We meet in front of his office in Maplewood. Rather than sit inside, we decide to stroll along the charming village streets toward Maplewood Park and do a walk and talk.
Crosby still has a lot of pep left in him. “I started working for Palmer’s company twenty-plus years ago. I wasn’t even sixty when I left the NYPD, but a back injury made it tough to stay active on the job.”
That means the silver-haired former detective must now be in his late seventies, but he moves as if he’s twenty years younger, even with his bad back.
“I took an early retirement,” he continues, “and the opportunity at CyTech came along. Worked there for ten years and accumulated some company stock. When Palmer sold the firm, I cashed in and retired out here to be close to my daughter and my grandchildren.”
We enter the lovely park and walk along its paths through lush foliage. “Maplewood has such a quaint village center, and this park is beautiful,” I comment.
Jack Crosby interrupts my chatter. “Now, Ms. Long, you didn’t drive over for a nice walk in the park. What would you like to know about Terry Jones?”
“Ah, where to start, Mr. Cros—may I call you Jack?” He nods yes to me, and I smile at him. “And please, call me Reba.”
“Boy, I’d never have pegged you for a Reba,” he says.
“Nickname. I’m really Rebecca, but I never liked it.” He looks at me curiously, and I change the topic fast. “We’ve been out of touch for quite a long time. I’m reaching out to family members for a reunion though, and finding Terry has been nearly impossible. So now I’m casting a wider net.”
We walk across a small bridge over a stream.
“I know Terry worked at Club Nucleus about fifteen years ago, and she was a good friend of John Palmer’s—”
Crosby nods. “I remember seeing her a few times around the office with Palmer. She was a sweet kid.” His eyes stare off into the distance.
“Look, I know she was personally involved with Mr. Palmer and played a lot of chess with him around that time. I’d like get in touch with her, but the trail goes cold after her Club Nucleus days,” I say. “I heard she went off to school somewhere, and I’m hoping you have information that could point me in the right direction.”
Crosby, I mean, Jack smiles. “Terry wasn’t much younger than Palmer. But she had something mysterious in her background, some dark secret that haunted her and that she tried to keep from John.”
“Did you discover what it was?” I ask, hopeful.
“No, and whatever it was, I think it popped up in her life again when she was with Palmer. I think that’s what caused her to run away. The boss waited too long hoping she’d come back on her own before he asked me to find her. At that point, I tried, but with no success. If he’d asked me immediately, you know, when she first took off, I’d have had a better shot. But then it was simply too late. The trail was cold.”
We sit on a bench under a gigantic sugar maple tree. “Did you find out anything? Where she went to school? How she earned a living? Anything, that could help me find her now?”
Jack pulls some papers out of his jacket pocket and unfolds what looks like a computer printout of a report. “I archived some of my old files from CyTech, including this one. The request was such an interesting one from the boss, especially since she wasn’t an employee of the company.” He thumbs through the several pages and hands them to me. “Here, for you.”
I look down at the papers and see the name of the community college where she received an associate’s degree. I’m thrilled. “What more can you tell me about the time she spent at school? What did she study? How were her grades?”
“A lot of questions to track her down for a reunion…” He studies me.
“Just friendly curiosity, Jack.” I smile sweetly. “Whatever you can tell me would be great.”
Maybe he doesn’t care what my reasons are. “Well, she worked nights and took classes during the day,” he says, “knocking off general ed courses to get her degree. I talked to a couple of the profs from that time who remembered her, and they said this girl had a thirst for knowledge and self-improvement like nobody else. Her grades were pretty good, too.” He coughs and takes a package of mints from his pocket.
“What kinds of courses?” I ask.
“Intro to business, history, literature, writing,” Jack answers. “She even joined a chess club. Chess was what started her friendship with Mr. Palmer. He liked her curiosity, and he told me she picked up the game really fast.”
“So Terry Jones kept up with her chess…” I ponder this.
