said Begley wasn't working for them any more." Fargo looked from me toAlex. "Does the name Begley mean anything to you?"

We both said that it didn't. "Can youdescribe him, Mr. Fargo?"

"I can describe the part of him thatwasn't covered with seaweed, I mean the beard. His hair is gray, like thebeard, and very thick and wavy. Gray eyebrows and gray eyes, an ordinary kindof straight nose, I noticed it was peeling from the sun. He's not bad-lookingfor an older man, apart from his teeth, which aren't good. And he looks asthough he's taken a beating or two in his time. Personally I wouldn't want togo up against him. He's a big man, and he looks pretty rough."

"How big?"

"Three or four inches taller than Iam. That would make him six feet one or two. He was wearing a short-sleevedsport shirt, and I noticed the muscles in his arms."

"How did he talk?"

"Nothing special. He didn't have a Harvardaccent, and he didn't say ain't."

"Did he give you any reason for wanting thepicture?"

"He said he had a sentimentalinterest. He saw it in the paper, and it reminded him of somebody. I rememberthinking he must have dashed right over. The paper with the picture in it cameout Sunday morning, and he came in around Sunday noon."

"He must have gone to see your wifeimmediately afterward," I said to Alex. And to Fargo: "How did thisparticular picture happen to be used by the newspaper?"

"They picked it out of a batch I sentover. The Press often uses my pictures, as a matter of fact I used to work forthem. Why they used this one instead of some of the others I couldn'tsay." He held up the print in the fluorescent light, then handed it to me."It did turn out well, and Mr. Kincaid and his wife make an attractivecouple."

"Thanks very much," Alex said sardonically.

"I was paying you a compliment, fellow."

"Sure you were."

I took the print from Fargo and shuntedAlex out of the place before it got too small for him. Black grief keptflooding up in him, changing to anger when it reached the air. It wasn't justgrief for a one-day wife, it was also grief for himself. He didn't seem to knowif he was a man or not.

I couldn't blame him for his feelings, butthey made him no asset to the kind of work I was trying to do. When I found theWine Cellar, on a motel strip a few blocks inland, I left him outside in hislittle red sports car.

The interior of the liquor store waspleasantly cool. I was the only potential customer, and the man behind thecounter came out from behind it to greet me.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

He wore a plaid waistcoat, and he had theslightly muzzy voice and liquid eyes and dense complexion of a man who drankall day and into the night.

"I'd like to see Chuck Begley."

He looked vaguely pained, and his voicetook on a note of mild complaint. "I had to fire Chuck. I'd send him outwith a delivery, and sometimes it'd arrive when it was supposed to, andsometimes it wouldn't."

"How long ago did you fire him?"

"Couple of weeks. He only worked forme a couple of weeks. He isn't cut out for that kind of work. I told him morethan once it was beneath his capacity. Chuck Begley is a fairly bright man ifhe'd straighten up, you know."

"I don't know."

"I thought perhaps you were an acquaintance ofhis."

I showed him my photostat.

He blew the smell of peppermint in my face. "IsBegley on the run?"

"He may be. Why?"

"I wondered when he first came in why a man likehim would take a part-time delivery job. What's he wanted for?"

"I wouldn't know. Can you give me his homeaddress?"

"I think I can at that." Hestroked his veined nose, watching me over his fingers. "Don't tell BegleyI gave you the word. I don't want him bouncing back on me."

"I won't."

"He spends a lot of time in the homeof one of my customers. You might say he's a non-paying guest of hers. Icertainly wouldn't want to make trouble for her. But then," he reasoned,"if Begley's on the run I'm doing her a favor in seeing that he's pickedup. Isn't that right?"

"I'd say so. Where does shelive?"

"On Shearwater Beach, cottage numberseventeen. Her name's Madge Gerhardi. Take the freeway south and you'll see theShearwater turnoff about two miles down the line. Only just don't tell eitherof them that it was me sent you. Okay?"

"Okay." I left him with hisbottles.

chapter 3

We parked our cars at the top of theaccess lane, and I persuaded Alex to stay in his, out of sight. ShearwaterBeach turned out to be a kind of expensive slum where several dozen cottagesstood in a row. The changing blue reflection of the sea glared through thenarrow gaps between them. Beyond their peaked rooftops, out over the water, a terncircled on flashing wings, looking for fish.

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009