“There’s a chance of that.” I grinned into the phone.
“Then I’ll get Foss to hurry this along.”
It has to be said, the man has his priorities.
I set the phone aside, but tapped its outer shell with a fingernail. The image of the matchbook in Trey’s pocket haunted me all afternoon. Fueled by Gideon’s gritty pursuit of justice and feeling Clay deserved the same, I ditched the Piedmont Alley article again, grabbed my keys, and shot out of there, flipping off lights as I went.
Midnight and I eased into light evening traffic, cruising down Grand Avenue to Sandia Pike. At the next traffic light going east, I jogged onto Old Watson Road, left the city limits, and within a quarter-mile, was fed under Interstate 70. Those six lanes are the town’s southern border and provide access to all points east and west. Havens is a fairly typical Ohio city, equal distance between Columbus and the Indiana state line.
Back in the early eighteen-hundreds when the town was born, the hamlet of Pleasant Stop stirred with its beginnings as well. It sat a neighborly ten miles down the road. In truth, hamlet sounds a bit romantic. Pleasant Stop is the hind-end of hard times.
After a couple of long lazy curves broken up by a length of straight road, I slowed, turned left, and bounced across the rutted and rocky berm that served as Pleasant Stop’s welcome mat. The solitary road in was narrow, one-way, pitted with potholes, and U-shaped, wisely impressing upon the wayward traveler not to tarry. It quickly turned him around and sent him on his way. Two dozen clapboard shanties were scattered haphazardly. Junk of every description, an assortment of appliances, and cars on blocks adorned the yards. Faded paint reached the point of non-existence, and the virtue of patchwork roofs became valueless when countered by cracked windows. The thought of children raised inside these homes made my upper lip curl back in disgust.
I steered around the bend and found Dooley’s Bar up a little ways on the left, where the road widened into off-street parking. I locked Midnight, then stood beside her, taking in the barn-red stucco façade and fighting a small case of nerves. I walked off the worse on my way to the door. I was declined a sneak-peek into the small establishment. The few narrow windows it sported were framed at the six-foot level. The nightly security precautions were apparent: solid steel door, high-quality hasp and padlock, and an impenetrable iron gate to be swung into place at two tomorrow morning.
I pulled the door open and paused just inside, allowing my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened bar. Heads from a dozen patrons swiveled my way. The chatter died quickly. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the shabby room. Booths along the front ended at a short hallway to restrooms. The bar sat twenty paces away. Swinging double doors in the corner led me to believe the premises included a kitchen. A hodgepodge of tables took up the middle of the room, and neon signs—some only partially lit—provided ambiance.
The initial silence was broken by the slow tones of Dooley Torrance coming from behind the bar. “When I asked Mayor Tallmadge for a little attention out here, you weren’t what I had in mind. Not that I want you to feel unwelcome.” He hesitated. “But you just weren’t what I had in mind.”
He waved me over like the old acquaintances we were. His long angular fingers were symbolic of an overall lanky frame. I wove a path through the tables as the conversation picked up again in patches. I perched on a stool in front of him. Just as his wiry gray hair was an accurate predictor of his age, a rind of gray-white stubble could not hide his world-weary countenance.
“What can I get you?” he asked and lay a paper napkin onto a slightly damp surface.
My nose went up. Food smells drifted in from the back.
He caught my interest and said, “Pops’ burgers can’t be beat.”
I sort of wanted to see the kitchen first and meet Pops, but I was in a mood to take risks, so I ordered a cheeseburger with the works. When Dooley returned from placing my order, he poured me a Michelob Light. One beer would mean two trips to the ladies’ room. It had that effect. But beer and a burger would certainly hit the spot Connery’s chili vacated. I sipped from the foam-topped mug.
“Now tell me,” he said, “what the hell does that mayor of yours have in his friggin’ mind, sending you out here?”
I’m sure my dimples showed. It wasn’t often I heard K.C. described in quite those terms. “I’m here on another matter.”
