Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [36]
McHale’s was also Eddie Pepitone’s favorite watering hole.
Lee arrived first and chose a booth in the bar, near the front door. He knew Eddie sometimes liked to smoke, and while he didn’t like the smell, he wanted to accommodate his friend. McHale’s was dark and quiet, and the lamps were already lit. The lights of the cars on Eighth Avenue shone diffusely through the grime on the windows, casting a sullen shadow across the back wall of the bar.
Lee had hardly been there a minute when the front door swung open and Eddie entered.
He looked like a bad hangover. His dirty blond hair—or what was left of it—was rumpled, there was a two-day growth on his chin, and his fingernails looked like they needed sandblasting. Yet somehow he exuded optimism. He had the bright, restless eyes of a con man, and his slovenly appearance was deceiving—Eddie was one of the most perceptive people Lee had ever met. He didn’t know what Eddie did for money now that he had given up gambling, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he would always remember what Eddie’s presence had meant in that hospital room a few months ago. They would sit up all night and talk and talk, as they poured cup after cup of black coffee down their throats, until the graveyard shift at the nurses’ station gave way to the morning shift and the gray dawn crept across the faded yellow hospital walls.
Eddie Pepitone settled himself into the booth and put his elbows on the table. “So, how ya been, Boss Man?”
For some reason, during those dark days last fall, Eddie had taken to calling Lee “Boss Man.” Lee had never asked him the reason for this—during that time, just getting through a day was an accomplishment. Eddie seemed to like the nickname, and Lee didn’t mind.
Eddie leaned forward. His breath reeked of cheap cigarettes and gingivitis.
“What’s on your mind? Is this case getting to you?
“How did you know I was on a case?”
“Come on, now, Boss—I read the papers,” Eddie said, flipping a grin at the waitress as she went by. She was neither young nor pretty, but that didn’t matter to Eddie—he was an equal opportunity lech. He once said about himself, “Hell, I’d flirt with anyone with a uterus, and if I’m drunk enough, I don’t even draw the line there.”
To Lee’s surprise, the waitress returned the smile. Eddie was neither young nor handsome, but women responded to him. He was like a big, happy leprechaun, or the dopey, eternally cheerful uncle who turns up at family occasions with a whoopee cushion. He might not exemplify class, but Lee thought you had to be a pretty sour person not to like him.
“I don’t think I’m mentioned in any of the articles,” Lee said.
Eddie rolled his eyes. “What, you think I believe only what I read in the paper? If you’re not in on the killing of that girl in the Bronx, I’ll eat my hat.”
Lee raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t know, Eddie. Sometimes I think you should be the professional, not me.”
Eddie frowned. “What do you mean? I am a pro!” He turned to flag down the waitress, who was passing with a tray of drinks. “Hiya, darlin’—can we get something here?”
She glanced at him and nodded ever so slightly as she passed.
Lee leaned forward in his seat. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a professional at what I do, but let me tell you, I wouldn’t wanna do what you do, Boss—not for a bundle of change.”
As the waitress walked back toward the bar, Eddie’s hand casually brushed against her thigh. When she turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed, but Eddie just grinned, showing yellowed, crooked teeth.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but my friend’s tongue is about to fall out of his mouth. He’s a mean drunk, but he’s even meaner sober.”
The waitress smiled wearily. “What can I get you?”
Lee sensed the resignation in her voice and in the slump of her shoulders. It was late in her shift, he imagined, and her feet must be hurting. Her mascara was smudged, her sprayed hair was beginning