He turned as I approached him. His face changed. The smoke eyes looked at me, wary, speculative. "I've got the name right, haven't I? Tal Howard."
"That's right." There was, of course, no move toward shaking hands.
He turned to the other man. "Joe, you go right ahead here. Leave this slip in the office on your way out."
Fitzmartin started walking back through the lot between the stacked lumber. I hesitated and followed him. He led the way to a shed on the back corner of the lot. An elderly Ford coupé was parked by the shed. He opened the door and gestured and I went into the shed. It was spotlessly clean. There was a bunk, table, chair, shelf with hot plate and dishes. He had a supply of canned goods, clean clothes hanging on hooks, a pile of magazines and paper-bound books near the head of the bunk. There was a large space heater in the corner, and through an open door I could see into a small bathroom with unfinished walls.
There was no invitation to sit down. We faced each other.
"Nice to see any old pal from north of the river," he said.
"I heard in town you work here."
"You just happened to be in town and heard I work here."
"That's right."
"Maybe you're going around looking all the boys up. Maybe you're writing a book."