“That’s right.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how she had time between a full load of classes, homework, and her job almost every night of the week.”
“Where’d she work?” I ask. “What did she do?”
“She worked as a shot girl at Benny’s Bar in Soho.” Jack sees the surprise on my face. “Ah, ha, Mrs. Long. I mean Reba.” He notices my confusion, which is more about momentarily forgetting my new alias, and he smiles. “I see you don’t frequent the New York bar scene.”
I’m still somewhat baffled. “You’ve got that right. Is it legal? Being a shot girl, I mean?” I don’t know what it is, but it sounds dicey. Hold it. Am I showing my age? But this guy’s in his seventies. Why is it that I’m quite a bit younger than he is, and I don’t know anything about shot girls?
He laughs as if he knows what I’m thinking. “I wouldn’t know about them either, but my work takes me to all sorts of places.”
“What do they do? These shot girls, I mean.” I raise my eyebrows. “God, it sounds like a real comedown for poor Terry. You know, going from member services at Club Nucleus to working as a shot girl—”
“Actually,” he interrupts. “It’s not. Nowadays you’ll find a lot of press about these shot girls. Most of them are college educated. A lot of them even have advanced degrees. Many shot girls also hold day jobs.”
“The money must be great.”
“Absolutely,” Jack says. “They can take home three- to six-hundred dollars a night.”
Wow. “You’re kidding.” I figure he must be joking, or maybe the girls do more than waitress. “They honestly get paid that much just for serving drinks?” I ask.
“Trust me,” he says. “These girls aren’t hookers. They walk through the bar carrying trays of novelty drinks, like Jell-O shots. Sometimes they get a cut of what they sell, and the tips are usually pretty good. Of course, good looks, a great figure, and terrific personality are the reason these girls get hired in the first place.”
I shake my head in continuing amazement. “Well, in that case, Terry must have been the perfect candidate.” I stop. “Wait a minute. They had shot girls fifteen years ago?”
He’s still kind of grinning at my naiveté. “Benny’s Bar was one of the first, and the girls there made their money from the tips and didn’t get a cut of what they sold. I’m not sure they even called them shot girls when the concept first hit.” Jack flips to the second page of the report. “One thing that was interesting is that Terry changed her name.”
I mentally utter a second WOW. “She what?”
“Well, she still used the name Terry Jones at school, on her transcript,” Jack says. “But at work she went by Julie Jones.”
Now I take a deep breath at this flash of sudden illumination. “Julie Jones.” So Teresa Gonzalez morphed into Terry Jones, who became Julie Jones. I wonder where down the road she made the final switch from Julie Jones to Juliana Jones before she married and became Juliana Wentworth. “It sounds as if she was putting distance between her Club Nucleus days and being a shot girl.”
“That I don’t know.” He gets up from the bench. “Well, we should go now. I don’t mean to rush you, but I have a phone appointment at the office in fifteen minutes.”
On the way back, I ask, “Do you know of anybody I should call to follow up?”
Jack smiles again. “At the bottom of that report are some phone numbers for you. One of them
is the owner of the bar where she worked,” he says. “When he and I talked, Terry, a.k.a Julie, had already split. Nobody knew anything about where she’d gone. Then Palmer pulled me off this to work on something else. Maybe she got in touch with Palmer later on. Who knows? Why not give Palmer himself a call?” Already done that, I think to myself, in person, in Salt Lake City.
We return to the center of town near his office. I thank Jack Crosby for his time and say goodbye. As I walk toward my car, I switch back to my regular cell phone, dial and leave a message for my pal. “Will, how would you like to go with me this evening to a bar in New York?” I pause. “Not a date, not that you thought so, anyway. Work related. Bye.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Standing on a side street in Soho, Will Benson and I take in the black-lacquered front of the building and read the gold raised words above the large front window—Benny’s Bar & Grill. We look inside, and I gaze at a world long gone for me, thank god—the New York singles bar scene. It’s early evening, only six p.m., but people, some as young as my daughters, are starting to fill up the place.
