“Like in the movies,” Ryan said.

“The movies, shit,” Dick Speed said. “I mean you can’t imagine the mess, a guy gets hit in the head. All over the wall, the floor. Jesus, it’s something.”

“You ever get sick?”

“No, I never did. These other guys, the old pros, they’d wait to see how you’re going to take it. But I never have been sick. Knock wood. Shit, knock Formica in this place.”

“I wanted to ask you if you could do me a favor.”

“The movies, listen, you want to see the real thing,” Dick Speed said, “I can arrange it, ride in the meat wagon sometime. Shit, you’d die.”

“Then what would I want to do it for?”

“Sunday morning early’s the best time. Come back to Receiving with the meat wagon, then stop by the morgue, see all the Saturday night hotshots, the good time they had.”

Ryan was polite and listened and made a few comments, but he wasn’t buying him beer to learn about dope-related executions or Sunday mornings at the morgue.

“Listen,” Ryan said, “I got to get over to Probate before it closes”-where he had just come from-“and I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Look and see if you got a sheet on a Robert Leary, Jr.”

“What’s he supposed to’ve done?”

“Nothing I know of,” Ryan said. “But if a guy’s hard to find, I was wondering maybe it’s because he’s got something to hide. Am I wrong?”

“There could be all kinds of reasons,” Dick Speed said. “Maybe he owes money, hasn’t paid his alimony. You sure this guy’s still around?”

“No, I’m not, but I started thinking-what if he’s in jail? I’m looking up all the records and he’s sitting there waiting.”

“You know something you’re not telling me?”

“No, it’s just a thought,” Ryan said. “Something I might’ve overlooked.”