same movie?”
“Yes! Kid, what have you been doing all your life? It’s An Officer and a Gentleman . Richard Gere. Debra Winger.” He clapped his hands and went into a high-pitched falsetto. “Go, Paula!”
Hackett cracked up, suddenly picturing his balding partner in a dress. “Same movie?”
Bishop chuckled and backhanded him on the knee. “Of course.”
“Well, now I have to see it.”
They pulled into the parking lot of The Rack, just a half mile down the road from Cahill’s construction job. Cahill’s foreman had said a stop at The Rack was like the second half of any shift. The building, enlivened only by neon beer signs in the window, was run-down, sandwiched between a thrift shop and a parking lot. Inside, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer greeted them as Led Zeppelin blasted from the jukebox. The bartender, mid-sixties, with long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, multiple earrings, tattoos covering both forearms, and a massive belly that spilled out from beneath his Harley T-shirt, leaned against the rail at the end of the bar, reading the newspaper.
Hackett and Bishop took seats at the bar and introduced themselves. The bartender offered them a drink, which they declined. “Had to ask.” He smiled. “I’m Ed.” He shook hands with both of them. “What can I do you for?”
“You recognize this man?” Hackett held up a photo of Cahill.
“This is about that murder, huh?”
He nodded. “We heard from Mr. Cahill’s foreman that he and the boys often came here after work.”
“Yeah, Mike was a regular.”
“How often would you say he came in?” Bishop asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, few times a week? There was usually a load of ’em who came in after their shifts over at the site to kick back for an hour or two before headin’ home.”
Bishop gave Hackett the nod to jump in. “We’re trying to piece together his last days. Can you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Couple weeks, I guess.”
“According to his boss, he’d worked four days on the week before his death.” He checked his notes. “Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Would you have any record of whether or not he was here any of those days—after his shift, perhaps?”
“Nah. No real bookkeeping. I mean, unless someone pays with a credit card, there’s no telling who’s been in and out.”
Bishop spun his barstool away from the conversation, toward the pool tables.
“How well did you know Mr. Cahill?” Hackett asked.
“Not well. I mean, he’s ‘Mike’ to me, for one. I ain’t no Sam or nothin’.”
“Sam?”
“You know, Sam— Cheers ?”
Bishop turned back and smiled. “The reference is wasted on my partner, here. Turns out he doesn’t know anything from before 1990.”
“Come on, guys,” Hackett protested. “I can’t help it if I’m not old!” The men laughed.
“Shall we get back to it, please?” he asked. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Cahill? Mike?”
The bartender sipped his coffee. “I know he wasn’t here after Sunday, week before last. I know because I was planning to give him some shit, bust his balls a little, but I never got a chance.”
“So you know he was here that Sunday?”
“Yep.”
“And why’d you wanna bust his balls?” Bishop asked.
“Oh yeah. Kinda funny, really. The boys are always hanging out. They’re loud. Riding one another a bit. Placing stupid bets on the games. Sometimes I go in on them, but shit, I’d be broke if I did that with all the customers. Anyway, I remember that Mike was telling all the guys about how he couldn’t place no more bets for a while, that his ring was setting him back a bit.”
“Ring?” Hackett asked.
“Engagement ring. He was showing it off. Had it with him. He’d told the boys that he was finally gonna do it, and they all teased him a bit.”
“So that’s what you wanted to tease him about?” Bishop asked.
“Fuck no. I wanted to tease him because the very night that he’s
“Yes! Kid, what have you been doing all your life? It’s An Officer and a Gentleman . Richard Gere. Debra Winger.” He clapped his hands and went into a high-pitched falsetto. “Go, Paula!”
Hackett cracked up, suddenly picturing his balding partner in a dress. “Same movie?”
Bishop chuckled and backhanded him on the knee. “Of course.”
“Well, now I have to see it.”
They pulled into the parking lot of The Rack, just a half mile down the road from Cahill’s construction job. Cahill’s foreman had said a stop at The Rack was like the second half of any shift. The building, enlivened only by neon beer signs in the window, was run-down, sandwiched between a thrift shop and a parking lot. Inside, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer greeted them as Led Zeppelin blasted from the jukebox. The bartender, mid-sixties, with long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, multiple earrings, tattoos covering both forearms, and a massive belly that spilled out from beneath his Harley T-shirt, leaned against the rail at the end of the bar, reading the newspaper.
Hackett and Bishop took seats at the bar and introduced themselves. The bartender offered them a drink, which they declined. “Had to ask.” He smiled. “I’m Ed.” He shook hands with both of them. “What can I do you for?”
“You recognize this man?” Hackett held up a photo of Cahill.
“This is about that murder, huh?”
He nodded. “We heard from Mr. Cahill’s foreman that he and the boys often came here after work.”
“Yeah, Mike was a regular.”
“How often would you say he came in?” Bishop asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, few times a week? There was usually a load of ’em who came in after their shifts over at the site to kick back for an hour or two before headin’ home.”
Bishop gave Hackett the nod to jump in. “We’re trying to piece together his last days. Can you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Couple weeks, I guess.”
“According to his boss, he’d worked four days on the week before his death.” He checked his notes. “Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Would you have any record of whether or not he was here any of those days—after his shift, perhaps?”
“Nah. No real bookkeeping. I mean, unless someone pays with a credit card, there’s no telling who’s been in and out.”
Bishop spun his barstool away from the conversation, toward the pool tables.
“How well did you know Mr. Cahill?” Hackett asked.
“Not well. I mean, he’s ‘Mike’ to me, for one. I ain’t no Sam or nothin’.”
“Sam?”
“You know, Sam— Cheers ?”
Bishop turned back and smiled. “The reference is wasted on my partner, here. Turns out he doesn’t know anything from before 1990.”
“Come on, guys,” Hackett protested. “I can’t help it if I’m not old!” The men laughed.
“Shall we get back to it, please?” he asked. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Cahill? Mike?”
The bartender sipped his coffee. “I know he wasn’t here after Sunday, week before last. I know because I was planning to give him some shit, bust his balls a little, but I never got a chance.”
“So you know he was here that Sunday?”
“Yep.”
“And why’d you wanna bust his balls?” Bishop asked.
“Oh yeah. Kinda funny, really. The boys are always hanging out. They’re loud. Riding one another a bit. Placing stupid bets on the games. Sometimes I go in on them, but shit, I’d be broke if I did that with all the customers. Anyway, I remember that Mike was telling all the guys about how he couldn’t place no more bets for a while, that his ring was setting him back a bit.”
“Ring?” Hackett asked.
“Engagement ring. He was showing it off. Had it with him. He’d told the boys that he was finally gonna do it, and they all teased him a bit.”
“So that’s what you wanted to tease him about?” Bishop asked.
“Fuck no. I wanted to tease him because the very night that he’s
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