"Nope. I guess he misses out on a Christmas card this year."
Dean spent the balance of Friday wading through paperwork, a chore made more depressing than usual because yesterday's drizzle had given birth to a storybook spring day. Nevertheless, he muddled through the mire in a surprisingly good frame of mind. He attributed his pleasant disposition to memories of the prior evening with Cynthia Byrne, the sweetheart of Maid Marian Lane.
Dean planned to telephone Fred directly from Willoughby's to make absolutely sure no inquisitive eavesdropper could arrive at the bar before he was securely in place. Not knowing who would show presented a chance he might be recognized but as the eavesdropper wouldn't expect him to be there, it gave him an advantage. Besides, Nota was the only member of the crime family who knew Dean's face and by all accounts he'd left Parkside some time ago. Just to be on the safe side, Dean stopped at a thrift store and purchased a nondescript jacket and a slouched hat. Not bad for a buck seventy-five, mothball smell and all. As luck would have it, as he was leaving the place, he nearly knocked over Cora Abernathy, who had just left the dry cleaners next door. She smiled a knowing smile in greeting as she looked him up and down. Now all of Parkside would know where David Dean shopped for his wardrobe. Undaunted, he walked the four blocks to the bar on Diamond.
Willoughby's was old hardwood and brass under 70 years of bad breath and nicotine, catering to a tenth the crowd of bygone days. The only customers were two paint-splattered workmen arguing baseball with the bartender, an overweight bald man in a wrinkled apron. Dean slipped onto a barstool at the far end of the room where the light was a darker yellow. Before making his phone call, he ordered a Coors just to get a feel for the place and adjust his eyes to the meager light. There were three tables between the bar and the four booths that lined the far wall. A good cleaning, a coat of paint and a few working light bulbs might make the place a pleasant neighborhood tavern.
Halfway through his beer the sports argument became spirited enough that Dean took the opportunity to rise and cross to the payphone behind him. It was 6:10 by the Budweiser clock on the far wall.
Fred answered on the first ring with what Dean detected as a hint of anxiety in his voice.
"Hello?"
"Listen," said Dean, with a handkerchief in front of the mouthpiece, "I hear you're looking for Jeffrey Byrne."