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anything that involved Pittsburgh in a long time,"
I said, reaching for the door handle. "So whatever brings you up here must
have a local tie."
        "It
did once, at least."
        "Did—"
        "About
twelve years ago."
        I was
holding the door open for him, but he stopped on the top step, looking at my
face.
        "Twelve
years—" My voice was hollow.
        He
nodded.
        "There's
a name I don't want to hear you say," I said.
        "Which
one— Cantrell or Sanabria—" He winked at me and walked into the bar.
    ----
        

Chapter Eight
        
        Draper
wasn't behind the bar, but I didn't care anymore—Ken Merriman had just
obliterated my plan for a relaxed evening. I followed him as he walked to the
back of the narrow dining room and slid into a booth.
        "What
do you want to drink—" I said.
        "No
waitress—"
        "Not
till five. What do you want—"
        "Guinness
would be good."
        He
handed me a ten, and I walked back to the bar and got his Guinness and a
Moosehead for myself, then came back and sat down across from him. There'd been
a few guys at the bar, but we were the only people in the dining room.
        I
lifted my beer and nodded at him. "Here's to unwanted visitors from
Pittsburgh."
        "Come
on, don't say that. Here's to fellow PIs, wouldn't that be friendlier—" He
grinned and lifted his glass. "To Sam Spade."
        "To
Sam Spade," I agreed, then touched my bottle off his glass and took a
drink. He was a damned likable guy, easygoing and good-humored, but that didn't
make the purpose of his visit appealing.
        "I
wish you'd just made a phone call so I could've told you not to waste your
time," I said, "but as long as you made the drive, I'll tell you what
I can— nothing. Somebody asked me to look into the property, see where
the owners had gone. I was dangerously uninformed and had no idea that what was
left of one owner was in a coroner's lab somewhere and that the other owner was
related to Lenny Strollo's best pal."
        Merriman
took a drink and shook his head. "Nah, Strollo wasn't that tight with
Dominic. Acquainted with him, sure, colleagues you might say, but not that
tight."
        "What
a wonderful reassurance."
        He
smiled again. "You sound damn edgy about this, Lincoln."
        "You
would be, too, had Dominic Sanabria paid a visit to your home."
        "By
all accounts, Sanabria has settled down these days. Living on the straight and
narrow. Nary a complaint."
        "Be
that as it may, there were a few complaints in years past, and some of them
involved car bombs."
        He
acknowledged that with a nod and drank some more of his beer. "Did he
threaten you—"
        "Not
overtly, but he also went out of his way to make sure the notion was in my
head. It wasn't a relaxing conversation."
        "How
do you think he got wind of you so fast—"
        "The
attorney."
        "Anthony
Child— That makes sense."
        "Of
course it does. He called you, too."
        He
wagged his finger at me. "Wrong. Nice try, but wrong."
        "Okay,
then who did call you, Ken— Who sent you up from Pittsburgh to ply me with
booze and get me to talk—"
        "Booze
was your idea. I just fell in line."
        "We're
not going to accomplish much," I said, "if neither one of us is willing
to say who we're working for. That's fine with me. There's nothing that I want
to accomplish. That doesn't seem to be the case for you."
        "If
I tell you who tipped me, do I get reciprocity— Will you tell me your client's
name—"
        I
shook my head.
        "Damn,"
he said. "I was afraid of that. But the good news, Lincoln, is that
ultimately I'm not too worried about your client. That's not why I'm
here."
        "No—
Then what is it—"
        "I
want you to work with me. Or, rather, I'd like to work with you. I've done some
background research. Seems like you're awfully good.