Ice Lake. John A Lenahan

and Cirba sat in matching pink armchairs.

      “You’re very forthcoming.”

      “Who he?” Feather said, pointing at Harry as if he had just noticed him.

      “He’s with me. A trainee of sorts.”

      Feather snorted out a laugh. “A troopee?”

      Harry nodded.

      Feather opened a drawer on one of the side tables and took out a pre-rolled joint. He looked around to see if the two cops were going to stop him. When neither did, he lit it and said: “This is fun. Well, Mr Trooper and Mr Troopee Junior, you’re obviously not here about my proclivity with controlled substances so wad’d’ya want to know?”

      “Bill wasn’t a user?”

      “He smoked a joint every once in a while, but who doesn’t? You’d be surprised the upstanding citizens I have dealings with.”

      “So you’re saying Bill wasn’t a user?”

      “If it was night-time and we were playing Cinch or somethin’, he’d smoke a joint but he’s been boring for a long time.”

      “How about meth?”

      “Na, he never liked that stuff. He sold a bit of weed years ago. Hey, didn’t you bust him for that?”

      “Wasn’t me,” Cirba said, “but I know about it.”

      “Not long after, the crystal came round and he decided he didn’t want nothin’ to do with any of it.” Feather said “crystal” with a French accent. “He wouldn’t even shift weed. When Billy got an idea in his head there was no punchin’ it out of him.”

      “You known Big Bill for a long time?” Harry asked.

      “Yeah, we went to Oaktree Elementary together. We hung out. In junior high we boosted a few cars together.” Feather pointed at the trooper. “That was the one you busted him for.”

      Cirba nodded.

      “After that, old man Thomson wouldn’t let him hang with me, but we still did. We sold a bit of weed together until his big brother found out. That time Frank and old man Thomson came round with fucking baseball bats. I thought Frankie was gonna really do my noggin’ in. Ya know? He’s a crazy fuck. The old man stopped him though.”

      “So you didn’t hang out after that?” Harry asked.

      “Yeah, but not much. I’d see ’um in a bar or maybe up the Horseshoe. He was friendly but our bidness days were done.”

      “So you’ve had no dealings with him in how long?” Harry asked.

      Feather lit another cigarette. “Not since then.”

      “You haven’t sold so much as a joint to him since you were teenagers. Is that what you’re saying?”

      “Absolutely.”

      Harry looked to Cirba and said: “OK, I know you gave your word not to bust this clown but can we haul him in for questioning?”

      “Hey,” Feather protested.

      “Look, Featherbrains,” Harry said standing, “there’s a dead guy and you’re fucking lying to me. Cuff ’m, trooper, let me have him in a proper interrogation room and I’ll find out what he knows – along with the location of his meth lab if you’re interested.”

      Cirba stood up and reached for his cuffs.

      “Hey hey, chill. OK, OK I sold him some grass like a month ago.”

      Cirba and Harry sat down again.

      “What is he?” Feather said, pointing to Harry. “Some sort of fucking Jedi?”

      “That just about describes him – so don’t screw with us, Feather. How much?”

      “He bought an ounce.”

      “Was that his usual?”

      “No, I’ve been straight with you, man. He hasn’t bought nothing in years. I mean sometimes when I saw him he’d bum a joint for old times’ sake, but he wasn’t getting any shit from me.”

      “So why the change?”

      “He said he needed it to pay his lawyer with.”

      “His lawyer?”

      “That’s what the man said.”

      “Why was he seeing a lawyer?”

      “He wouldn’t tell me. I asked him if he was in trouble and he said on the contrary, that he was great. He said he was, ‘sorting his life out’.”

      “Who was the lawyer?”

      “Didn’t say. Didn’t ask.”

      Cirba looked to Harry, who nodded.

      “Who would know?”

      “Word had it he was seeing a chick that worked down at the Dew Drop Inn.”

      “A stripper?”

      “That’s what I heard.”

      “Name?”

      “I want to say Harmony.”

      “Harmony what?”

      “What do you mean ‘Harmony what’? How many strippers do you know got a last name?”

      “Where were you Wednesday ’bout eleven?”

      “Here watching the golf.”

      They both gave him a sideways look.

      “What? You think I’m too much of a lowlife to dig golf?”

      “Anything else?”

      “No, I told you everything, and that ain’t no lie.”

      “Say that to him,” Cirba said, pointing to Harry.

      Feather looked him straight in the eye and said: “That’s all I know.”

      Harry held up his hand like he was Obi-Wan Kenobi and said: “This isn’t the meth dealer you are looking for.”

      They all stood up.

      “And I ain’t no meth cooker no more neither.”

      “Don’t go straight on me, Feather, you’ll put me out of work.”

      “It ain’t by choice. All this shake and bake shit has ruined the crystal biz.”

      “Shake and bake?”

      “The fucking Internet, man. Buy some drain cleaner, some Colman fuel, and a pack of lithium batteries and you can make your own meth. Fucking whole market’s collapsed. I’m gonna move to California and open a legal grass store.”

      Cirba chuckled. “You will be missed, Feather.”

      * * *

      Back on the Five Mile Road, Cirba asked: “Was he being straight about not cooking meth anymore?”

      “I’m sure he was telling the truth about that shake and bake thing, but I’m not so sure he’s not entering the priesthood soon. So it sounds to me like we’re going to a strip club tonight.”

      The trooper sighed and said: “Not a word to Mrs Cirba.”

      “Aw, come on. This is in the line of duty. She can’t complain about that?”

      “Not a word, you hear me.”

      They stopped at the Oaktree supermarket and Harry bought bachelor-pad essentials: round beef, rolls, sliced cheese, food, chips, and diet root beer. Then they stopped into the Hillside Tavern for a six pack.

      “I was gonna bring you here for dinner, but if you’re lucky, MK will cook you something