The town of Okra’s a kinda white-trash poor relation to West Wheeling. It’s closer to the interstate an’ the city, so it tends to filter out most of the rough trade an’ riffraff ’fore they get down our way. It’s got a XXX-rated movie house an’ a strip joint, but also a first-rate steak house—you take the good with the rest.
Calamity Jane’s is a Country an’ Western bar on the northeast side, a place where—rumor has it—they don’t think highly of the Law. It’s also out of my jurisdiction. I was countin’ on not bein’ recognized without my uniform. My cover story was that Roger Devon owed me money, an’ I’d pay ten bucks to find out where to collect. I also held out that Ash Jackson had insulted my sister an’ I was gunnin’ for him as well. To make it look like I was fixin’ to wait all night if necessary, I fed a handful of quarters to the jukebox an’ sucked down a couple of beers.
I had plenty of time to study the place. It had “real” C&W atmosphere—most of which was home-rolled. The restrooms were labeled BULLS an’ HEIFERS, an’ there was a brass footrail on the bar, a pair of long horns over the door to the back room, an’ spittoons scattered ’round in corners. Half a dozen local hustlers was passin’ the same twenty around over a pool table in the back. Two old codgers was playin’ checkers under a wagon wheel chandelier, an’ a older woman, sittin’ at the bar, was drinkin’ herself into oblivion.
I played Dolly an’ Reba ’til they started soundin’ the same, an’ the Old Style was givin’ me a hangover without givin’ me a buzz. The evenin’ was startin’ to look wasted.
Then a couple of rowdies come in spoilin’ for a fight. One was the perfect urban cowboy, down to his snakeskin boots an’ matchin’ vest. He started it, puttin’ a arm around the older lady. When he tried to kiss her, the bartender got in the act.
“Get the hell out!”
“What’s she to you, Joe, your sister?”
Joe hitched his thumb toward the door. “Beat it!”
“Sez who?” the cowboy demanded.
The second rowdy sneered, “Him an’ his army.”
Cowboy held up his right fist. “His right army …” Then his left. “… Or his left army?”
Joe started down the bar to where, I s’pected, he kept his equalizer stowed. The second rowdy must’a been thinkin’ the same thing, ’cause he vaulted over the bar to head him off.
I looked around. The hustlers had put down their sticks an’ was watchin’ the show. Nobody else in the place seemed either sober enough to get what was goin’ on or inclined to give a damn. So I butted in.
I stood up an’ swayed like a drunk. “Shay. Joe. ’Bout another …?” I let it trail off, like I forgot what to say. That done the trick. I had everybody’s attention. I leaned over the bar an’ delivered a diversionary left hook to the second rowdy’s jaw, then a hard right to his solar plexus. He dropped like Wile E. Coyote when he’d run outta cliff.
The cowboy’s mouth fell open. “Who the hell are you?”
I grinned. “I’m the Marines,” I said ’fore I decked him.
Joe didn’t waste no time draggin’ the second rowdy out from behind the bar, right out to the parkin’ lot.
I grabbed Cowboy under the armpits an’ called out, “Anybody know what these good ol’ boys is drivin’?”
One of the checker players grinned at me. He looked two years older than dirt an’ was missin’ his teeth. “Rusty Ford with the camper an’ the sign that says: WIFE AND DOG MISSING—REWARD FOR DOG.”
Joe an’ I agreed that neither of our new friends was in fit shape to drive home, so we relieved ’em of their keys—which we hid in their own glove box—an’ left ’em sleepin’ it off in the back of their truck.
Back inside, Joe broke out a bottle of the good stuff an’ poured me a double shot “on the house.” He poured hisself one an’ we toasted “the Marines.”
After we’d had a chance to savor the liquor, he said, “You lookin’ for work nights?”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
He nodded. “Just a thought.” After another wait, he said, “Dan Underhill might know somethin’ about Ash.”
“Where’ll I find him?”
“He’ll be in around eleven.”
Dan Underhill turned out to be someone I knew—on sight, if not by name. He was outta uniform, too, but I recognized him quick enough, even without his mirror shades. He was one of the stone-faced state troopers—AKA “The Sergeant”—that I do business with regular. Joe introduced us formal.
“Dan, this here’s my friend,” he told Underhill. “—What’d you say your name is?” he axed me.
“Vergil.” I wanted to say “Tibbs” but decided against it—in case Joe was a movie buff. “Vergil Smith.”
Underhill managed to keep his face straight.
Out of uniform—an’ with me vouched for by my new best friend—”Dan” was a regular guy. My C&W disguise hadn’t fooled him for a minute, but he was decent enough not to blow my cover. An’ he was pleased I was lookin’ for Ash.
“Something you can lock him up for?”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
He seemed hopeful anyway as I explained about our missin’ person, then he shook his head.
“’Bout ten days ago, I had an unofficial complaint. Guy hadn’t seen Ash, but a few days before that he’d seen Ash’s truck in the lot, here, right before last call. He noticed a girl sittin’ in it, young an’ a looker. He wanted to buy her a drink, but the guy he was with recognized the truck an’ warned him Ash was trouble, even if the girl didn’t turn out to be jailbait. So this fella went about his business, but the more he thought about it, the madder he got, especially with Ash not bein’ an Okran. Since my informant’s married, he decided to let it go an’ just tell me. I’ve been watchin’ for Ash, but he hasn’t been back.”
Later, I tracked down Underhill’s informant, who described Angie Boone to a T.