“Where does it run?”

“Iowa.”

“Who the hell goes to Iowa to fish flies?”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t fish.”

“Well, let me tell you, Hanratty, you don’t retire to fish flies in Iowa. Montana is it.”

“What river?”

“Who the hell knows the name of a river in Montana?” said Sims. “Any ideas, Victor?”

“Take up knitting,” I said.

It was quite an act – if vaudeville were still alive, they could have taken it on the road – but it wasn’t putting me at ease, like they intended. At the Roundhouse they were pleasant as could be, gallantly opening doors, offering up cups of cop coffee, tepid, bitter, and thick.

“Can you wait in here a moment, Victor?” said Sims, gesturing toward the small green room.

I went in and sat down. Sims closed the door, leaving me in there alone. I checked myself in the mirror. No jacket, no tie, haggard and unshaven and sallow. In a green room, under fluorescent lights, even a cherub looks like an ax murderer.

I tried to fathom the depths of the trouble into which I had fallen, and I failed. Things were happening above and below, all around. I could sense their shapes and movement, but the purposes remained mere shadows. Still, I knew the taste of trouble and this was it, oily and electric, with too much salt and a bitter pinch of cumin. Oh, yes, I was neck deep. Sims seemed ready to help me out, for reasons that left me feeling squirrelly, but Hanratty had a hard-on for me, I could tell. Is that a baton in your pocket, Officer, or do you just want to smash my face against the wall?

A knock on the door. It swung open, and a young uniform poked his head inside. “Detective Sims thanks you for your patience and says he’ll be with you in just a moment.”

“That’s what he said an hour ago.”

“I’m sure it won’t be too long.”

“I’m glad you’re sure,” I said as he closed the door behind him.

I drummed my fingers on the table. I stared at my watch. I tried to think it through.