Curious, he leaned sideways into the bar, resting on an elbow. I pulled a Xerox copy of Trey Rosemont’s high school graduation picture from my jacket pocket. I slipped it there, after taking it from the Rosemont research file that rode around in my car. “You ever see this guy before? He’d be older now. Around 47.”
Immediately, a light snapped on behind his eyes and his right brow straightened in mocking salute. “Yep, that’s the guy who was in the fight Tuesday night. I remember that white spot in his hair.”
“He was in the fight?” I exclaimed, floored by the idea someone else might have a motive for murder. “You’re kidding. The mayor mentioned the fight. Who else was involved?”
“Wilkey Summer. He’s a regular. But not this other guy. He’d never been in before. Don’t care to see him back, if you know what I mean.”
Aware Dooley would certainly have his way on that, I pushed for more. “What were they fighting about? Do you know?”
“The girl. She’d been in a couple of times. I always thought of her as Wilkey’s girl till I saw her with this guy. Her being with him is what got the whole place fighting. It takes one guy to throw a punch and, like a bunch of monkey-see-monkey-do’s, they all start mixin’ it up.”
Reluctantly, I conjured up the lifeless image of Trey. No black eye. No scraped knuckles. Puzzled, I asked, “What kind of a fight was it?”
This amused him. “What do you mean? Did it go three rounds? Were there referees? Was it a professional barroom brawl worthy of an academy award?”
“That’s just what I mean. Did it look like the real thing?”
“You mean staged? I hadn’t thought about that.” His eyes rolled upward. “No, Wilkey couldn’t have faked the head of steam he got up the minute he walked in and saw ’em. He went straight over. They were in that booth.” He pointed, and I looked. Two biker-types sat there, bandanas tied around their heads. “He said a few words. The other guy got up…what’s this guy’s name?”
Remembering my discussion with Clay, at the last second, I pulled Rosemont off my lips and replaced it with, “Jimmy Kushmaul.”
“Yeah. I do believe she called him Jimmy when I took ’em a couple Buds.”
I hid a satisfied smile around the rim of my beer mug.
“Anyway,” he went on, “next thing I knew, Jimmy got out of the booth, acting like he was just going to leave. Then Wilkey threw a punch, but didn’t make contact. Jimmy just sidestepped, gave Wilkey a shove, and sent him sprawling.”
“That had to be embarrassing.”
“Jimmy was backing out the door just as the whole place started fightin’. Took a while before Pops and me got ’em settled.” Then louder so the room could hear, he said, “I’m going to put a ring up right here in the middle of the floor, so these goof-balls can knock each other’s brains out and not break up the furniture.”
Grumbling retorts sailed back, and a loudmouth in the corner yelled for service, not lip. He had an ugly scar running down one cheek. One of the guys he sat with patted his shoulder. The other guy at the table owned a dazed expression. I suspected he abused more than one substance. Dooley popped the tops on three cold beers and walked them over. He carried the empties he cleared away through the kitchen doors. Before they stopped swinging, he was back, carrying my burger served on wax paper in a red plastic boat. He sat it in front of me and excused himself to tend to other patrons.
My fingers went around the warm, soft sesame-seed bun. I bit into the hot juicy burger doctored with spicy cheese, Dijon mustard, and laying on a bed of lettuce and tomato with pickles on the side. I closed my eyes and chewed the he
avenly mouthful. Pops’ burgers were unbeatable. I chewed some more, sipped my beer, then demurely tapped my mouth with a napkin I found tucked beneath the wax paper.
Through the clouded mirror behind the bar, I watched the barroom. One man in particular. He sat with the only other woman present. They both wore white T-shirts, jeans, and boots. I could tell she was egging him on to do something. His sneaky eyes followed Dooley’s passage through the kitchen’s swinging door. He immediately got up, ran over, and kicked the jukebox in the guts. Tammy Wynette’s Stand By Your Man started playing. He raced back to his seat. The woman applauded her man.
When Dooley again stood in front of me, I’d eaten my fill and abandoned the last few bites.
“Good?”
“Best I ever ate. My compliments to Pops.”
He smiled, propping himself on his elbow again. During his performance of other duties, I realized he hadn’t given me the name of the girl or her description, so I inquired.
