Forty-One

 

The next city council meeting was two weeks away. The bar, however, remained a crime scene and closed for business. It was kind of nice having the place to ourselves, drinking up the liquor supply and listening to old country-western songs on the shot-up jukebox.

Toohey called. He said the cops were unable to locate Erica Wainwright; they’d pretty much concluded that she’d run off to avoid questioning. At the same time, Stakoff didn’t for one second buy my story about the barroom brawl.

So we waited and popped pills and drank and argued over which decade had the best country music. My view was country music peaked in the seventies with Willie and Waylon and Jerry Jeff Walker. Vince thought the peak was the sixties with George Jones and Merle Haggard and Buck Owens and Johnny Cash.

I countered with Tom T. Hall, Charlie Pride, Kris Kristofferson.

Vince: Roger Miller, Glen Campbell, Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline.

We agreed to disagree. We killed off a bottle of Fireball and sat in the dark listening to Glen Campbell’s heartbreakingly beautiful rendition of “Galveston,” the greatest anti-Vietnam War song ever. When the strings faded, I got up to put some more money in the jukebox. More Glen Campbell seemed about right. I punched in “Wichita Lineman” and “Gentle on My Mind,” then went back to our table. Vince turned to me and said, “I’ve had something on my mind too…”

“Yeah?”

“Newspaper said Sheppard died from a knife wound to the chest,” he said. “Funny. That ain’t how I remember things standing when I left.”

I shrugged. “You were kind of shook up. Might’ve been in a state of shock. Might not be remembering things too clearly.”

He cut his eyes at me. “Uh huh.”

I closed my eyes and let the ending of “Wichita Lineman” wash over me. “You may be right about the sixties after all,” I said. “Damn that’s a great song.”

“Love how you changed the topic there.”

I smiled at that. The front windows lit up momentarily as a patrol car pulled up to the front doors. I went over to the windows, peered out, and watched Stakoff ease out of the cruiser.

“Shit,” Vince cried. His eyes darted around the bar. “I told you them cops weren’t stupid, with all their forensics and shit!”

“Take it easy, Mr. War Hero. If they were going to arrest us, there’d be more than one cop.”

I told him to go back to the office, close the door, and stop worrying. He grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, then steadied himself and staggered down the hallway.

A loud rap at the front entrance. It dawned on me that we’d been sitting in the dark, the only light the dying rays that sifted through the smoked window glass. I flipped on the overhead lights and unlocked the door. Stakoff stood heavily behind the yellow police tape.

“Evening Denis. Thought I saw somebody’s truck parked out back.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

He began spooling the crime scene tape around his wrist. “Mustn’t waste the taxpayers’ money.”

I waited for him to bawl me out for trespassing on a crime scene, maybe even cite me, but I guess he had other things on his mind.

“You alone?”

“Uh huh.”

“Mind if I come in?”

I stepped aside and he shoved the police tape into his coat pocket and followed me inside.

“Think you missed something?”

“I seldom miss anything, Denis. You know that.” He looked the place over. He picked up one of the two glasses from our table, studied it, but didn’t remark on it.

“Can I get you something? A whiskey? A beer? A waterboard?”

“No thanks.” He walked over to the bar and glanced behind it. “Been a busy month. Winter’s usually our slow season.”

“Same here.”

“There was something I wanted to talk to you about. A recent employee of yours. Erica Wainwright.”

I walked behind the bar and opened a jar of olives and popped a couple into my mouth. “Dinner time,” I said and offered Stakoff the bottle. He shook his head.

“Heard she’s skipped town,” I said and spat the pimentos into my palm.

“Who told you that?”

“My attorney.”

“A friend of Erica’s said she was supposed to visit her in Salt Lake City. Only she never showed up.”

“Huh.”

“Huh is right. Like she vanished into thin air.”

“Maybe things got too hot for her after she murdered her uncle? You ask me, she made up that story about staying with a friend in Utah. Probably to throw you off her scent. My guess is she’s probably in Florida right now.”

“Florida?”

“Or Texas. That’s where rednecks go when they leave southern Illinois. Florida or Texas. Just like being at home, only the weather’s warmer.”

He scowled at that and zipped up his coat. “Yeah. Thanks.” He studied the room again and snuffled loudly. “I wouldn’t mind being in Florida right about now.”

“What’s keeping you?”

He ignored that and turned to leave. “Well, you boys behave yourselves,” he said. “And tell Vince hello when you see him.”

“Will do, Butch.”

After the door closed, Vince strode out of the back room holding one of Chuck’s vintage Playboy magazines from the seventies.

I said, “Told you it was nothing.”

Vince went over to the window and watched Stakoff leave.

“You heard?” I said.

“I heard.”

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t mind being in Florida right now, either.” His eyes glanced toward the jukebox.

“Don’t even think about playing Jimmy Buffet,” I warned him. “I will shoot you.”

Vince laughed. A bit uneasily.