C H A P T E R • 32
At 2:30, I was sitting at the bar at Showmans next to Reverend William Garrison, far enough back to make room for my legs and sideways so I could put my notebook on the bar. His stool was close enough to mine to smell Bergamot. Nancy Wilson was singing “Fly Me to the Moon.”
He ordered a Dewar’s splash. I ordered a vodka martini and a little straw to finesse the drink around my swollen lip.
“Your face looks like it hurts.”
“It does.”
The bartender checked behind the bar but it was too early in the cycle for any articles or pictures from the free-lancers who dropped their stuff at Showmans when the newspaper office was closed.
“Tell you what,” he said. “See if you can convince the board not to take legal action to stop you.”
I flipped to the page in my notebook and read some account names to him. “The owners of these accounts all but closed them. It looks like Cecelia was not killed on purpose. It was supposed to be a warning. So, it’s not a murderer we’re looking for. It’s someone with a secret. That’s you and your board. And one or more of these.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. The only way you can take this bank story on is if you’re ready to leave town and never come back.”
“That sounds like a threat.” I wrote down what he said word for word. “And I already did leave town.”
There was a storm blowing across his face. Sometimes people respond well to coaxing, but I sensed that he might be diverted by another interruption. Little movements broke up the unflappable image he usually presented. He took off his jacket. Then he was up, walking down the bar to get an ashtray. I’m sure he did it to show me his gun in its shoulder holster, but to make what point I wasn’t sure. My dad no doubt loved that tough-guy thing about the Reverend.
Just then, four more bank board members walked in in four more good suits. Gary slipped on his jacket, but they must have seen the gun. Who are these people who make deals in bars with pistol-carrying partners, and what the hell was I doing in the middle of it?
I stood up and Gary introduced the suits. One was a member of dad’s board, who I already knew. But the others were strangers to me.
We hadn’t even moved past the pleasantries or sat down at the table when the bartender called Gary over.
When he came back he walked close enough to me that I had to step back.
“We just got a call. Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation liquidators are at the bank,” he said. He looked wild. “They’re closing the bank.”
“So, that’s it then.”