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didn’t disturb the suds. He had an engaging gap-toothed grin in a youthful florid face. He looked like he sampled his own wares. He looked like he ought to arrest himself for serving somebody underage.
    Never go to bars to pick up men. A few young guys in one corner were slapping each other on the back and giggling and pretty soon one of them would come over and make me an offer I could easily refuse. Maybe it was their collective leer that made me slide my license out of my wallet when I put down my money for the beer. The bartender gave it the eye.
    Sometimes I’m subtle, sometimes I’m not. I figured I’d level with the guy, in case the young toughs in the corner got rowdy, or Mooney dropped by to chat. Besides, the barkeep looked like the type who’d enjoy a little intrigue.
    His eyebrows slid up and he grinned. It was a nice grin, not primed with disbelief. “You want to ask me a few questions, right?” he said, like he’d been waiting for the day when somebody would come by and do just that. He looked around as if he expected TV cameras. TV has practically wrecked the investigation business. People have such unrealistic expectations.
    “Eugene Devens,” I said under my breath, trying to play the role.
    “Gene,” the bartender agreed.
    “Yeah.”
    “In trouble?”
    “No trouble.”
    He gave the place a quick once-over. “He’s not here.”
    “I know.”
    “Oh.”
    “He come by often?”
    “Why?”
    “Pour yourself a beer,” I said. “My treat.”
    “Why?” he repeated, reaching for a glass. He rubbed a few spots off it with a grayish dishrag.
    “His sister hasn’t seen him in a few days. She’s worried.”
    “Since when’s a guy that old need a permission slip to go on a field trip?”
    “Got me,” I said. “Did he take a field trip?”
    He shrugged. “Probably just a breather. It’s tough living with your sister.” He spoke with feeling and I wondered about his domestic arrangements.
    “You know him pretty well.”
    “I take an interest in my customers.”
    “He hang out with the group back at the big table?”
    “Why?” he said, smiling brightly.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Billy.” He stared down at my photostat. “Carlotta. Does a nickname go with that?”
    “Nope,” I said, wondering why bartenders always have little boys’ names. “Look, suppose Gene Devens decided he couldn’t take living with his sister one more night, where would he go?”
    “Ireland,” Billy said without missing a beat. “Ireland.”
    “He talk about going?”
    “All the time. Practically didn’t talk about anything else.
    Hadn’t seen the old country since he was a kid, you know, but he had a picture in his head. Anything wrong here must be right there. It’s like, you know, in his mind Ireland stayed exactly where it was when he was a kid, while this country went to the dogs, see?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Green fields. Pretty girls who don’t mind if you call ‘em girls.”
    “Isn’t Gene getting old for that?”
    “Not Gene.”
    “He have a woman friend? A girlfriend?”
    “He wouldn’t have brought her in here. You can see the old guys clucking about you. This is a pub. The men come in after work. The women stay home.”
    “How quaint. Gene talk about a woman? A girl?”
    “Nope.”
    “What did he talk about?”
    “The old country. The glorious rebellion. The terrible Brits. The great poets.”
    “Grand.”
    “Gene and I were tight.” Billy finished off his beer and wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “You’ll see. Couple of days, I’ll get a note from him. Dublin, maybe.
    Wishin’ all his old buddies were there.”
    “He have the money for a trip like that?”
    “He worked. Drove a cab.”
    At least we were talking about the same guy. I slid one of my cards across the bar. “Call me if you hear from him,” I said.
    A fellow down the bar signaled for another Scotch, and Billy made tracks. I sipped at my beer, which was strong and cold, if not my