I Is for Innocent

have to talk."
    "I got time. You want a beer? Come on and let me buy you one."
    Without waiting for assent, he signaled the bartender by holding up his beer bottle and two fingers. "You want some lunch, too? Have some lunch," he said.
    "I just ate."
    "Well, have some fries. Help yourself. How'd you know I was out? Last time you seen me I'se in jail. You look great."
    "Thanks. So do you. That was yesterday," I pointed out.
    Curtis popped up and crossed to the bar to get the beers. While he was gone, I ate a couple of his french fries. They were wedge cut, with the skins on, and perfectly cooked. He returned to the booth with the beers and I saw him make a move as if to slide in on my side.
    "No way," I said. He was acting like I was his date and I could see the guys at the bar begin to eye us with speculation.
    I refused to give him room and he was forced to sit down again where he'd been. He handed me a beer and grinned at me happily. Curtis seemed to think that along with all the beer, cigarettes, and saturated fats, he might just get lucky and get laid this afternoon. He put his chin in his fist and tried his soulful, puppy-dog gaze on me. "You're not gonna be mean to me, now, are you, hon?"
    "Finish your lunch, Curtis, and don't give me any more of that hangdog look. It just makes me want to hit you with a rolled-up newspaper."
    "Damn, you're cute," he said. Love had apparently diminished his appetite. He pushed aside his plate and lit a cigarette, offering me a drag, like we were postcoital.
    "I'm not cute at all. I'm a very cranky person. Now could we get down to business? I'm having a little problem with the story you told me."
    He frowned to show he was serious. "How come?"
    "You said you sat in on David Barney's trial –"
    "Not the whole thing. I told you that. Crime might be exciting, but the law's a bore, right?"
    "You said you talked to David Barney as he left court just after he'd been acquitted."
    "I said that?"
    "Yes, you did."
    "Don't remember that part. What's the problem?"
    "The problem is you were in jail at the time, waiting to be arraigned on a burglary charge."
    "Nooo," he said with disbelief. "I was?"
    "Yes, you were."
    "Well, I'm burnt. You got me there. I forgot all about that. I guess I got my dates wrong, but the rest of it is gospel." He held his hand up as if he were taking an oath. "Swear to God."
    "Cut the horseshit, Curtis, and tell me what's going on here. You didn't talk to him. You're lying through your teeth."
    "Now wait. Just wait. I did talk to him. It just wasn't where I said."
    "Where then?"
    "At his house."
    "You went to his house? That's baloney. When was this?"
    "I don't know. Couple weeks after his trial, I guess."
    "I thought you were still in jail."
    "Naw, I'se out by then with time served and all that. My attorney cut a deal. I, like, copped to the lesser plea."
    "Forget the jargon and tell me how you ended up at David Barney's house. Did you call him or did he call you?"
    "I don't remember."
    "You don't remember?" I said in a scathing tone of skepticism. I was being rude, but Curtis didn't seem to notice. He was probably accustomed to being addressed that way by all the hard-nosed prosecuting attorneys he'd faced in his short, illustrious career.
    "I called him."
    "How'd you get his telephone number?"
    "Called Information."
    "What made you think to get in touch with him?"
    "It seemed like to me he wouldn't have many friends. I been there myself. Get in trouble with the law, a lot of people won't fool with you much after that. It's like they don't want to hang out with a jailbird."
    "So you thought he needed a best friend and you were going to be it. What's the rest of it?"
    His response was sheepish and he had the good grace to squirm. "Well, now, I knew where he lived – out in Horton Ravine – so I figured he was good for a meal or a couple drinks. We'd been cellmates and all and I thought he'd at least be polite."
    "You went to borrow money," I said.
    "You might put it that way."
    So far, it was the only thing he'd said that rang true.
    "I'd just got out. I didn't have no funds to speak of and this guy had lots. He's loaded –"
    "Skip that. I believe you. Describe the house."
    "He's living in the dead wife's house by then – up a hill, Spanish, with this courtyard and a terrace with this big black-bottom swimming pool –"
    "Got it. Go on."
    "I knock on the door. He's there and I say I was in the area and stopped by to congratulate him on gettin' off a murder