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Authors: Bill Granger
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is there to help him. Dr. Goddard did not smile outwardly because he did not want to appear to mock the grieving process. Or to stop it at the moment.
8
H ITTERS
C laudette was behind the bar at ten in the morning. It was too early for respectable Swiss to come in for a drink but she needed the extra hour to clean the bar. The place always smelled sour in the morning. She would open the window in the back and leave the front door open, even in cold weather, to let the place air out and remove the odor of stale tobacco and spilled beer.
The two men walked in at nine minutes after ten. Claudette was so intent on washing the glasses that she did not notice them until they sat down at the bar.
“Hello, dear,” said the first one. He was large and had flat fingers on his large hands. He rested his hands on the bar. “Anyone else around here?”
Claudette stared at his lizard brown eyes for a moment and then shook her head.
The second one was thin and quite hairless. He did not have eyebrows. He looked as though he might have been ill—except his very black eyes glittered with life. His face was tanned, which was unusual enough for Claudette to notice it.
They both spoke French but with strong accents.
“No one is in back?”
“No. Not at this hour. The owner doesn’t come until the lunch hour. If you want to see the owner—”
“No, that’s all right. You’re the one we wanted to talk to.”
Claudette was bent over the sink as she spoke with them, washing glasses. Now she stopped. She straightened up and wiped her hands on a damp towel on the bar. She stared at the large man and then at the hairless man and waited.
“We want to ask you about the man who comes in here at lunch almost every day.”
“We have our regular patrons—”
“Look, we mean the man who comes in here, sits right here at the bar every day. You know who we mean.”
She stared at the big one as though she knew. She said nothing.
“Are you sure no one is in back?”
“Yes.”
“You’re all alone here, then?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” said the big one.
“All alone,” said the hairless one. They didn’t look at each other. They were staring at Claudette very hard.
Claudette was afraid of them. “What can I do for you?”
“Do for us? We told you.”
“Yeah. We were talking about the American who comes in here every day. Around lunchtime.”
“The one who reads the papers.”
“Gets all the American papers to read.”
“You know who we mean.”
“You don’t get that many Americans up in this neighborhood, not in winter.”
She knew who they meant.
“You got a tongue, don’t you, dear?”
“I’ll bet she knows who we mean,” said the big one. He wasn’t smiling.
They were silent for a moment. The silence was like a pause planned in a symphony.
The big one said, “You see, we want to know where he lives. You know where he lives?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“But you know who we mean, don’t you?”
“I—”
“Don’t lie. I mean that. The last thing you want to do is to lie.”
“Yeah,” said the hairless one. “The thing is, we have to find out where he lives because we’ve got something to deliver to him. You know what we mean, something special for him. Only we know he drinks here but we don’t know where he lives and his name isn’t in the telephone book.”
“No. He has an unlisted number.”
“It’s too bad,” said the hairless one.
“Please,” said Claudette. Her voice sounded very thin to her. She tried again. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that right?”
The big one got up then and came around the bar. He ambled like a walking bear. He was almost too large for the back way behind the bar.
“You are not permitted—” began Claudette, her Swiss sense of order horrified by this breach.
He picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label Scotch whisky, opened it, and began to pour it into the sink. She took a step forward and the
8
H ITTERS
C laudette was behind the bar at ten in the morning. It was too early for respectable Swiss to come in for a drink but she needed the extra hour to clean the bar. The place always smelled sour in the morning. She would open the window in the back and leave the front door open, even in cold weather, to let the place air out and remove the odor of stale tobacco and spilled beer.
The two men walked in at nine minutes after ten. Claudette was so intent on washing the glasses that she did not notice them until they sat down at the bar.
“Hello, dear,” said the first one. He was large and had flat fingers on his large hands. He rested his hands on the bar. “Anyone else around here?”
Claudette stared at his lizard brown eyes for a moment and then shook her head.
The second one was thin and quite hairless. He did not have eyebrows. He looked as though he might have been ill—except his very black eyes glittered with life. His face was tanned, which was unusual enough for Claudette to notice it.
They both spoke French but with strong accents.
“No one is in back?”
“No. Not at this hour. The owner doesn’t come until the lunch hour. If you want to see the owner—”
“No, that’s all right. You’re the one we wanted to talk to.”
Claudette was bent over the sink as she spoke with them, washing glasses. Now she stopped. She straightened up and wiped her hands on a damp towel on the bar. She stared at the large man and then at the hairless man and waited.
“We want to ask you about the man who comes in here at lunch almost every day.”
“We have our regular patrons—”
“Look, we mean the man who comes in here, sits right here at the bar every day. You know who we mean.”
She stared at the big one as though she knew. She said nothing.
“Are you sure no one is in back?”
“Yes.”
“You’re all alone here, then?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” said the big one.
“All alone,” said the hairless one. They didn’t look at each other. They were staring at Claudette very hard.
Claudette was afraid of them. “What can I do for you?”
“Do for us? We told you.”
“Yeah. We were talking about the American who comes in here every day. Around lunchtime.”
“The one who reads the papers.”
“Gets all the American papers to read.”
“You know who we mean.”
“You don’t get that many Americans up in this neighborhood, not in winter.”
She knew who they meant.
“You got a tongue, don’t you, dear?”
“I’ll bet she knows who we mean,” said the big one. He wasn’t smiling.
They were silent for a moment. The silence was like a pause planned in a symphony.
The big one said, “You see, we want to know where he lives. You know where he lives?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“But you know who we mean, don’t you?”
“I—”
“Don’t lie. I mean that. The last thing you want to do is to lie.”
“Yeah,” said the hairless one. “The thing is, we have to find out where he lives because we’ve got something to deliver to him. You know what we mean, something special for him. Only we know he drinks here but we don’t know where he lives and his name isn’t in the telephone book.”
“No. He has an unlisted number.”
“It’s too bad,” said the hairless one.
“Please,” said Claudette. Her voice sounded very thin to her. She tried again. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that right?”
The big one got up then and came around the bar. He ambled like a walking bear. He was almost too large for the back way behind the bar.
“You are not permitted—” began Claudette, her Swiss sense of order horrified by this breach.
He picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label Scotch whisky, opened it, and began to pour it into the sink. She took a step forward and the
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