We walk in and sit at a small table in the corner where we can view the entire room. I ask for a chardonnay and Will an imported beer, and we also order a light supper.
Even though Will may be forty, he could easily pass for a decade younger, so he fits right in. I look around and am painfully aware that I’m probably the oldest person in Benny’s Bar. If anyone notices Will and me, like the waiter, for example, well, he probably thinks I’m a cougar out with my…what? My cub?
I look at the name tag and ask our waiter, Tom, if we can buy the owner a drink should he have a moment. Since it’s early, I’m hoping Benny Sullivan won’t be too swamped yet, managing what promises to turn into a raucous watering hole as the evening progresses. The waiter leaves and speaks with a man at the bar, who looks at us and then back down at his paperwork.
“That’s got to be Benny,” Will says, stating the obvious.
“Is he blowing us off, or do you think he’ll come over?” I ask.
“Hard to say. We’ll give him some time,” Will tells me. “We can always move ourselves to the bar.”
In the meantime, we watch two young women dressed in identical mini-skirts and tops with deep V-necks. Lots of leg and plenty of cleavage. Interestingly, they don’t actually look as if they’re on the make. Gorgeous hair and not too much make-up. Very natural.
As Tom serves us our beer and wine, I ask, “Are those beautiful young women some of the shot girls that Benny’s is so famous for?” Tom gives me a weird look. “Hey, I’m just a housewife from New Jersey…” I cough, adding, “…here with my nephew. What do you expect?” Will barely suppresses a laugh.
“The boss said he’ll be over soon,” Tom promises me. “Has to finish something first. And yes, Ma’am. Those are a couple of our shot girls, Chrissy and Melanie.” He looks amused. “Shall I send one of them over for any other orders?”
“No, no, no. We’ll stick with what we have. Thanks, Tom,” I say, cutting off Will before he can answer in the affirmative.
“You’re welcome, Ma’am.” He leaves.
When did Ma’am start to sound so old? I mean, I’m wearing expensive, but worn, tight jeans with black boots and a sleeveless fitted black tee-shirt. I’ve always had good, firm arms, and, OK, I admit I like to show them off. Does the waiter, Tom, think I’m the same age as his mother?
We’re well into dessert by the time the boss finally comes over. He gazes down at us through heavy-lidded eyes with dark circles underneath. Must be the hours he keeps. His dark hair is shot through with grey, and a cigarette’s tucked behind one ear. His face is unshaven, probably all the time, a sort of permanent five-o’clock shadow. I’m guessing it’s his look.
“Hi, I’m Benny Sullivan,” he says in a deep, whiskey-stained voice. “Tom told me you’d like to speak with me?” He looks back at the bar for a moment. “Is everything all right?”
I reach my hand out toward him. “Hi, I’m Ronnie Lake.” We shake. “This is Will Benson.” They shake hands, too.
I cough and shift into my lower register, to match Benny’s. “As the owner, you’re a busy man, I’m sure.” I flash a huge smile at him and hope the effect is a touch seductive. “May we have five minutes of your time? I’m trying to locate a relative, and I think she worked for you almost fifteen years ago.”
Benny stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s making up his mind. He looks at Will and back at me.
Will jumps in. “Hey, man, let us buy you a drink. We won’t take much of your time, and maybe you can help the lady out.”
Benny looks around his tavern and back at us. “OK. Things are under control, so I’ve got five minutes.” He sits down, and signals to Tom for the same imported beer that Will is drinking. “Now, who is it you think may have worked for me fifteen years ago?” He takes the cigarette from behind his ear and plays with it, rolling it through his fingers.
