“Word around town is the smooth Mr. Wilcox has been squiring her about. I meant to call you about that.”
“Why would you call me about Agnes’ love life—if that’s what it is, although I can’t see—?”
“He’s a bad apple, Ruth. I wanted you to steer her away or at least warn her before he got into her purse.”
“You mean pants, don’t you?”
“I said purse. I meant purse. The rest is none of my business. Wilcox is a phony and is looking for suckers to invest in real estate schemes.”
“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”
“You figure that one out. Agnes…me?”
“I see. You need to brush up on your social graces, Schwartz. Agnes is a very nice lady and—”
“Dislikes me the way dogs dislike cats. It’s in her genes.”
“Which brings us back to her pants.”
“What?”
“Sorry, bad pun—genes, jeans. When are you taking me out to dinner? We have things to talk about.”
“We do? Tonight, then. Bring an agenda so I won’t disappoint you by being unremittingly dense.”
“What are we doing for Christmas?”
“Ah, put that on the agenda. I have some thoughts about that.”
“Really? You’d do Christmas for me?”
“For you, anything, but, sorry, I was thinking about my mother, not you.”
“How is she?”
“Hanging on. It’s like she’s waiting for something.”
“She is.”
“She is? For what?”
“Later, Sheriff, duty calls. And lay off Agnes.”
Chapter 30
Whaite found the bar and pulled in beside a county cruiser. His caller leaned against the hood and did a double-take when he slid out of his bright red Chevelle.
“Picketsville going for showy muscle cars for their officers?” the county guy asked.
Whaite had grown weary of explaining. “Hey, it could be worse. I hear there’s a police department in Wisconsin that put their guys in Volkswagen beetles. Oldham inside?”
“Don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you. Say, if that buggy is standard issue, I’m ready to transfer.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
The two men stepped in out of the cold, damp afternoon. The Pub looked like every other blue-collar bar in the country. Pinball machines dinged in one corner. A bar ran from the front to the back. A mustached fat guy with a damp towel over his arm stood behind it. The air reeked of cigarette smoke, beer, and wet wool. Men in work boots and flannel shirts, denim, and overalls hunkered over their drafts and looked at the two policemen with thinly disguised malice.
“Feeling at home?” the county officer said.
“Once, not anymore. I guess we better just jump in. There’s no way we’ll ever win this bunch over.”
“Gentlemen,” the fat bartender said, sounding like a butler at a posh party, “your pleasure.”
“Information,” Whaite said. He turned toward the dozen or so pairs of eyes. “We are looking for a man named Oldham. He’s not wanted for anything and we are not here to hassle him. We’re hoping he can help us find someone who, we are afraid, may be in trouble.”
“Got the first part wrong, copper,” a man with a five-day beard and red-rimmed eyes muttered.
“What part would that be?”
“You said you were looking for a man. Donnie ain’t no man.” Four of the other drinkers sniggered in agreement. “And, in the second place, that little creep is no more likely to help you than flap his arms and fly.”
“Okay, I hear you. But can anyone give us a hand here?”
The bartender cleared his throat. “I do believe that I might be of assistance. Most of my customers, however, find they can speak more freely with a drink in their hand—if you follow my meaning.”
Whaite ordered two beers. “One for me and one for him,” he said pointing to the county officer. “Give mine to the guy over there.” The first speaker nodded his head in appreciation. The county cop drank his.
“Well, now, this is the way of things,” the bartender said. He fixed his gaze on a fly-specked calendar on the opposite wall. An off-print of the famous Marilyn Monroe nude pose appeared just below the year—a classic—like his car. Before he’d married Darcy, Whaite had that same calendar in his workshop. He gave it to his brother-in-law at his stag party.
“The young man you seek was in here last night. He had a considerable sum of money in his possession and spent it freely and, I should add, foolishly. Fortunately, he became enormously intoxicated before he spent it all and we sent him home. He lives just a few hundred yards down the road from here.”
“That’d be past the old Purina feed sign?”
