Georgia decided to hang around Kalamazoo until the day shift was over to see if she could pick up any more information in the bar. She hoped Holt, the bartender, wouldn’t be there, but if he was, she’d tell him she’d talked to Hofstader, and she just wanted to thank the truckers who introduced her to the woman.
She didn’t have to. The tavern was almost full, the noise in the room close to rowdy. But instead of Holt, a heavyset woman with long wavy black hair and way too much makeup was working the bar. Georgia climbed on a stool.
The woman ignored her for a full five minutes. When she turned on the water and started washing glasses, Georgia called out, “Miss, can you bring me a draft, please?”
The woman pretended she hadn’t heard her. Georgia’s heartbeat sped up. She was about to call out more sharply when the bartender turned around. “You’re the reporter who’s been nosing around.”
Georgia was puzzled. Why should this woman care? But she gave the woman a brief nod. “Guilty.”
“Holt told me about you.” The bartender looked her over with an air of disapproval bordering on contempt. “I don’t want some nosy reporter bothering no more of my customers, ya hear?”
Where was that coming from?
“Holt may be a pushover for a pretty face, but I ain’t.” She sniffed. “The boys who come in here deserve to drink in peace, understand? No ‘reporter’ asking about things that don’t have company approval.”
What was this woman playing at? Georgia felt her cheeks get hot. “I assure you, Ma’am, that’s not the way I operate.”
“They could shut us down quicker than a skunk sprays a dog if they want to. This place only stays open because the company knows their guys need a place to shoot the shit after riding the road alone for days on end. So I want you to get off that stool and walk your pretty little butt right outta here. We got nothing for you.”
Was she speaking on behalf of Jefferson Medical? This wasn’t a company town like Chicago’s Pullman. The company didn’t own the bar. Unless they did. Georgia wavered. If they did, would she be considered an obstacle? Should she change the story she’d pitched? She decided she wouldn’t. The woman’s hostility was pissing her off. “What’s your problem, lady?” Georgia said. “All I want is a draft.”
“Not here, you don’t.” The woman’s voice was scornfully cold and so loud that some truckers stopped drinking and talking and looked their way. “You got thirty seconds to get out of here.”
One of the men in the bar called out. “Ginny, give it a rest. She just wants a fucking draft.”
‘Ginny,’ if that was her name, flashed the man one of the coldest, most intimidating stares Georgia had ever seen, and shook her head. She turned back to Georgia, raised her finger, and pointed to the door. “Out. Now.”
Georgia considered it. She had to keep her cool. She slid off the stool, raised her hands in a surrender gesture, and slowly walked to the door.
The bartender’s voice carried over. “That’s a good girl.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Now go and get into that Toyota of yours and drive yourself back to I-94.” Her tone was mocking. “Take the exit marked west.”
Georgia pushed through the door, hoping she was leaving with some of her dignity still intact.