Mausoleum by Justin Scott

yours?”
    â€œOllie’s no friend of mine.”
    â€œYou can say that again,” Sherman muttered sleepily.
    â€œNot Ollie, for Christ sake!” Donny yelled. “Everybody knows about you and Ollie. Ollie hates your guts, ‘cause of the logging chain. The woman . The babe with the great ass.”
    â€œWell she’s not exactly a trooper. She’s a detective. And yes, she is a friend of mine, so let’s leave her ass out of it.”
    â€œYeah, well she’s leaning on me.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œKeeps asking questions.”
    I said, “Sherman, don’t leave, I got to talk to Donny a minute,” and walked to the Donny end of the bar. The redness of his handsome, weathered face suggested that he had had enough to drink to appreciate simple sentences. “That’s her job, Donny. She’s a major crime squad detective. Murder is a major crime. Brian Grose was murdered at the cemetery. She’s asking everybody questions, including people who work there. You work there.”
    â€œI told her to get lost.”
    â€œWhat did you do that for?”
    â€œShe was bugging me.”
    Wide Greg, ever-wary of information he should be able to deny knowledge of under oath, sauntered to the Sherman end of his bar to polish a vodka bottle, and I asked Donny, quietly. “Do you have an alibi that will stick?”
    â€œNot one I’m giving to her.”
    â€œDonny, she can make your life awful.”
    â€œI didn’t shoot that freakin’ yuppie!”
    â€œYou might have to prove that.”
    â€œThat’s crazy!” Donny bellowed, turning redder and pounding the bar. “I’m not a killer.”
    I glanced up-bar at Greg, who looked pleased that nothing Donny had shouted could not be repeated happily in court. “You got any coffee?” I asked. Greg poured some black in a mug from the pot he had going for himself. I walked to it, got it, and walked back.
    â€œDonny. You know you’re not a killer. I know you’re not a killer. But they don’t know you’re not a killer, and they are looking for a killer—or at least someone they can convince a jury is a killer.”
    â€œYou don’t understand, Ben. I don’t take that crap from anybody.”
    â€œShe was just doing her job.”
    â€œLike I was telling Greg. Didn’t I tell you Greg? I don’t take crap from anybody.”
    Wide Greg was very good at ignoring such questions.
    Donny asked me, “What are they bugging me for? I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell both you and Greg why.”
    â€œWhat about me?” Sherman called down the bar.
    â€œI’ll tell all a ya. They’re bugging me ‘cause they can’t find that goddamned wetback.”
    I put down my mug. “Donny you keep talking about friends of mine in ways that aren’t, shall we say, respectful.”
    â€œThe wetback is your friend?”
    â€œHe worked for Jay. He’s a good kid.”
    â€œSo why doesn’t he turn himself in?”
    â€œSo why don’t you answer Detective Boyce’s question?”
    â€œBecause I didn’t do nothing—Greg! Another beer!”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Greg.
    â€œWhat?” Donny half rose from his stool. “Are you cutting me off?”
    â€œYes.”
    I said, “Donny, let me drive you home.”
    Donny got redder in the face. He started to set his jaw. Then his eyes went a little fuzzy and his cheeks a little slack and he said, “Oh come on, guys.”
    â€œToss me your keys,” Greg said conversationally. “I’ll get one of the boys to drop your car off later.”
    Donny stood there a moment, swaying on the rungs of his stool. “Do I owe you anything?”
    â€œYou’re fine.” This was not kindness. The White Birch was pay as you go until Greg extended a dispensation as rare as one papal.
    As I walked Donny out I said to