NOVEMBER 1952
Harry McNeil didn’t usually stop at the Dew Drop Inn, the Cossayuharie bar that edged up against the dry town of Millers Kill. But it had been a long drive from New York, and he was tired and hungry and well into the deep blue sadness that always followed his monthly weekend in the city. He wanted a beer and a burger and to be left alone, which wasn’t a problem at the Dew Drop, where most of the regulars pretended they didn’t see him.
So of course, of course a fight spilled out of the front door before he’d turned the ignition off in his Special 68. For a moment, he weighed the idea of cranking the car back up and driving away, but even though the Dew Drop wasn’t technically in his jurisdiction, it was likely the two idiots pounding each other in the parking lot were.
He slid his baton from its place beneath the seat and stepped out of his car. He knew some cops who liked to keep a gun in their vehicles; to Harry that was looking for trouble. Two feet of iron-hard oak—now that could stop almost any problem before it started.
Neither of the two men fighting seemed to have an advantage, which was probably why no one in the small crowd squeezing through the door had put a stop to it. The only light outside came from a single metal lamp hanging over the bar’s entrance, making it hard for Harry to ID the pair. One was tall and lean, the other short and muscular, and both looked to be Dutch-boy blond. Then the taller one caught the shorter with a hard cut to the jaw and his opponent reeled back, almost falling onto the packed dirt, and Harry could see it was Jack Liddle.
“That’s enough,” he roared. “Police! Put your hands down.” Before he had a chance to get close enough to clip either man with his baton, Jack launched himself toward the taller man, hitting him square in the gut, sending them both sprawling.
“I said that’s enough!” Harry grabbed Jack’s collar and hauled him away, still trying to punch his opponent. He tossed Jack ass over teakettle and jabbed him hard in the breastbone with the baton. The boy collapsed, breathless.
Harry swung around, ready to give the other guy what for, but the tall man held up his hands. “I don’t want a fight,” he said. “I told him, I don’t want a fight.” He lurched to his feet, brushing the dirt off his suit pants. “Oh, hell. If I tore these, my wife’s going to kill me.” He twisted around, trying to get a look at his backside.
Harry relaxed a fraction. He recognized the fellow now. Walt Van Alstyne. A little too fond of the juice, true, but Harry’d never known him to get aggressive. Walt was more likely to buy the bar a round when he was sauced than to start a fight.
“All right, you all.” Harry turned toward the looky-loos. “The show’s over. It’s cold out, get back inside.” Van Alstyne made to follow the crowd, but Harry caught his sleeve. “Not you, Walt. I think you ought to head home.”
“I tell you, I didn’t start anything!” He rubbed his midsection. “I don’t even know why Jack’d try to pull my cork.”
“You gotta treat her better.” Jack’s voice was still hitched up by the blow Harry had delivered to his breath box. “No more hanging around bars all the time, Walt. I mean it!”
“I treat my wife fine, not that it’s any business of yours, Jack Liddle!”
Harry took Van Alstyne’s elbow firmly. “Where’s your coat, Walt?”
One of the fellows had held back, hovering at the bar’s door. “I’ll get it!” he yelled, disappearing inside.
“Which one is your car?” The younger man pointed out an aging Studebaker. “Fine,” Harry said. “Can you make it okay?”
“I only had a few drinks. I wasn’t even—I don’t know what Jack was—”
“Right, right.”
The helpful drinking buddy dashed out, a wool coat in hand. He gave it to Van Alstyne, along with a slap on the arm. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you!” Van Alstyne struggled into his coat. “I’m a dad!” he announced.
“Good for you.” Harry steered him to the vehicle. “In you go. Slow and steady and you’ll get home fine, Walt. G’night.” He watched as Van Alstyne pulled out of the lot, wavering a bit over the centerline before straightening her out. Then he turned toward Jack, still sitting in the dirt. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”
Jack wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. “Margy Van Alstyne had her baby.”
Harry thought back to the pretty brunette he had met last summer. Yeah, that sounded about right, the size she was then. Jack had acted right surprised about her pregnancy. An unpleasant possibility blew into his brain. “Have you been fishing in some other man’s pond, son?”
“No, no, God, no. Margy would never…” Jack braced his arms and struggled to his feet. Up close, Harry could smell the alcohol on him. “He doesn’t deserve her. He goes out and gets drunk every week, two or three times, while she’s at home waiting for him…” Jack staggered, as if overcome by the thought of Margy waiting by the window. “She’s so…” He waved his hands, then looked Harry in the eye. “I thought sooner or later, she’d see. What he is. But now they’ve got a baby.” His voice broke a little. “And she’ll never leave him now. Never never never.”
He staggered again. Harry caught his arm. “What is Mrs. Van Alstyne to you, son?”
“Nothing. We were friends. All through school. Best friends.” He smiled beatifically. “She was salutatorian.”
Harry was impressed. He wasn’t sure he could pronounce that word sober. “What about her husband? Does he beat her? Is he not supporting her?” Harry thought Van Alstyne had a desk job at the Allen Mill.
Jack shook his head. “No. I mean, yes. He supports her. He doesn’t hit her. I don’t think. God, I hope not.”
Harry shook the boy gently. “Then whatever’s going on at home is between man and wife. She’s married and made a mother, son. Time to forget her and move on.”
“Why didn’t she wait for me?” Jack’s voice was loud enough to be heard above the noise coming from the bar. Harry steered him toward his Olds. No need to let the boy embarrass himself further. “We wrote the whole time I was in the air force. I wanted to do something good, something she could be proud of, so I went to the police academy and while I was there she married Walt Van Alstyne!”
Since Van Alstyne was tall, good-looking, and a genuine war hero, Harry wasn’t going to find fault with the girl’s choice.
“Now I don’t even have that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I quit.” Jack jerked his head sideways. “The hell with being stuck in that damn troop ticketing cars and pretending to laugh along when they call me hillbilly.” He looked at Harry, then dropped his eyes. “Nobody cared over there. Nobody wants me to use my brain. I didn’t expect to make detective the first year!”
Harry had an idea that was a direct quote.
“I just wanted to make a difference. That’s all I wanted to do. To help folks. To … take care of things.”
Harry cupped his hand over Jack’s head and steered him into the front seat of the Olds. Jack blinked up at him. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“No.” Harry paused, leaning off the door. “I’m driving you home. Tomorrow morning, when you’ve sobered up, I want you to come see me.”
“Why?”
Harry sighed. Somehow, Jack Liddle had become his responsibility. Like the farms and the shops and the men and women who lived in his town. Who was going to take care of them if he didn’t? “I want you for the MKPD, Jack. I think…” The boy looked up at him, dazzled. Harry sighed again. “I think you’ll fit in just fine.”