“Correct. I also took the precaution of removing his truck keys. It is parked outside, the dark green one with the obscene graphic on the window.”
“May I ask you a personal question?” the county man said. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?” The remark produced a round of guffaws from the men in the bar.
“I, sir, am an actor by trade. This employment is but a passing phase. Do you know Shakespeare’s works?”
“You got me there, partner. So how long has the phase been going on?”
That evoked another round of laughter. “He’s been waiting ten years for Broadway to call, ain’t that right, Eddie? He thinks he’s Richard Burton or somebody.”
“He could play Falstaff,” a young bespectacled man holding a set of crutches said, and looked embarrassed.
“Old Hollis here reads books. Ain’t that right, bookworm?” The object of the remark made no reply.
“Thank you,” Whaite said. He turned back to the bartender and in a lowered voice asked, “Who’s the kid in the corner?”
“That is Hollis,” the fat guy murmured. “He is a bit of an idiot savant.”
“A what?” the county guy asked.
“He is brilliant at some things—books, for instance, but doesn’t have the common sense of a turkey. Did you know that domesticated turkeys have been known to drown in a rain storm? They look up, open their beaks, and next thing you know, they’re on the ground, dead as doorknobs. Pitiful. His father, however, is a genius. He manages several bank websites as a private contractor, I think. But poor Hollis…knows so much and understands so little.”
Whaite realized he would get no more information from this crowd. The two police officers left.
Clouds piled up in the south—a bad sign. Storms that came from the south were always messy. Whaite buttoned his parka and pulled on his gloves. “You want to go to his house?” he said.
“You know, I don’t like the look of that sky. If the snow comes, I’ll need to be out on the roads. I’ll leave the interviewing to you.”
Whaite watched as the county car drove away. He looked at the truck at the end of the lot and walked to and then around it. Whatever faults Oldham might have, misuse of his truck wasn’t one of them. Only a small dent in one fender marred its body work, and except for some sandbags, the bed was clear of trash; no coffee cups or fast food bags in the cab either. Oldham had installed a tool box that rested on the side rails and spanned the width of the truck behind the cab. It did not quite reach the floor of the bed. Whaite leaned over the side and peered in. There was something. He could barely make it out, but it did trigger something in his subconscious. He tried to remember.
He drove to Oldham’s house. The street was lined with tired one- and two-story clapboard houses. Most showed signs of their occupants’ attempts at maintenance—paint mostly, a few flower boxes filled with winter-killed stalks. Oldham’s house sagged in front. When it had received its last coat of paint was anybody’s guess, but certainly not in this decade or the one before.
Whaite mounted the steps and pounded on the door. He waited, tried again, still no response. He walked around back and knocked on the back door. While he waited, he inspected Oldham’s backyard. He thought he caught sight
of a face in an upstairs window in the house behind. He lowered his gaze and inspected the grounds. He could see where Oldham parked his truck. The ground was clear of snow. A blue tarp lay folded nearby, and empty motor oil cans and beer bottles were scattered about. He turned back to the door and knocked again. He saw movement in the shadows on the other side.
“Oldham,” he called. “No sense hiding, I saw you.”
The movement materialized into a shape and the shape into a person, and a disgruntled Donnie Oldham unlatched the door and opened it a crack.
“What do you want?”
“Just a little talk. I need to know about Steve Bolt and Randall Harris.”
“I don’t know nothing. Go away.” He started to push the door closed.
“How about I come in and we talk,” Whaite said, and put his shoulder to the door. It opened and Oldham, shoulder to the door but in stocking feet, slid backward.
“Hey, you can’t do that. Police can’t do that and you ain’t even a police.”
“Sorry, but you’re wrong on both counts. If I have probable cause, I can come in.”
“Well, that’s as may be, but I told you I don’t know nothing.”
“Randall Harris is dead. Shot five times with what appears to be a .38 caliber pistol.”
“So? I never met the man.”
“He’s been dead over a week, but somebody’s been using his credit cards. You have any ideas about that?”
