Killing Time

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It was one-thirty in the morning. I’d left Cathy’s a little after one, and now I was sitting at the counter in the New Electric Diner, eating a ham sandwich and talking with Al, the night apron-man. The door behind me opened and closed, and this heavy-set type walked in and took the stool to my right. “You may not believe this,” he told Al, “but I’m looking for a guy named Smith.”

“If I got a choice,” Al told him, “I pass.”

“Unusual monicker,” I said.

He glanced at me. He was fortyish, ex-middleweight, slightly seedy, stocky, big-nosed and heavy-browed. His suit was brown and old and a little too big for him. His tie was hand-painted and too wide. “It is that,” he agreed. “I figure that’ll help.”

“What’s this Smith’s front name?” I asked him.

“Tim.”

“Then this is your lucky night.”

He slid off the stool. “You him?”

“Generally.”

He started patting pockets. “A guy sent me to see you,” he said. “Said you were the only private eye in this town.” He frowned, still patting pockets. “Gave me a letter—” He finally patted his chest, and looked relieved. “Here it is,” he said, and reached in under his lapel. His eyes got a little brighter.

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