The Wizard of Death by Richard; Forrest

couldn’t do that, because Fizz Nichols was already curled up under the pool table. He fought for control and sobriety. It wasn’t only the beer—a couple of members had brought bottles of rye, and the drinking had really become serious at ten when Wiff insisted that everyone drink boilermakers … a shot and a beer … a shot and a beer … it seemed to go on endlessly.
    What time was it? It was late, and most of the club had either left or were asleep in various parts of the building. Only Wiff, curled near Lyon’s feet, had any semblance of consciousness.
    Lyon kicked Wiff in the side until he turned over.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe was wearing his colors when he was killed.” That wasn’t quite true, but it would do.
    â€œWhat you talking about?”
    â€œJunior Haney had his colors on when he was killed, and you guys don’t give a damn. Let the cops bumble along, you just don’t care that a Kraut was killed with his colors on.”
    â€œLike hell!” Wiff lumbered to his feet, lost his balance and caught the edge of the pool table. “We take care of our own.”
    â€œNot Junior.”
    â€œThis Rainbow knocked him off?”
    â€œThat’s what Junior said.”
    â€œWe’ll take care of the bastard. Can’t kill a Kraut, especially when he’s wearing colors.”
    â€œSomeone knows about Rainbow?”
    â€œThat’s what the cops kept asking.”
    â€œNo club member would talk to a cop,” Lyon said.
    â€œRight.” Wiff looked at Lyon with a dim recognition of what that meant. “I’m half-drunk.”
    â€œI think we all are.”
    â€œOkay, let’s start.”
    Wiff led Lyon to a galvanized stall shower behind the barroom. The hot water didn’t work, but the cold water was quite cold. Turning the nozzle on as far as it would go, Wiff stepped into the shower fully dressed and let the cold water run over his body. After five minutes he stepped out, bowed, and pointed to Lyon.
    Lyon gasped as the water ran down the collar of his jacket and over his back. He bent his head back and let the cold spray play across his face. Finally, he felt Wiff tugging on his sleeve impatiently.
    Wiff’s interrogation of his fellow club members was direct, incisive and brutal. The preliminaries began with a bucket of cold water across the face, and a little face-slapping to catch their attention. A slam against the wall emphasized the immediate necessity for answers.
    â€œYou hear of Rainbow? Junior say anything to you?”
    They proceeded to question all of the Krauts in the clubhouse. Fizz Nichols, placidly sleeping under the pool table, was the last. Lyon and Wiff each grabbed a foot and pulled him out onto the open floor, where Wiff applied water and slaps until he bent Fizz back over the pool table.
    â€œRainbow mean anything to you?”
    â€œLeave me alone, mother fucker.”
    More slaps. “Rainbow?”
    â€œYeah, yeah. Now leave me alone, I’m tired.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    Lyon found a small jar of instant coffee and a propane burner in a back room. He boiled water and made black coffee. When he returned to the barroom, Fizz was sitting on a straight chair with his head in his hands. He drank the coffee more out of fear than desire.
    â€œOkay, buddy boy,” Wiff said. “Junior was knocked off wearing colors. Wentworth here thinks some joker named Rainbow did it. Take it slow and easy, and tell us what you know.”
    â€œQuit leaning on me, man.”
    â€œJust tell us.”
    â€œOkay, okay. Some guy calling himself Rainbow telephoned Junior and asked if he wanted to make a few bucks. You know Junior; he was all for it. This guy wants Junior to meet him at a bar in Hartford for details … no names, nothing like that. Gave Junior a time, place, and booth in the bar. Junior asked me to go along, stay out of sight, follow the guy and act as backup, case things