CHAPTER EIGHT
“Am I turning into an alcoholic, Eric?”
Coffman laughed. “After that little scene, you’re entitled to a couple of belts.”
Lindsey said, “Yeah. How about you?”
“Not me.”
Lindsey signalled the bartender. “Uno más.”
The bartender grinned. “Seguro.”
Coffman said, “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
“That’s about my limit, Eric. Listen, thanks for getting me out of that.”
“They didn’t have anything.”
“Then why—?”
“Wow, I don’t know. Fishing. Hoping for a lucky hit. You know the murder rate in this town. They get a body every day or two. Sometimes two or three a day. They’re years behind. High must have figured, ‘Hell, I’ll needle this guy and see if he yelps.’”
“Sons of bitches. You know they phoned my office and left a message for me to come in? Is that how they go aft
