanks and, yes, business cards, and God knows what else. They own a lot of restaurants, so they're always getting menus printed. No reason your friend couldn't have done some of their printing. He wouldn't necessarily have known who he was doing it for."
"I suppose it's possible, but- "
"It's also possible they'd have asked him to print up something that wasn't kosher. To duplicate government forms or somebody else's purchase order blanks, something dubious like that. Maybe he went along, maybe he refused to go along, maybe he learned something along the way he was better off not knowing."
"What's your point?"
"What's my point? My point is your friend Faber was the victim of what looks like a very professional hit. Those guys don't shoot you just to keep in practice, if he was mobbed up in any kind of way, innocent or otherwise, you're doing him no favor by keeping it a secret."
"Believe me, I'm not keeping any secrets."
"Can you think of anybody who'd want to see him dead?"
"No."
"Anyone associated with him who might have paid to have him killed? Or anyone in the criminal world who might have had any kind of a grudge against him?"
"Same answer."
"You arrived at the restaurant, you sat down at the table. What was his state of mind?"
"Same as always. Calm, serene."
"Nothing bothering him, far as you could tell?"
"Nothing that showed."
"What did you talk about?"
"Anything and everything. Oh, you mean tonight?"
"You were with him a minute or two before you went to the john. What did the two of you talk about?"
I had to think. Ike and Mike, and then what?
"Air conditioning," I said.
"Air conditioning?"
"Air conditioning. They had theirs turned up so it was like an icebox in there, and we talked about that."
"Small talk, in other words."
"Too small to remember."
He took another tack, asked me if I'd got even the slightest glimpse of the shooter. I said what I'd been saying all along, that he was out the door and gone before I got back from the men's room.
"Now memory's a funny thing," he said. "Different things affect it. Your mind doesn't want to let a piece of information in, it walls off a section of memory and won't give you access to it."
"I could give you examples," I said, "but that's not what happened here. I was in the john when I heard the gunshots. I came running, I saw what had happened, and I chased out into the street hoping to get a look at him."
"And you never saw him."
"Never."
"So you don't know if he was tall or short, fat or thin, black or white..."
"I understand the witnesses said he was black."
"But you didn't see him yourself."
"No."
"Or any black man in the restaurant."
"I didn't pay much attention to the other customers, before or after the shooting. But the place was close to empty, and no, I don't believe any of the other people in it were black."
"How about seeing a car pulling away, which you didn't happen to take note of at the time?"
"I'd have taken notice, because that's what I was looking for, either a man on foot or a car puffing away."
"But you didn't see either one."
"No."
"Or a cab or..."
"No."
"And now you can't come up with anyone with a reason to want James Faber dead."
I shook my head. "Not to say no such person exists," I said, "but I can't think of him, and I've got no reason to believe in his existence."
"Except for what happened tonight."
"Except for that."
"How about yourself, Matt?"
I stared hard at him. "I must be missing something here," I said levelly. "Are you really suggesting I set him up and ducked into the bathroom so some gunman I'd hired could come in and start blasting?"
"Take it easy..."
"Because that's so far off base I
"He do any work for them?"
"For gangsters?"
"For organized crime."
"Jesus," I said.
"It's not as farfetched as it sounds, Matt. Criminal enterprises need the same kinds of goods and services as everybody else. They need letterhead and invoice forms and order blanks and, yes, business cards, and God knows what else. They own a lot of restaurants, so they're always getting menus printed. No reason your friend couldn't have done some of their printing. He wouldn't necessarily have known who he was doing it for."
"I suppose it's possible, but- "
"It's also possible they'd have asked him to print up something that wasn't kosher. To duplicate government forms or somebody else's purchase order blanks, something dubious like that. Maybe he went along, maybe he refused to go along, maybe he learned something along the way he was better off not knowing."
"What's your point?"
"What's my point? My point is your friend Faber was the victim of what looks like a very professional hit. Those guys don't shoot you just to keep in practice, if he was mobbed up in any kind of way, innocent or otherwise, you're doing him no favor by keeping it a secret."
"Believe me, I'm not keeping any secrets."
"Can you think of anybody who'd want to see him dead?"
"No."
"Anyone associated with him who might have paid to have him killed? Or anyone in the criminal world who might have had any kind of a grudge against him?"
"Same answer."
"You arrived at the restaurant, you sat down at the table. What was his state of mind?"
"Same as always. Calm, serene."
"Nothing bothering him, far as you could tell?"
"Nothing that showed."
"What did you talk about?"
"Anything and everything. Oh, you mean tonight?"
"You were with him a minute or two before you went to the john. What did the two of you talk about?"
I had to think. Ike and Mike, and then what?
"Air conditioning," I said.
"Air conditioning?"
"Air conditioning. They had theirs turned up so it was like an icebox in there, and we talked about that."
"Small talk, in other words."
"Too small to remember."
He took another tack, asked me if I'd got even the slightest glimpse of the shooter. I said what I'd been saying all along, that he was out the door and gone before I got back from the men's room.
"Now memory's a funny thing," he said. "Different things affect it. Your mind doesn't want to let a piece of information in, it walls off a section of memory and won't give you access to it."
"I could give you examples," I said, "but that's not what happened here. I was in the john when I heard the gunshots. I came running, I saw what had happened, and I chased out into the street hoping to get a look at him."
"And you never saw him."
"Never."
"So you don't know if he was tall or short, fat or thin, black or white..."
"I understand the witnesses said he was black."
"But you didn't see him yourself."
"No."
"Or any black man in the restaurant."
"I didn't pay much attention to the other customers, before or after the shooting. But the place was close to empty, and no, I don't believe any of the other people in it were black."
"How about seeing a car pulling away, which you didn't happen to take note of at the time?"
"I'd have taken notice, because that's what I was looking for, either a man on foot or a car puffing away."
"But you didn't see either one."
"No."
"Or a cab or..."
"No."
"And now you can't come up with anyone with a reason to want James Faber dead."
I shook my head. "Not to say no such person exists," I said, "but I can't think of him, and I've got no reason to believe in his existence."
"Except for what happened tonight."
"Except for that."
"How about yourself, Matt?"
I stared hard at him. "I must be missing something here," I said levelly. "Are you really suggesting I set him up and ducked into the bathroom so some gunman I'd hired could come in and start blasting?"
"Take it easy..."
"Because that's so far off base I
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