Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(59)

He nodded. She gave him a long, suspicious glance—What is he doing here?—then walked around the bar to gather empties from the pool players.



* * *



—

    Joe sipped his beer and took the place in. Although he’d spent many hours over the years in the Stockman’s Bar downtown, he’d not been in the Wet Fly. He hoped it wasn’t because he was snobby about it, but he knew part of that was true.

The decorations, as such, were a pastiche of items left over from previous occupants. Golden Thai lions perched from shelving on the side wall, a reminder of when a local Vietnam vet and his Thai bride had tried to make a go of the place as a restaurant before it became an ill-fated barbecue joint. There was the ax-throwing chute on the other side of the pool table, where it appeared that the last contestants had buried their blade in a thick cross section of wood and simply walked away. Dusty trout mounts were festooned everywhere, as were ancient display cases of salmon flies under glass.

The ceiling was littered with dollar bills that had been signed by customers and stuck up there with tacks. And there was that L-shaped pool table.

Joe had learned over the years that often the best way to get information during an investigation was to ask absolutely nothing. Instead, he waited until the subjects came to him. There was something about people feeling the need to fill a vacuum. It was the same impulse he’d seen borne out time and time again when he knocked on the door of a suspect and said, “So, I guess you know why I’m here.”

Obviously, Joe was in the Wet Fly on Thanksgiving night for a reason. He knew it, the bartender knew it, and the customers knew it. So it was only a matter of time before someone broke down and attempted to find out.

Joe didn’t put his money on the billy-goat man at the end of the bar. The man was still.

He was on his second beer and the Steelers were driving to seal the win when the woman slid off of her stool next to her partner and sidled over. She was unsteady on her feet, and when she mounted the stool next to Joe, it was not a graceful move.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said.

He kept his face pleasant and blank. Joe noted that her partner was watching and listening to their exchange closely, while trying not to appear that he was.

She had pale gray eyes and a pug nose and a puffy face. Her hips were wide and they fit over the barstool like a hand gripping a tennis ball. Her husband had a thick head of wavy ginger hair and the darkened nose and mottled cheeks of a serious drinker. He wore a half-smile and appeared to be alert and not unintelligent.

“Can I buy you and your friend a beer?” Joe asked.

“He’s my husband,” she said. “I’m his long-suffering wife.” She laughed a hoarse laugh.

“I’m Joe,” he said.

“I know who you are. Your wife is the librarian, right?”

“Correct.”

“I’m Connie and that’s my husband, John. Sheftic. Connie and John Sheftic.”

“Nice to meet you both,” he said. He raised his glass to John, and John nodded back a greeting.

“Connie, Joe, and John,” John said with a chuckle. “Jeepers. I hope we can keep it straight.”

“Do you have a bet on the game?” she asked Joe, probing.

“No.”

“We’re Steeler fans,” she said. “We used to live in Mount Lebanon. That’s a suburb of Pittsburgh. Steeler Nation is in our blood.”

To demonstrate it, she reached over the bar for a used bar rag and waved it over her head. “Pretend this is a Terrible Towel,” she said.

Joe ducked so the rag wouldn’t hit the top of his hat. She waved it with such force that she nearly lost her balance and toppled over. Joe quickly reached out and steadied her by grasping her arm and helping her regain her balance on the stool.

“Connie . . .” John cautioned. Then to Joe: “Sorry about that. She gets overexcited when the Steelers are on.” He pronounced it Still-ers.

“Gotcha.”

“Thanks for the beer. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you.”

John studied Joe for what seemed like an extended amount of time. Then he gathered up his glass of beer and moved down the bar to sit next to his wife.

“Tell me,” John said, “weren’t you the guy who discovered Bert Kizer’s body yesterday?”

“I was.”

“Was it as bad as I’ve heard?” John asked. “He was tortured with hand tools and burned up?”

Joe hesitated. “I’m afraid so.”

“What kind of low-rent bastards would do such a thing?” John asked. Connie made a sour face and Joe realized she was about to cry. Tears formed in the corners of her closed eyes.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “It was pretty bad. Did you know him?”

It was the money question.

John indicated that he did. His eyes were moist as well. “Salt of the earth, that was Bert. Just a good, solid guy. Give you the shirt off his back. We was friends with him, but we couldn’t afford to book him for a trip. He took us out a couple of times, though. We brought the beer and he rowed. I must have lost twenty flies in the bushes, but he kept giving more from his tackle box. Tied them himself. That’s the kind of guy he was.”