used to be—and probably still were—in Minnetonka and Saint Louis Park, two Minneapolis suburbs about fifteen and twenty minutes from Excelsior, respectively.
He was shocked at Ryan’s death but not really saddened. “We used to be good friends,” Joey said, “but not so much since I cut back on my boozing.” Mike wrote that down, too, and headed out.
He found Ryan’s car in St. Louis Park. It was in the little lot behind Ralph’s Happy Hour. The bartender on duty hadn’t worked last Sunday. He called the night shift bartender, who remembered the seriously drunk Mr. McMurphy being accosted by “this guy who comes in about four times a week.” The bartender thought his name might be Waylon. The day bartender said, “Oh, he means Waylon Halverson.”
Halverson’s wife said he was at his day job as a mechanic at an import motors shop on Thirty-Sixth Street. Mike found him bent over a Peugeot’s open hood and summoned him outside, where they stood under cloudy but not rainy skies.
“A crazy drunk named Ryan? Yah, I see him now and then. Off-and-on kind of guy, sobers up for a couple weeks, then he goes on a bender, then he sobers up. Me, I drink just a little, but steady. I’m in Ralph’s Happy Hour about every other night.”
“Did you see Ryan in Ralph’s Happy Hour on Sunday night?”
Waylon nodded. “Yah, as a matter o’ fact. I been out with the guys and was the last one still there when he came in, really pis—uh, drunk. He gets to this weird stage when he’s drunk, where he thinks there’s some kind of plot against him by someone with secret powers.”
Mike screwed on his most doubtful face. “A plot? By who?”
“Oh, nothin’ human. He says there’s these spirits and hexes and all kinds of crap floating around out there, and he’s some kind of magnet for ’em. He carries this steel ring with about a pound of rabbit’s feet and four-leaf clovers and even weirder junk on it, says it’s his ‘protection.’” Waylon snorted derisively.
“Did you talk to him?”
“About that? There’s no talking to him about it, all you get is a rant.”
“Well, about something else then? On the Sunday, I mean. What did he say?”
“Just that he was fine, he was going to be fine. But he wasn’t, he was about as drunk as I’ve ever seen him. And real, real nervous.”
“About what?”
Waylon shrugged. “The usual. Witches and black magic. More nervous than usual, but it was the same old story.”
Mike nodded comprehension, and asked, “Was he barefoot when you saw him, or did he take his shoes off while you were with him?”
Waylon stared at him in surprise. “No, why?”
“It’s not important. Do you know where he went when he left the bar?”
“He went home. I know that because I took him.”
Mike nearly smiled in delight. Here was a truly solid piece of information.
“When was this?”
“About eleven-thirty we left the bar, so I’d say he was back in Excelsior around midnight, maybe a little before.”
“Why did you take him home?”
Waylon snorted. “Because he was drunk on his a—butt. He tried to fool me with that second set of car keys, but I was on to that trick. Fool me once, shame on ya; fool me twice, shame on me .” He rested his bottom on the fender of an arrest-me-red Porsche and shoved both hands into the pockets of his pale blue coveralls. “So I took both sets and made him ask me nice for a ride home. He laughed half the way because I caught him over that trick, and cried the other half.”
“Why did he cry?”
“Because he wasn’t living at home but at a friend’s house. His wife threw him out because he’s so obnoxious when he drinks. He said he tried to quit drinking but someone set him up to get back on the sauce.”
Mike asked alertly, “Who?”
“He didn’t say. Or maybe he did, I wasn’t really listening. He’s likely to say anything when he’s drunk. I took him to this little house in Excelsior, he got out and I gave him back
He was shocked at Ryan’s death but not really saddened. “We used to be good friends,” Joey said, “but not so much since I cut back on my boozing.” Mike wrote that down, too, and headed out.
He found Ryan’s car in St. Louis Park. It was in the little lot behind Ralph’s Happy Hour. The bartender on duty hadn’t worked last Sunday. He called the night shift bartender, who remembered the seriously drunk Mr. McMurphy being accosted by “this guy who comes in about four times a week.” The bartender thought his name might be Waylon. The day bartender said, “Oh, he means Waylon Halverson.”
Halverson’s wife said he was at his day job as a mechanic at an import motors shop on Thirty-Sixth Street. Mike found him bent over a Peugeot’s open hood and summoned him outside, where they stood under cloudy but not rainy skies.
“A crazy drunk named Ryan? Yah, I see him now and then. Off-and-on kind of guy, sobers up for a couple weeks, then he goes on a bender, then he sobers up. Me, I drink just a little, but steady. I’m in Ralph’s Happy Hour about every other night.”
“Did you see Ryan in Ralph’s Happy Hour on Sunday night?”
Waylon nodded. “Yah, as a matter o’ fact. I been out with the guys and was the last one still there when he came in, really pis—uh, drunk. He gets to this weird stage when he’s drunk, where he thinks there’s some kind of plot against him by someone with secret powers.”
Mike screwed on his most doubtful face. “A plot? By who?”
“Oh, nothin’ human. He says there’s these spirits and hexes and all kinds of crap floating around out there, and he’s some kind of magnet for ’em. He carries this steel ring with about a pound of rabbit’s feet and four-leaf clovers and even weirder junk on it, says it’s his ‘protection.’” Waylon snorted derisively.
“Did you talk to him?”
“About that? There’s no talking to him about it, all you get is a rant.”
“Well, about something else then? On the Sunday, I mean. What did he say?”
“Just that he was fine, he was going to be fine. But he wasn’t, he was about as drunk as I’ve ever seen him. And real, real nervous.”
“About what?”
Waylon shrugged. “The usual. Witches and black magic. More nervous than usual, but it was the same old story.”
Mike nodded comprehension, and asked, “Was he barefoot when you saw him, or did he take his shoes off while you were with him?”
Waylon stared at him in surprise. “No, why?”
“It’s not important. Do you know where he went when he left the bar?”
“He went home. I know that because I took him.”
Mike nearly smiled in delight. Here was a truly solid piece of information.
“When was this?”
“About eleven-thirty we left the bar, so I’d say he was back in Excelsior around midnight, maybe a little before.”
“Why did you take him home?”
Waylon snorted. “Because he was drunk on his a—butt. He tried to fool me with that second set of car keys, but I was on to that trick. Fool me once, shame on ya; fool me twice, shame on me .” He rested his bottom on the fender of an arrest-me-red Porsche and shoved both hands into the pockets of his pale blue coveralls. “So I took both sets and made him ask me nice for a ride home. He laughed half the way because I caught him over that trick, and cried the other half.”
“Why did he cry?”
“Because he wasn’t living at home but at a friend’s house. His wife threw him out because he’s so obnoxious when he drinks. He said he tried to quit drinking but someone set him up to get back on the sauce.”
Mike asked alertly, “Who?”
“He didn’t say. Or maybe he did, I wasn’t really listening. He’s likely to say anything when he’s drunk. I took him to this little house in Excelsior, he got out and I gave him back
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