looked, at first glance, like a dachshund, and was the reason that people familiar with the Pigwhistle called it “the Dog,” as in, “Meet you at the Dog.” You had to live in Mankato, and be of a certain
boulevardier
class, to know that. Virgil qualified.
He stepped inside, with Yael just behind him, and waited a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. In addition to a wide range of exotic beer, and excellent pizza, the Pigwhistle had an extreme degree of bar darkness, along with high-backed booths, the better to attract adulterers. When he could see, Virgil walked down the line of booths, checking each one, until, at the back, by the bowling machine, he found Awad.
And Derrick Crawford, the local private detective.
Virgil looked down at Crawford and his battered pinch-front fedora, and asked, “Whazzup, Derrick?”
Awad looked up, startled, and asked, “You followed me?”
Virgil said, “Of course. What, you thought we were here by accident?” To Crawford, he said, “Move over, Derrick.”
Crawford said, “Jesus Christ on a crutch,” and slid over, taking a half-glass of beer with him, and Virgil sat down. Yael sat across from him, next to Awad. She said to Awad, “You want to move your leg, please?”
Awad moved a quarter inch, which seemed to satisfy her, and she said to Virgil, “Proceed with the interrogation.”
Virgil nodded and said to Crawford, “Tell me everything you know about this whole thing with the stone.” He pointed to Awad. “And about this Awad guy.”
Crawford pushed back his hat—he wore a fedora because he thought he looked a little like Harrison Ford in
Indiana Jones
, and, in fact, he did, except that he was several inches shorter and perhaps fifty pounds heavier, and, when his hat was off, bald—and asked, “Right from the beginning?”
“That’s probably the best place,” Virgil said.
“Well, this guy”—he pointed at Awad—“called me up and said that he wanted some surveillance done on this Reverend Elijah Jones, to see who he was talking to. We met up, I told him two hundred bucks a day and expenses, and he gave me a grand, in cash. Said there was more where that came from.”
“Your uncle?” Virgil asked Awad.
Awad nodded.
Crawford took a sip of beer—he was one of the few people Virgil knew who could drink beer while keeping a wooden kitchen match firmly in the corner of his mouth—and said, “I asked around and found out that Jones was at the Mayo, so I went over there and talked to him about this stone. He denied knowing anything about it, and that was that. Then, he checked himself out of the place, and a nurse I know called me up and told me, so I put a watch on his house.”
“How did you do that?” Yael asked.
“Parked down the block,” Crawford said.
“He showed up?” Virgil asked.
“Yup. Last night, after midnight. Driving a rental car, which I thought was a little odd, because his own car is in the garage.”
“Why do you tell him all of this?” Awad asked. “This was secret communication, like with a lawyer.”
Virgil looked at him and said, “Quiet.” And to Crawford: “Go ahead, Derrick.”
“So anyway, when he got to the house, I called up Raj, here, and he said thanks, he’d give Jones a ring. He told me to stay on the job until he called and let me go,” Crawford said. “So fifteen minutes after that, another car pulled up. A rental. I checked on the tag, ran it through a couple of databases, and it turns out it was rented to a guy named Timur Kaya, who’s traveling on a Turkish passport. I happen to know he’s staying at the downtown Holiday Inn.”
“How do you know this?” Yael asked.
“I followed him there,” Crawford said.
“Good work,” Yael said. “Which room?”
“One-twenty.”
“When the Turk left, he didn’t leave with a body-sized bag, did he?” Virgil asked.
“He didn’t leave with any bag,” Crawford said. “Not even a stone-sized bag.”
Virgil: “So you followed the Turk
boulevardier
class, to know that. Virgil qualified.
He stepped inside, with Yael just behind him, and waited a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. In addition to a wide range of exotic beer, and excellent pizza, the Pigwhistle had an extreme degree of bar darkness, along with high-backed booths, the better to attract adulterers. When he could see, Virgil walked down the line of booths, checking each one, until, at the back, by the bowling machine, he found Awad.
And Derrick Crawford, the local private detective.
Virgil looked down at Crawford and his battered pinch-front fedora, and asked, “Whazzup, Derrick?”
Awad looked up, startled, and asked, “You followed me?”
Virgil said, “Of course. What, you thought we were here by accident?” To Crawford, he said, “Move over, Derrick.”
Crawford said, “Jesus Christ on a crutch,” and slid over, taking a half-glass of beer with him, and Virgil sat down. Yael sat across from him, next to Awad. She said to Awad, “You want to move your leg, please?”
Awad moved a quarter inch, which seemed to satisfy her, and she said to Virgil, “Proceed with the interrogation.”
Virgil nodded and said to Crawford, “Tell me everything you know about this whole thing with the stone.” He pointed to Awad. “And about this Awad guy.”
Crawford pushed back his hat—he wore a fedora because he thought he looked a little like Harrison Ford in
Indiana Jones
, and, in fact, he did, except that he was several inches shorter and perhaps fifty pounds heavier, and, when his hat was off, bald—and asked, “Right from the beginning?”
“That’s probably the best place,” Virgil said.
“Well, this guy”—he pointed at Awad—“called me up and said that he wanted some surveillance done on this Reverend Elijah Jones, to see who he was talking to. We met up, I told him two hundred bucks a day and expenses, and he gave me a grand, in cash. Said there was more where that came from.”
“Your uncle?” Virgil asked Awad.
Awad nodded.
Crawford took a sip of beer—he was one of the few people Virgil knew who could drink beer while keeping a wooden kitchen match firmly in the corner of his mouth—and said, “I asked around and found out that Jones was at the Mayo, so I went over there and talked to him about this stone. He denied knowing anything about it, and that was that. Then, he checked himself out of the place, and a nurse I know called me up and told me, so I put a watch on his house.”
“How did you do that?” Yael asked.
“Parked down the block,” Crawford said.
“He showed up?” Virgil asked.
“Yup. Last night, after midnight. Driving a rental car, which I thought was a little odd, because his own car is in the garage.”
“Why do you tell him all of this?” Awad asked. “This was secret communication, like with a lawyer.”
Virgil looked at him and said, “Quiet.” And to Crawford: “Go ahead, Derrick.”
“So anyway, when he got to the house, I called up Raj, here, and he said thanks, he’d give Jones a ring. He told me to stay on the job until he called and let me go,” Crawford said. “So fifteen minutes after that, another car pulled up. A rental. I checked on the tag, ran it through a couple of databases, and it turns out it was rented to a guy named Timur Kaya, who’s traveling on a Turkish passport. I happen to know he’s staying at the downtown Holiday Inn.”
“How do you know this?” Yael asked.
“I followed him there,” Crawford said.
“Good work,” Yael said. “Which room?”
“One-twenty.”
“When the Turk left, he didn’t leave with a body-sized bag, did he?” Virgil asked.
“He didn’t leave with any bag,” Crawford said. “Not even a stone-sized bag.”
Virgil: “So you followed the Turk
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