It Takes Two by Elliott Mackle

complained down the hall. But it didn’t do no good. Doc was told to wrap ’em up for the undertakers, and do it now. The undertakers was already on the scene, come to find out.”
    I remarked that this all sounded pretty irregular.
    “Oh, Doc kept samples,” Bud answered. “Don’t know what of yet. He’s doing his own tests. But he told me there’s enough to check out whoever’s scum was in the used rubber and he has blood samples from both men, the carpet and the lady’s jacket.”
    I asked Bud if he’d seen the story in the newspaper. When he said no, I dug out the clipping. Bud whistled a couple of times as he read through it.
    “She must be tight as ticks on a deer with everybody who’s got strings to be pulled,” he said finally. “From the mayor right on down to the newspaper publisher’s wife.”
    “You see what they left out?”
    He nodded. “Story this long, must be intentional. Not a word about Willene’s shooting spree or her fucking up any possible prints on the pistol. The reporter on this—name of Ralph Nype, don’t know why it don’t say so here—tracked me down at the office yesterday. I didn’t tell him nothing about any of that, just that we was looking into it. But he was already on to the widow lady getting involved. And he damn well knew the name of that motor lodge.”
    Somebody was running a railroad, no doubt about it. And it sounded like Bud might get tied to the tracks if he wasn’t careful. I stood up, crossed around behind the desk, pulled him to his feet and put my arms around him. His hands stayed at his sides, stiffly, until I kissed the scar on his neck. Then he loosened up a little.
    “I got sloppy last night,” he admitted. “No excuse for it. You gettin’ in the Norris woman’s line of fire got to me. I’m sorry about, well, about leaving you high and dry when we mixed it up. Don’t remember that part all too clear.”
    Patting his sides, I stepped back. “You know the joke about the horny sailor and the pogie marine?”
    He cocked his head. “Could that be the one about the eighteen-button salute?”
    “No, it’s the one about the lieutenant buying the jarhead sarge some hair of the dog and a sandwich. You up for that?”
    “Hot to go,” he answered. “Where you have in mind?”
    What I had in mind, pretty much on the spur of the moment, was giving him his first look at the Caloosa Club. On a Monday night the action would be slow. I’d be at his side to handle anything that spooked him. And if he did somehow spring a law-enforcement bone, well, that would answer a lot of questions too and pose a few more.
    So I invited him to follow me. We might have used the camouflaged door that opened directly into the club from my office. (It looked like a closet from my side, a dry fountain from the other.) But I wanted to show him the members’ set-up first.
    So we detoured through the lobby, crossed the dining room and entered what looked like a waiters’ station, complete with swinging outer doors, utility sink, ice machine, bulletin board, flatware drawers, dirty-linen hamper and shelves loaded with dishes and glassware. Around a corner, a steel desk partly blocked the way to a second set of doors. The desk, two phones and the club room entrance itself were presided over by Brian Rooney, a muscular man of about fifty who doubled as a masseur in the hotel locker room. The club room doors were made of bulletproof steel and fitted with combination locks. Nobody got in uninvited.
    Brittle piano music and faint laughter echoed beyond the speakeasy’s entrance. Rooney rose to his feet and I introduced him to Bud. “He’s my personal guest,” I explained. “Local. We’re a little dry and need to wet our whistles.”
    Bud flinched at Rooney’s handshake, then grinned and squeezed back. The contest ended in a draw. “One temporary membership coming up,” Rooney said, his South Boston Irish accent softened by a touch of merchant marine. “Little slow