The brother was not hard to find, not as obvious as Big Red Reg at Hungry Jack’s, but nonetheless it didn’t take a genius. The notes I had on the brother were comprehensive. It wasn’t like I knew the colour of his pyjamas—or any of those ridiculous details you see in Hollywood police files—but an old head like me could put two and two together. I knew he’d be waiting for me. He knew his dead brother’s widow wanted to know where her husband was buried. He had known someone would come for him.
I called my wife from a payphone in the city, as strangers rushed past me in the lunch-hour cram.
“This is the final thing,” I told her. “I’m going to visit him.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“I think he has a fair idea.”
“Did you sort out the guy on the beach?”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck.”
“Okay.”
And it wasn’t as if my wife thought that every time we spoke it could be our last words to each other, but it was at least something to consider.
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