“Hard to tell age with the lighting in here.” He pursed his lips, gazing out into midair. “Youngish, thirty maybe. Long, red, curly hair. Pretty. Like I said, been in a time or two, always with Wilkey. Her name’s Gina.”
That struck a chord, then something Barton Reed said came back to me. He needed to write an actress out of the play. Oddly enough, her name was Gina. “Are you sure about the name?”
“In this business, a person gets good with names. If they’re in more than once, I got it.” He tapped his temple.
“Do you think Wilkey and Gina might be in tonight, assuming they’re still together?”
“She was smooching him after the fight, so I think they made up. The time’s about right.” He turned his wrist over for a glimpse of his watch. “Stick around. We’ll see if they make it.”
He whisked away my plastic boat to a place beneath the bar and let his eyes float intently over the room. He pulled a handle, filling two mugs with draft, and said, “Be back.”
He took another armful of empties into the kitchen, came out with two orders of onion rings, delivered them, and slid back into place. “Sorry about that.”
“This place keeps you busy.”
“Most nights. So hey, you’re not asking much about the other guy? Jimmy. He get himself crosswise with the mayor? That what this is about?”
“Nah. He’s not picking fights with K.C.” I smiled, stalling while I thought, not wanting to release information if it wasn’t necessary. Then it came to me: the reason I was out here anyway. “I saw Jimmy earlier this morning. He had a book of matches on him from this place.”
That started his head in a slow wag, ready to disagree, then he thought better. “You know, I gave Gina matches before he came in. She must’ve give ’em to him.” Straightening, he said, “Hey, you like that idea? I thought it would class up the place a little. To have the name on matchbooks.”
The place ranked one coat of paint above Early Caveman, but, “Pretty special,” was my enthusiastic reply. Inwardly, I pouted. Since Dooley blew his advertising budget on matchbooks, I saw no point in asking if he could supplement the play program’s back cover.
Just then, a wedge of light swung across the room, then disappeared. Dooley perked up. “Hey, there’s Wilkey.”
I twisted on my stool and watched the man saunter to an empty booth. His build was slight, his shoulders sloped, his brown hair shaggy and combed to one side. He wore a blue-striped uniform shirt over baggy jeans. Speaking to no one, he dropped heavily into the side of the booth that faced the door. He gave the television a few seconds of his time, then turned his attention to his hands. Deep in thought, he rubbed a thumb across the knuckles of the other hand.
Turning back to Dooley, I asked, “What’s he do?”
“He’s a gopher for Norb Engle. You know him?”
I nodded. I knew of him. Engle owned a small fix-it business. “What’s Wilkey drink?”
“Miller.”
“Give me one.” I dropped a twenty on the bar, picked up the Miller and my Michelob, and flashed the barkeep a smile. “Thanks, Dooley.”
I slid into the booth across from Wilkey Summer.
His mouth dropped open for a beat before he complained. “Hey? What the hell? Who are you?”
Up close, I could see he was thirty, thirty-one, and could pass for nice-looking if he smiled and trimmed his hair.
I pushed the Miller over to him and introduced myself. “I was talking with Dooley. He told me you might be able to help out a friend of mine. Have you got a minute, Wilkey?”
“Not tonight, lady. Okay?” His voice was subdued. He hunched over his beer, forearms on the table, fingering the condensation on the glass.
While he wasn’t in a talkative mood, my bladder was. A better plan would have included a stop in the bathroom first. Even half a beer has its effect.
“It’s about the other night when you and Jimmy Kushmaul had your, uh, disagreement.”
The mention of the name certainly brought a reaction. He lifted his head slowly. A sneer collected on his face. “Is Jimmy the friend? I’m not surprised.”
This was a reference to Gina’s betrayal, so I quickly corrected him. “No, my friend is Clayton Addison. He’s in trouble because of Jimmy. I’m trying to get a little information on him. Have you known him long?” I paused as one would in polite conversation. My right leg bounced on the ball of my foot, my bladder screaming for help. “Dooley told me about your friend Gina. How’d she know him? Come on, Wilkey,” I coaxed. “Help me out here? This is important.” I waited while he stared into his beer. “Is Gina coming in tonight? I could ask her myself.”