“Julie Jones,” I answer. Benny looks at me blankly, but then his expression evolves into one of recognition. He stops playing with the unlit smoke. I go on. “Dark haired and beautiful. She took college classes during the day and worked here in the evenings. Curious about everything, always learning as much as she could—”
Benny cuts me off. “I remember Julie.” He tucks the cigarette behind his ear again and takes a slow drink from his beer—and Will does, too. “She was as nice as she was gorgeous. Wasn’t stuck-up about her looks at all,” the bar owner says. “Julie had a lot of sparkle. She was great with the customers.”
The sound of laughter distracts all of us, and we watch Chrissy, one of the two shot girls we saw earlier, at a table where she sells a half-dozen Jell-O shots to a group of young professionals. The guys have shed their jackets, loosened their ties, and rolled up their sleeves. Her long, blonde hair and big blue eyes, in addition to the J.Crew-type uniform, make her look more like a college coed than a stereotypical barmaid.
Chrissy’s most impressive weapon is her perky personality. She’s got the table eating out of her hand. Once she passes around the drinks and collects the money, she flips her blonde mane and walks in our direction tucking the money in her pocket.
She smiles at us, and Will toasts her with his beer glass. He looks at her tray now only half-filled with shots. “I think I’ll take one of those,” Will says as she comes close. He pulls money out of his jeans.
“Well, thank you.” She beams at him.
“Chrissy, I’m conducting an informal survey,” Will says, as she hands him the Jell-O shot. “I’ve heard that most shot girls are college students when they’re not working their bar jobs. Is that true in your case?” I don’t think Will is on the make, but he does have a gleam in his eye.
“That’s right. Many of us are college students,” Chrissy answers, “or we have good day jobs.”
“And how about you, Chrissy?” Maybe Will is actually flirting with her.
“Halfway through my Ph.D.!” she says with spunk. You know she’s proud, and rightfully so.
“What’s your subject?”
“Child psychology!” She smiles at Will, flips her hair, and she’s off to another table.
Chapter Thirty
“It’s all about their personalities,” Benny says, watching Chrissy go. “Customers love the positive energy. It makes the evening more fun for everyone, and it’s great for business.”
“How about Julie Jones?” I ask. “Did her sparkle measure up to Chrissy’s pizzazz?”
Benny nods. “Absolutely. We’d been open less than a year, and we hired three girls. They were all terrific, real stars. Julie was part of that original group, although we didn’t call them shot girls in those days.” He takes another drink from his beer. “Yeah, Julie definitely had a special knack with the customers. Some of them became regulars here because of her.”
He then pushes his glass aside and leans forward on the table. “Now, Ms. Lake, what leads you to look for Julie?”
“Please call me Ronnie.” Once again, I turn on the smile. “She’s part of my extended family, and I’m organizing a reunion.”
Benny stares at me hard. “Nah, it’s not that simple, Ronnie.” A look of concern flashes across his face. “I’m not buying it. What’s happened to make you go back fifteen years to try to find her? I was worried about her then, and now I’m starting to worry all over again.”
Will gives me a quick glance, and I continue. “Benny, Julie’s been out of touch with the family for a long time.”
“Maybe she has good reason to be,” he responds.
“Don’t know her reasons, but on my end it’s simply a family reunion.” I shrug. “Every time I’ve tried to track her down, I hit a dead end. So I’ve pushed further and further into her past, trying to find a moment that would help me link up with her.”
I take a deep breath and look at Will, who quietly finishes his dessert. I take another bite of my pie. “Benny, you said you were worried about her then. Why?”
“She only worked here for about six months,” he says. “But it was a memorable time. The dot-com era was at its height. It seemed like anything was possible. And as I said, the bar was new, and we all worked hard. The business was taking off—it was exciting, and Julie was part of it. Then one day, she was gone.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Well, she gave one of the other girls who worked with her a note for me saying she was quitting immediately. No notice,” he says. “Frankly though, I wasn’t surprised.”
“Why?” Will asks. “I thought you said she was a star.”
“She was, but a guy started turning up and bothering her the last couple of weeks before she left,” Benny says. “Billy? Bobby? Yeah. Bobby, uh, Turner?”
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