The Unwilling(66)

In the car, French radioed dispatch, requesting backup at the Carriage Room and an all-points on Gibby’s Mustang. He’d parked it some where, or someone had ditched it. The location would tell him a lot. After the call, it was another fast drive back to the dangerous side of town. By the time he arrived, it was after midnight, and felt like it. Even the Carriage Room seemed quiet, with only a few cars in the lot and not a soul outside. French studied the scene from fifty yards out, then rolled in soft and slow, flashing his lights once when he saw a patrol car, dark in the shadows. He parked beside it, and found the same officers who’d discovered Gibby in the ditch. The driver said, “How’s the kid?”

“Still with the doctor.”

“Is he talking about what happened?”

“Not yet. How long have you been here?”

“Eight minutes. Maybe ten.”

“Any movement?”

“The bartender’s there, and a skinny girl, sweeping. Two old drunks are pretty much facedown on the bar. Everything else looks quiet.”

French studied the building and the darkness around it. Quiet could be dangerous at times, but this did not feel like one of those moments. “It wasn’t like this before.”

“It’s been two hours since we found your son. Blue lights. The cherry. Some people spook easy.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Listen.” The uniformed cop hooked an elbow through the open window. “We’ll play this any way you want, but I’m not sure you need us. The bartender. A couple of old drunks.”

French didn’t blame them. End of shift. A long night. “It’s fine. You boys go on home.” He watched them go, then locked the car, and walked to the bar. The lights inside were up, a record spinning on the jukebox.

Allman Brothers.

“Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More”

The uniforms had been right about the men at the bar. One slept. The other slumped, peeling the label off a bottle of Budweiser. The skinny girl with the broom was sweeping up dust in the far right corner. As French watched, she did a little dance move with the broom, startled to complete the turn and see a strange man standing where none had been a moment before.

“I’m looking for the bartender.” He flashed the tin, and she pointed at an open door as a man stepped through from a back room. Tall and narrow-shouldered, he seemed familiar to French, a round-faced man with a twelve-pack under one arm, and two vodkas bottlenecked in the other hand.

“We’re closed,” he said.

“Sign says Open.”

“We’re closed to cops.” The bartender put the bottles on the bar, then barked at the girl with the broom. “Eyes on the floor, Janelle. It won’t sweep itself.”

Janelle twitched into motion, no dance left. French assumed there was a gun behind the bar, so he drew back enough coat to show the revolver on his hip.

Just to be clear.

To be sure.

Crossing the room, he kept his eyes on everyone, but mostly the bartender. He’d seen him somewhere before, ten or twelve years ago. Snapping his fingers, he said, “Hey. Lawnmower man.”

The bartender scowled, shaking his head.

But French was right. He couldn’t remember the name, but in the spring of ’61, this guy and some idiot friend robbed a late-night market, and tried to escape on a riding mower. He’d caught them a mile down the road, still holding cash and stolen beer, still drunk, and entirely, hilariously out of gas.

The booking officers had had a field day at their expense.

So had the local paper.

French said, “Ah, good times,” but that’s not what showed on his face. He wanted the man afraid, so he put that in his eyes, instead, the kind of cop who could beat an innocent man into confession, then take a child for ice cream with the blood still wet on his knuckles. “This kid.” French placed a photograph on the bar. “Was he in here tonight?”

“Never seen him.”

“Someone beat him half to death, then dropped him in a ditch two hundred yards from your front door.”

“What happens beyond that door is not my problem.”

“Thing is, lawnmower man, the kid is my son. I mention that simple fact so you might imagine the kind of fire I’ll rain down on anyone who lies to me about this. It’s a pot you don’t want to stir. Not tonight. Not with me at the bottom of it. Look at the picture again.”

“I don’t need to.”

“You really do.”

“It’s like I said. We’re closed to cops.”

The bartender began to turn away, but French caught his wrist, and jerked him halfway across the bar. He fought back, but fear had always made French strong, and he was afraid for his son. “I have three questions,” he said. “So I suggest you look closely at this photograph.” He held the photo in one hand, and used his other to squeeze so hard that bones ground together in the bartender’s wrist. “Was my son here? What was he doing here? Who was he with?” The questions came fast, but need was the other side of fear. “We’ll start at the beginning. Was this young man here tonight?”

“No, man. No. Jesus.” The bones ground audibly. “No kid, not tonight. Dude, I swear. Come on, that hurts!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie?” French twisted harder, and felt bones flex. “Oh God! Oh Jesus!”