Harbour Falls (A Harbour Falls Mystery #1)(23)

The time stretched on, and the kid said nothing, so in an effort to put him at ease, I added, “I’m Maddy, by the way.” I smiled my friendliest smile and held out my hand.

At first he continued the silent treatment, but then he quietly said, “I’m Jimmy.” He reached hesitantly for my outstretched hand.

“There used to be another bartender here back then. He may know better who I’m talking about?” I offered, the pungent smell of disinfectant from his hands growing stronger as we shook.

I jerked my hand back, but he seemed not to notice. “Oh, you mean Old Carl,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Yeah, he doesn’t work here no more. Quit a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” I said, “do you know where I could find him?”

“Nah, he doesn’t live ’round here no more. Said he was goin’ to California or some shit. No one’s seen him since.” Jimmy picked up the dirty dishrag and resumed his earlier task of wiping down the bar. “Maybe I could help? I’ve only been bartendin’ here for a year, but I’ve been comin’ here for a lot longer ’an that. Pretty much know every face that’s been in and outta here the last few years.”



“This would’ve been five, maybe six, years ago though,” I said, doubtful that this kid was going to be much help. He looked too young to have been coming here back when Chelsea, and maybe J.T., had been frequenting this place.

But Jimmy insisted, “I’m tellin’ ya, I’ve been comin’ here since I was sixteen.” He looked proud to share this admission. He leaned forward like we were in on it together and whispered, “Just don’t be tellin’ the boss.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” I mumbled into my tilted bottle, hoping he’d not catch my sarcasm, and then I downed a big gulp of cheap beer.

“This dude you askin’ about, you gotta description?” Jimmy persisted.

Oh hell, it was worth a shot; maybe the kid did know something. So I said, “Better, I have a picture.” I pulled the photo of J.T. out of my bag, and Jimmy tossed the dishrag aside before grabbing the picture and giving it what appeared to be a good, long look.

At last he lowered the photo, and his narrowed eyes met mine. “You’re not some kind of a cop or somethin’?”

“I’m not a cop, I swear.”

“Reporter then?”

“No,” I said emphatically.

Jimmy glared at me, glanced back down at the picture of J.T., and then flicked the photo back at me. It landed faceup on the bar, and he turned away with a mumbled curse.

“So?” I asked Jimmy’s back.

“Uh, never seen him before,” he replied flatly, while showing a sudden interest in straightening the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. The one with the turkey on it apparently didn’t belong next to the one with someone’s—I squinted—old granddad on it. Yeah, right.



I met Jimmy’s eyes in the reflection from the mirror; the lie was written all over the kid’s face. “Come on, Jimmy,” I pleaded. “Tell me what you know.”

He turned back around but kept his eyes down while muttering, “You know, I could tell ’ya, but business has been kinda slow here lately.” He nodded to a tip jar nestled between two bottles. “Hard to remember things from the past when you’re worried about makin’ this month’s rent.”

OK, so the kid was shaking me down to pay for whatever information he had. I wasn’t entirely surprised, and luckily I’d brought extra cash in anticipation of this exact sort of thing. I pulled out a wad of bills and peeled a fifty off the top. Jimmy’s tongue darted over his chapped, peeling lips as I pushed the crisp bill across the bar. I thought I saw him salivate a little.

With his hand hovering above the money, he hesitated. “Ya know, you wouldn’t believe how much it costs for a dump around here.”

The kid was like a pro. I huffed and peeled off another fifty. I resignedly threw the bill atop the other one. Jimmy quickly grabbed the money and stuffed it into the tip jar which—a few seconds ago—had held only coins. He fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the threadbare jeans that hung too loosely on his slender frame.

I tapped the heel of my boot impatiently against the leg of the bar stool, waiting while, with his lips, Jimmy pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He lit it, and drew in deeply. “OK, OK. Yeah, that guy used to come in here,” Jimmy said, exhaling.

“And…” I prompted.

He shot a glance around the bar, which was still quite empty, but he lowered his voice anyway and said, “The guy in your picture used to come in here with that girl who disappeared. Chelsea, uh, something.”

“Hannigan,” I whispered.

“She was a friend of yours?” he asked, eyes widening.

“Kind of,” I lied. “It’s a shame what happened to her. Gone missing, and all.”

“Hell, I’m surprised something didn’t happen sooner, to tell you the truth,” Jimmy chortled, cold and uncaring.



“Why do you say that?” I asked, a little sickened by his callousness.

“Well, for starters, that girl did some crazy-ass shit. Things that are bound to catch up to ya.”