Story of the Day - Installment 3

Before he can answer, the waitress is back with the drinks. Cocktails napkins, then the booze, and finally the coffee with its own saucer. Like I said, all business. I pick up mine gently. Give it a swish and let it settle on the tongue. Their cheapest is a damn site better than I've had in a long while. I savor it. Maybe the giant will get the tab.

He's not so delicate. He treats it like a shot. All down at once. One of the reasons I don't like rich people - no manners, no finesse. He puts the glass back on the table. Hard. Then he glares at me. I take my time with the second sip. Good stuff. Finally I set it down. Gently. With a long breath he begins:

"I work at a club, The Pendulum. There have been three murders there in the last six months."

"Yeah, I read about the lastest one," I interrupt to see the effect. Nothing.

"The police have come dutifully each time," he continues. "They look around, interview the customers, the staff. They tell us they'll let us know when they find something. And that's that. The first one they chalked up to inebriation. Drunks getting jealous or something like that. The victim took several powerful blows to the head. A few people saw him in the bathroom. Looked alive. They thought he'd passed out. We didn't figure it out until closing time. By then he was dead."

"The police stick it on anyone?" I ask as the giant sips his coffee. He cradles the cup in between drinks. Figures.

"Not that I know of, no. The victim wasn't a regular. No one remembered him sticking out that night. Except the bartender; remembered because he tipped well, but otherwise he was just another customer. The second was a month and a half ago. A woman this time. We don't actually know if she was killed in the club, but the dish washer found her body out back. She had been stabbed twice. That much was clear. Several people remembered her. She was a bit more, well, memorable. Again, the police came. The whole rigamorole. Everyone questioned. Apparently she had been there alone. No suspects. Nothing."

"No arrests?" I ask incredulously. The giant shakes his head slowly. Surprising trend. In this town, there's always a suspect. Someone always gets pinched. Some poor schmucks even get pinched for imaginary crimes. I take another drink. "I know about the third. Young guy. Stabbed last week. Happened out in the open according to the papers. At a table, yeah?" The giant nods his assent. "The police caught the guy though. Saw his picture in the paper."

"The police have the wrong person," and with this the giant looks me in the eye, "the man they say did it was at the bar that night. But he wasn't with the victim. No where near him in fact. He was with me, out back. We were talking, smoking, wasting time." He leans back - relaxes a bit. "Several people vouched for him in fact, but the police took him in anyway, along with others. The others have all been released, and, as you say, you saw the accused pictured in the paper."

He stops to let me figure out the rest. I take my time. I hate murder cases. They always end bad. Always. But I'm broke. Like usual. They do get that part right in the stories. And it's clear this guy has money to burn. With care, I finish the scotch. Very deliberately my glass finds its way to the table.

"So," I draw it out, "you want me to prove who did it, so-" but the giant won't let me finish. Cuts me off sharply.

"I don't care who did it. Any of it. I want you to prove that my acquaintence didn't do it. That's it. The rest can burn for all I care."