“I think I’m calling my lawyer. This is harassment or something. I don’t know anything about any Harris and I ain’t seen Bolt since Saturday a week ago. Now you’d better leave.”
“Somebody took Bolt out of a motel Sunday morning—a couple of big bad somebodys. Do you reckon they’ll be looking for you next?”
“Bolt’s dead?”
“Probably. Are you refusing to cooperate with a police investigation? You want that in the file?”
“You’d better leave. I didn’t do nothing and you can’t prove I did. Like you said, Bolt’s dead so that’s that. You better get out of here.”
Whaite dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment and contemplated Oldham’s shoeless feet. Then he remembered. If he was right, he’d need a search warrant. He let himself out the door.
“You’d better watch your back, cop.”
Whaite walked back to his car and drove into town. He needed to think. He parked and turned on his cell phone. It chirped—missed call—Ike.
“Whaite, what’s up?”
“I think I’m on to something here, but I need to check one or two things out first.”
“Come on in. Sam has pictures of the people using the cards. Maybe they are people you met or know.”
“I’ll check them first thing tomorrow. Look, my shift doesn’t end until eleven. I want to check one more thing and then I’ll be in.”
“Okay, but be careful. It’ll be late and they’re predicting more snow. I’d hate to see you wreck that pretty car of yours.”
“Not a problem, I’ll drive real careful. See you in the morning.”
Whaite clicked off and drove back toward The Pub. He parked around the corner where he could watch the front door. Sure enough, within five minutes Donnie Oldham scurried up the street, retrieved his keys, and drove away. Whaite saw him turn the corner. Oldham was headed home. He checked his watch. He’d have time for a bite to eat and then…he’d see what that truck could tell him.
A roadhouse that looked like it might serve decent food stood a mile and a half up the road. By eight o’clock Whaite returned to the corner to watch The Pub’s front door. At nine-thirty Donnie Oldham strolled up the street and entered. Wait a minute, Whaite. He would hold for ten minutes to be certain Oldham had settled in, and then he’d move.
It started to snow.
Chapter 31
Donnie Oldham stomped into The Pub and brushed a few flakes of snow from his jacket. He worked his way to a back booth and flopped down. Big Dolores slipped into the bench opposite and gave him a crooked-toothed smile.
“I’ll have a drink,” she said.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“You still buying, big spender?”
“What makes you think I’d buy?”
“Well, last night you were the life of the party. You musta dropped a couple hundred in here.”
“You think I’m stupid, Dolores? I couldn’t have spent more than fifty or so. Someone took my money when I wasn’t looking. I aim to find out. Let’s see what’s in your purse.” He snatched her Brighton knock-off and dumped the contents on the table. Except for a lipstick, four dollars in crumpled ones, three tens, and a six-pack of condoms, Dolores had nothing much to share.
“You probably left it home and figured you’d get the rest tonight, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen, you all think I was drunk and all, but I remember everything. Mountain men can hold their liquor. I remember you was all over me last night, you coulda took my money easy.”
“The only thing all over you last night was throw-up after you had your fifth sidecar. Mountain man, my sweet patoot…here,” she said, and threw the ten-dollar bills at him. “These are the ones you stuffed down my bra last night. You didn’t have no problems about me and money then, did you? You wanted to cop a feel and thought that’d be the way, like I’m dumb or something.”
Donnie felt the anger rising. He couldn’t prove anything, but he knew. He scanned the crowd. The door opened with a bang and Hollis thumped in on his crutches.
“Hey, boy,” the barkeep barked, “what’s amiss with your crutches? You’re punctuating the floor with little holes.”
“They’re…um, defective,” he said, and swung them forward, planted them in front, and began his forward motion.
“Unless you want to pay for sanding and refinishing the floor, you will cease and desist.”
Hollis jerked the nail-studded crutches from the floor and hopped over to Donnie’s booth.
“Donnie, you should have been here this afternoon. That fire police was in here with the county cop asking about you.”
