Page 35 of The Burning

“Swanz got loud when he drank. Got handy with the lady patrons, if you know what I mean. To tell you the truth he was a belligerent sot. Always begging for a free drink or a ride home.”

“He get belligerent with anyone in particular?”

“He was kind of an equal-opportunity asshole.”

“Any fights?”

“I might’ve heard a rumor or two.”

“Does the rumor or two have a name?”

“Nope.”

One of the things I used to appreciate about McNarie was his discretion. The man knows how to keep his mouth shut and prides himself on not being a stool pigeon. Even if you were the police chief, you could come here, drink away your troubles, and not have to worry about your escapades being bantered about all over town. This afternoon, his discretion is irritating.

“I don’t know the names of everyone who comes through that door.” He gives me a knowing look. “People like it that way.”

Keeping an eye on the pool players, I take him through some rudimentary questions, but he doesn’t seem to know much. “Is there anything you can tell me about Swanz that might help me figure out what happened to him?”

“Not that I can think of.” Looking at the TV, he picks up a shot glass and runs his towel around the rim.

I lay a ten-dollar bill on the bar and get up without thanking him.

I feel the stares burning into my back as I start toward the pool table. More curious than hostile, but I remind myself to stay on my toes since I’m here alone and there’s a killer on the loose.

Eric Clapton croons about all the illicit benefits of cocaine as I reach the pool table. The two male players are in their late twenties or early thirties. Blue jeans and flannel shirts with work boots. I glance toward the restroom down the hall, but the woman still hasn’t reappeared. I wait while one of the men bends and sets up for a shot.

“Who’s winning?” I say by way of greeting.

They ignore me for a beat too long, which annoys me, but I hold my tongue and wait.

The man with longish brown hair sticking out of a skullcap gives me a slow once-over. He’s tall and lanky, with two days’ growth of a beard and callused hands. “You here wanting to know about Swanz?” he asks.

I show him my badge. “I understand you guys talked to him last night.”

“We talked to him.” He squints at my badge. “Heard someone killed him out in them woods down the road. Is that true?”

“I think that’s what happened.” Reaching into my pocket, I trade my badge for my notebook. “What’s your name?”

“Marco Ellison.” He spells the last name and I write it down.

The man who’d made the last shot straightens and sets his cue against the pool table. “We both talked to him. Bought him a beer. Played a game of pool.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“O’Dell,” he says. “Rick.”

The second man is a few inches taller than me, with the build of a professional wrestler, all of it wrapped in red-plaid flannel, a puffer vest, and worn jeans.

I cover some of the same questions I covered with McNarie, mentally comparing the timelines. “How well did you know Swanz?”

O’Dell speaks up first. “Never really sat down and talked to the guy. I mean, I seen him around here a lot. A regular, you know.”

Not wanting to be left out, Ellison takes it from there, motions toward the bar. “Usually sat right there, drank his beer, and watched whatever game was on.”

“Was Swanz with anyone last night?” I ask.

The two men exchange looks and shake their heads. “Came in alone, I think,” O’Dell replies.