It had been the kind of day requiring a stop at The Twelve.
The Twelve was in a part of Detroit that looked like it had seen better days, and maybe it had, but not anytime recently. Its name came from the Twelve-Bar Blues, a nod to the music that kept the place alive. From the outside, the bar was nothing special—an old brick building with a weathered neon sign that flickered in blue, almost like it was struggling to stay lit. A small chalkboard by the door promised "Live Blues - 9 PM," though the regulars knew it would be closer to ten.
I parked down the block under a streetlight that was more flicker than shine, and made my way to the entrance. A couple of patrons were outside, hunched over, sharing a cigarette and talking in low voices, their faces obscured by the smoke that drifted into the cool evening air. I caught the faint sound of bouncy blues rhythm from inside, a sort of Louisiana swamp blues style that was one of my personal favorites.
Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the walls were dark mahogany, old enough to have soaked up decades of smoke and bourbon. Blues memorabilia covered every inch—posters, guitars, and photos of legends who’d come and gone.
There was a fairly good crowd but I managed to take my usual seat at the corner of the bar, back against the wall.
The bar ran the length of the room, a long slab of polished wood that gleamed under the dim light. Bottles of whiskey, bourbon, gin and everything in between lined the shelves behind it. As John Lee Hooker would say, one bourbon, one scotch and one beer.
Jazz saw me coming and smiled, a quick flash of white teeth. “August,” she said, pulling a glass from the shelf. “Your usual?”
I nodded. “Make it a double.”
In her late thirties, Jazz was a stunner. Her dad was a white auto executive, her mother a Japanese engineer. The result was a happy marriage and a beautiful daughter. Jazz had on a black tank top and jeans that emphasized her petite but curvy body. Her short hair, a mix of dark brown and premature subtle gray streaks, framed her almond face and ruby lips.
Her hands moved with practiced efficiency as she mixed drinks, her fingers adorned with several silver rings that clinked softly against the glasses.
She poured me a whiskey, neat, and set it in front of me. “Long day?”
I picked up the glass, feeling the coolness against my fingers. “Something like that.”
The whiskey was smooth, warming me from the inside out. The band started tuning up again, the low notes of a bass guitar thrumming through the air, but for the moment, it was quiet enough to talk.
“Let me ask you something,” I said, setting the glass down. “What do you think the number one reason is for a man to just up and walk away from a marriage?”
“Whoa, you got a couple hours?” she said with a laugh. Her face turned thoughtful as she considered the question. Bartenders probably listened to more mental problems than your average therapist. “Off the top of my head, I would say lack of sex. For most guys that’s what it’s all about. If a relationship gets old, they grow apart, etc., the sex usually stops. At that point, he’s wondering, why am I here? I don’t’ like her anymore, we have nothing in common, and we’re not bumping uglies. He probably thinks: if I have to go out and look for other women to have sex with, I might as well be single.” She nodded. “That’s my best guess.”
I tried to reconcile that with what I knew about Richard and Amelia Webb.
Maybe, I thought. “Yeah, that’s what I would think, too. Less common reason could be more complicated.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Maybe there’s something else entirely going on no one knows about. People hide things. Even from themselves.”
“That’s true,” she said. “Self-delusion is an epidemic these days. I see it here all the time.” She rapped her knuckles on the bar and went to pour a young couple their drinks.
The band started up again, a slow, heavy blues number that matched the mood of the room. I watched the crowd: small groups clustered around tables, a couple of men at the end of the bar nursing their drinks, looking like they’d had better days.
Jazz came back, poured herself a drink, a small shot of bourbon, and raised it. “To all the ones who left,” she said, clinking her glass against mine.
I listened to the band play, watched the people move in and out of the shadows, and wondered about Richard Webb and his reasons for disappearing. Was he running from something or toward something?
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket before I could answer my own question. After a glance at the screen and seeing an unknown number, I slipped off the barstool, heading for the office at the back. The room was small, cluttered with papers, receipts, and a few old photographs on the walls, mostly of the building now housing The Twelve.
The room was sort of my unofficial office. I shut the door behind me and answered the call.
“Yeah?”
“Is this August High?” a voice asked. Young, maybe mid-twenties.
“This is High,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “This is Jimmy at North Marina. Brad said you were asking about the guy in the photo you gave him?”
Now I remembered: Jimmy was the usual guy, who’d been sent to pick up a boat part or something.
“That’s right,” I replied.
“Pretty sure I saw that dude a couple weeks ago.”
Finally, something, I thought. “How sure?”
“I’d say about ninety percent.”
“Is there any security footage?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s an old system,” the kid replied. “Low quality, not much definition. I don’t even know if it’s working, or how long the footage is kept. This place is sort of a free-for-all most of the time.”
A disorganized small marina with plenty of privacy would have suited Richard just fine if he’d wanted to disappear, I thought.
“Do you work tomorrow, Jimmy?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” the kid replied.
“Mind if I stop in to chat? Maybe see if there’s anything on the security camera?”
“You a cop?”
“No. But someone is missing and I’m trying to find them. It’s for a good cause.”
“Fine, I don’t really care and no one around here would either.”
“See you tomorrow morning, Jimmy,” I said.
Jazz spotted me and I nodded goodbye to her.
Outside, the air was fresh and cool.
The day hadn’t been a total waste, after all.
The band was playing an old Robert Johnson song, Hellhound on my Trail.
Not sure if I would be considered a hellhound, but I was definitely on Richard’s trail.