“So what. I talked to that guy. He don’t know nothing. Stupid is what he is.”
“Yeah, but it’s him that’s asking about Steve Bolt and then about Harris…I don’t know. Maybe you should get rid of those cards, you know?”
“No way. Steve told me about a guy in Roanoke who buys old credit cards. He has a program like your dad’s that puts new information on them or something. He’ll give me fifty bucks for the dead ones. I’m keeping the one that still works until it don’t.”
“I don’t know, he’s a police, you know, and—”
“Forget that guy. Like I said, he don’t know nothing, can’t prove nothing. Hollis, I need your help on something important. Someone stole my money last night. I think it must have been Dolores but she probably had help. See if you can find out who.”
“Donnie, I don’t think anybody did that. You were pretty lit up last night. You bought drinks for the house at least three times and you and Dolores had a lot yourselves. You put money down her dress. How’d that feel, anyway?”
“Never mind that. You know Dolores.” Actually, Hollis did not. He may have been the only man in the room who didn’t.
“See, I figure that fat slob behind the bar must have padded the bill. No way could I have dropped six hundred in here in one night.”
Donnie fumed. The bartender and Dolores were in it together. He saw that now. How many others were, too? He drained his shot and a beer and stared at the room. He hated them all.
“What are you looking at, creep?” a big guy in a camouflage jacket asked.
“What’s it to you, cupcake?”
The man unfolded from his chair. He was big, bigger than anyone Donnie had ever seen. He reminded him of Jaws from the old James Bond movies.
“Gentlemen,” the bartender said, “there’ll be none of that in here.” The big guy sat down. Now Donnie was angry.
> “What I want to know,” he shouted, “is who took my money last night.”
Amid laughter from nearly all the tables, men raised their hands, ten or more.
“Don’t forget Hank,” one said. “He got him some, too.”
“You took it?”
“No, you moron, you spent it like it wasn’t even yours, which, I reckon, it weren’t, and we would thank you for a nice evening except you acted like a sick puppy and we had to send you home.”
Donnie stood next to his table ignoring Hollis’ attempts to get him to sit back down. “You can get you some more tomorrow,” he whispered.
“I’ll show you bozos you can’t fool me. I’m a mountain man and when I open a can of whup-ass—”
The room exploded in laughter. Donnie’s face turned a bright crimson. He stormed out the door. “I’ll be back and you’d better be ready for trouble.”
“Ooooo,” they said in unison. “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out, mountain man,” the camo-clad giant hooted.
In fact the door did just that, which made the men inside laugh even harder, and Donnie angrier. Worse, he’d left in such a hurry, he’d left his jacket in the booth. He couldn’t face going back in to get it. Not now, not until after he went home and retrieved his gun. Then he’d see who was laughing last. The icy air and snow had a salutary effect on him. The chill slowed the absorption of alcohol and he sobered up some. He hurried down the street toward his home.
***
Whaite had stayed the ten minutes he’d promised himself and then put the car in gear. He let it drift past The Pub, headlights out. When he’d covered fifty yards or so, he turned them on and headed to Oldham’s house. He turned into the road and drove past the house. He made a U-turn twenty yards further on and parked the Chevelle in the deepest shadows he could find. The snow had picked up in intensity and soon the car would be covered and unrecognizable. He grabbed a flashlight and checked the clip in his Glock. He stepped out into the storm and made his way to the house.
New snow already dusted the pathway to the backyard where Oldham parked the truck. The blue tarp had been thrown over it and half-gallon milk jugs filled with water were attached with short lengths of cord at each corner and at several points along the side to hold it in place. Whaite checked the street and began working the tarp up and over the truck bed toward the cab. It took a little doing. It would have been easier if he had simply pulled the whole thing off, but he wanted his visit to leave as little evidence as possible. If he’d guessed correctly, he’d be back the next day with a search warrant, and he didn’t want any slick city attorney blocking what he expected to find with the assertion it had been obtained illegally.
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