I would remember the eyes he raised to me. They were hollow and distant. He didn’t answer.
Deciding to change my tact, I dropped my voice and leaned in. “Okay, Wilkey, I’ll be straight with you. Turns out Jimmy was murdered last night.”
His eyes bulged.
“And the thing is, you were seen fighting with him, so the police are going to look at you as a suspect.”
I waited. He remained tightlipped.
“Come on. What do you know about Jimmy? Can you hook me up with Gina?” I had a tap dance going under the table now. “Okay. You need some time to think. That’s fine, but don’t take too long. The cops’ll be looking for you. I’m just going to step down the hall to the ladies’ room and give you a few minutes.”
My delivery was the epitome of smooth, even calm, I mused, as I scooted to the edge of the booth. I rose, took two steps past him, then speed-walked down the dimly lit hall. The first door on the right opened to the men’s room. I groaned. Another ten feet, another door. Thank God. I crashed through it.
When I re-entered the hall, my empty bladder and I hummed a tune of relief. It seemed a renewal of sorts, like the first spring day after a long, cold winter. I wanted to take it all in, so I glanced around. Across the way was a door tagged Office; at the end of the passage, one marked Exit. Out front, the door opened again and two policemen entered, backlit by bright sunlight. I waited perfectly still. One wore conventional blue; the other, a white shirt, denoting rank and none other than Lieutenant Frank Elmore.
Wilkey Summer twisted in his seat, squinting down the hall, mouth agape. He was either looking for me since I’d accurately predicted police intervention coming into his life, or he was weighing the consequences of running out the side door. Good idea, I thought. No point in both of us being subjected to Elmore’s shining personality. Out the door, I went.
Race
By the time I stowed Midnight in the lot behind City Hall, I reached the conclusion I might be expecting too much from one book of matches. I netted only one thing from my trip to Pleasant Stop. Based on Dooley Torrance’s observations, an angry Wilkey Summer threw a jealous punch at Trey Rosemont’s alias, Jimmy Kushmaul. That made a certain amount of sense, given the circumstances, then everything fizzled. These two weren’t chums. Why would Wilkey be with Rosemont inside his childhood home? No, I didn’t see Elmore ranking Wilkey very high
on the suspect list.
The point of returning to the office was to put in a few hours nailing down my Piedmont Alley piece. I planned to march myself upstairs to do just that, but now, as I walked in the bulky shadow of the newspaper building, I had second thoughts. I knew what waited at my desk: four dozen old photographs, a blank computer screen, and that damn blinking cursor punctuating my writer’s block. I routed myself instead across Snowden Street and entered Piedmont Alley where most alleys begin—at midblock.
I was instantly overwhelmed by the stillness. The scurry of daily activity ceased over an hour ago. The dozen storefronts were dark. It was just me, the alley, the perpetual wind that lives in its lengthy concourse, and the face on the former train-depot clock.
The timepiece in place at the alley’s midpoint drew me over. Its back-to-back clock faces loomed as large as hula-hoops. They rose high in the air, black-framed and posted atop a black fluted pole, narrowing at the middle. The clock hands formed a right angle, pointing to seven and ten, the numbers elegantly stylized with antique serifs and extra curlicues.
The stunning depot was now only remembered through photographs and memories. A large oil painting hung in the council’s conference room, depicting the two-story, stained-glass façade arched over the entranceway while four turrets secured the steeply pitched roof to the structure. When it stood, the depot’s home was just south of Piedmont Alley, where the Nelson Avenue parking lot was today. South of that, four sets of tracks converged on this Midwestern town from the length and breadth of America. Everyone traveled by rail.
I sighed deeply, confounded and frustrated by my stalemate with this alley. Essentially, Irv Hammer assigned a before-and-after piece. Here I waited, fully engulfed in the after, with not a whimper from the before. I needed a thread, something to pull it together. A theme to create the frenzy. The words coming faster than I could get them down. That’s the way it happens for me.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 9