“How so?” I asked.

“I heard that English woman was with him, the one he was driving around town with.”

I nodded assent. I shouldn’t have felt surprised that the men knew about Marcena-theirs was a small community in its own way. If Bron had been showing Marcena his routes and showing her off to his accounts, everyone who knew him would know about her. I could picture them alone in their cabs needing to pass the time, calling each other and spreading all the gossip.

“About fifteen husbands down here coulda taken him out anytime over the last ten years-the English broad wasn’t the only piece of ta-well, you know, friend, he kept tucked in that cab of his. Against the law, of course, and against company policy, but-” He shrugged expressively.

“Was he seeing anyone else? Marcena doesn’t have an angry husband who’d go after Romeo-Bron, I mean.” I thought uneasily about Morrell, but that was ridiculous-even if I could picture him mad enough to beat up a man over a woman, even if I could picture him doing it over Marcena, I couldn’t picture him doing it with his bad leg.

The men made a few suggestive comments about some of their acquaintances, but they agreed in the end that Marcena was Romeo’s first fling in almost a year. “His girl was getting upset, all the harassing the kids in school gave her. Finally, he promised the missus he’d stop, but, what I hear, this English pus-English lady, she was so classy and so exotic, he couldn’t resist.”

I remembered young Mr. William’s eagerness to find out who was squiring Marcena around the South Side. “Did Grobian know about her?”

“Probably not,” put in the handlebar mustache. “Bron wouldn’t’ve still been driving if Pat knew.”

“Figured that was what that Mexican punk was talking to Bron about,” the Harley jacket said.

My heart skipped a beat. “What Mexican punk?”

“Don’t know his name. He’s always hanging around jobsites down here, seeing what he can steal or get away with. My son, he goes to Bertha Palmer, he pointed them out to me, Bron and the Mexican. Last week, week before, I don’t remember, I was picking my boy up after a game-see, he plays football at the high school-and there was this punk in the parking lot, and there was Bron and the English lady. Punk probably figured Bron would slip him a few bucks not to tell the company he had the lady in his cab with him.”

One of the other guys guffawed and said, “Probably thought Bron would pay him not to tell his old lady. I’d be a hell of a lot more scared of Sandra Czernin than Pat Grobian.”

“Me, too.” I grinned, although I was thinking about Freddy, the chavo who hung around jobsites looking for what he could finagle. Blackmail, that fit Freddy’s unattractive profile. It made a certain kind of sense. But would Freddy have attacked Bron and Marcena? Maybe Romeo-Bron, I really should call him by his name-maybe Bron threatened to have him arrested for blackmail and Freddy lost his head?

“Can’t see Bron paying blackmail to anyone,” a third trucker drawled.

“So maybe the punk squealed,” the mustache said. “Because Grobian and Czernin were sure going at it Monday afternoon.”

“Fighting?” My eyebrows shot up.

“Arguing,” he amplified. “I was waiting on my clearance, and Bron was in there, they were shouting at each other a good fifteen minutes.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know-Bron wanted help with his daughter’s hospital bills.”

“From Grobian?” Nolan in the Harley jacket snorted. “Billy is probably the only person in the world who could believe Grobian would give a rat’s ass about someone’s girl. Not that it wasn’t a hell of a blow what happened to Czernin’s kid, but sitting good with the Bysen family, that’s what Grobian thinks about first, last, and foremost. And helping pay some guy’s hospital bills, he knows the Bysens would never sit still for that-even though Czernin had twenty-plus years with the company!”

“They may have been fighting when Czernin went in, but they must’ve kissed and made up because Czernin was crowing like a rooster when he got into his rig,” the third driver said.

“He didn’t say anything?” I asked.

“Just that he might have a winning ticket.”

“Winning ticket?” I repeated. “Lottery ticket, is that what he meant?”

“Oh, he was carrying on like a fool,” the handlebar said. “I asked him the same thing, and he said, ‘Yeah, the lottery of life.’”

“Lottery of death is what it turned out to be,” Nolan said somberly.

Everyone was quiet for a moment, remembering that Bron had died. I waited for the silent tension in the men to ease before asking if they knew where Billy the Kid was.

“Not here. Ain’t seen him all week, come to think of it. Maybe he went back to Rolling Meadows.”

“No,” I said. “He’s disappeared. The family has a big detective agency out looking for him.”

The trio looked at each other wide-eyed. This was clearly news to them, and welcome as a fresh source of gossip, although the Harley jacket said the Kid had just been there.

“Today?” I said.

“Nope. Last time I was in-that’d be Monday afternoon. Something was eating him, but I didn’t know he’d have the guts to walk out on the family.”

None of the three had any ideas, about what was eating Billy, or where he might have run to. In the middle of a lively discussion about the merits of Vegas over Miami if you were running away from home, Grobian’s door opened. To my surprise, it was young Mr. William who emerged, with Aunt Jacqui at his elbow, businesslike today in a taupe military-style jacket, with a bias-cut silk skirt in the same shade twirling around her knees.

“Our lucky week,” the Harley jacket muttered. “Grobian must be on the hot seat for that prick to come down here twice in a row.”

None of the men spoke directly to William. Some of them might have known Mr. William when he was Billy’s age, but he’d probably never inspired the kind of lively banter the men treated his son to.

“You men waiting on your dispatch clearances? You can go on in,” William said curtly.

He passed by without noticing me-I guess my hard hat and torn pants made me look like one of the men-but Aunt Jacqui wasn’t so oblivious. “Are you hoping to get Patrick to take you on as a driver? We’re down a man, with Bron Czernin dead.”

The trio of truckers paused outside Grobian’s open door. The mustache frowned at her remark, but none of them risked a comment.

“You are the queen of tact, aren’t you?” I said. “While we’re all having a good time, you’re down more than a driver. Aren’t you short a supplier, too?”

William squinted at me, trying to place me. “Oh. The Polish detective. What are you doing here?”

“Detecting. What are you doing about your flag sheets and towels that Fly the Flag was producing for you?”

“What do you know about those?” William demanded.

“That he signed a contract and then realized he couldn’t meet the price and came back to renegotiate.”

Jacqui produced a dazzling smile. “We never, never renegotiate our contracts. It’s Daddy Bysen’s very first law of business. I did tell the man that-what was his name, William? Anyway, it doesn’t matter-I told him that, and he finally agreed he would meet the price we’d all agreed on. We were supposed to take delivery of the first order last week, but, fortunately, we had a backup supplier, so we’re only five days behind schedule.”

“Backup supplier?” I echoed. “Is this the person who’s been selling sheets through the churches in South Chicago?”

Jacqui laughed, the malicious laugh she gave whenever someone in the Bysen family was looking foolish. “Someone very, very different, Ms. Polish Detective; if you’re investigating those sheets, I think you’ll find yourself at a dead end.”

Mr. William looked at her reprovingly, but said, “I always maintained Zamar was unreliable. Father keeps saying we should give South Side businesses priority just because he grew up down here. Nothing will convince him they can’t meet the production schedules they agree to.”