Billy Ocean hadn’t been in Hogie’s in a long time, not since he was old enough to drink legally. Hogie’s was one of those bars where the lights were always low, the music always loud, and people tended to mind their own business unless forced to do otherwise, which was rarely the case. It lay between Harmony and Corinna in southern Somerset County, and attracted little passing trade due to the unprepossessing nature of its exterior, which was matched by the unprepossessing nature of its interior, and its restrooms in particular, which were notoriously insalubrious. But a Bud Light in Hogie’s was a buck-fifty all day, and the food wasn’t so bad if you didn’t let it linger in your mouth.
Billy found Quayle sitting at a table away from the bar, a glass of clear liquor before him. Billy identified him by his dress sense. It was possible that someone else had previously worn a velvet vest and knitted silk tie in Hogie’s, but if so, it was far enough in the past for the trauma to have faded from the bar’s collective memory. Quayle didn’t look like he belonged in Hogie’s, but neither did he appear particularly troubled by his surroundings. Some people had a way of colonizing spaces, adapting them to form sanctuaries for themselves. Quayle was such a man.
Billy took a seat at the table, and a waitress came by for his order. He noticed that she barely registered Quayle’s presence, and even when she did, her gaze slid from him like water from an oiled boot. Whatever vibes he was giving off, they weren’t good.
“So you’re British?” said Billy.
“I think of myself as English first, British second. It’s a way of keeping the Scots and Welsh at a distance, never mind the Irish.”
Billy was confused, but didn’t care enough one way or the other to seek further clarification.
“What are you doing over here?”
“I’m holidaying.”
“You’re on vacation?”
“If you prefer.”
Again, Billy didn’t really give a fuck.
“So,” Billy said, once his beer had arrived, “who blew up my truck?”
“A man named Charlie Parker. He’s a private investigator.”
Billy consumed this information with a mouthful of beer.
“I know who he is. And you figure this how?”
“Because it’s common knowledge, or relatively so. The police are aware of it, and I believe your father is, too. But the police won’t do anything about it because they have no proof, and there also appears to be a don’t-touch rule when it comes to Parker. As for your father, well, I can’t say. Perhaps he’s concerned you might be tempted to do something foolish, and put yourself at risk as a consequence.”
“Why did Parker pick on me?”
“Pick on.” What an interesting choice of words, Quayle thought. They told him all he needed to know about the man sitting opposite.
“He keeps company with a colored man named Louis. My understanding is that this Louis found certain aspects of your truck’s décor objectionable, and Parker assisted him in registering what was, all things considered, a forceful protest.”
Billy stood.
“I need to make a call,” he said.
He went outside and called Dean Harper, his father’s former aide. They hadn’t spoken since Harper’s firing, but Billy was less fearful of Harper when he didn’t have to face him in person.
“What do you want?” Harper asked, when Billy identified himself.
“To get you your job back.”
“Least you can fucking do, seeing as how you lost it for me.”
“My old man misses you.” This was true. Billy’s father regretted letting Harper go, but he didn’t like backtracking on a decision. He thought it made him seem weak. For Harper, though, he might be persuaded to make an exception. “It won’t take much to talk him around.”
“And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”
“It’s by way of an apology. I only want a word in return.”
“What word would that be?”
“Yes or no.”
“And the question?”
“My truck: Was Charlie Parker the name you heard?”
No reply, or not the one he wanted.
“Jesus, Billy,” said Harper, “you got to let this go.”
“You want that job back, or don’t you?”
“Sure I do.”
“Then answer the question.”
“Yes. The answer is yes. But Billy—”
Billy didn’t wait to hear the rest. He killed the connection and went back inside to rejoin Quayle.
“Seeking confirmation?” said Quayle as Billy sat down.
“Maybe.”
“It’s always advisable to secure a second opinion. And what did you learn?”
“That you might be telling the truth.”
“That I am telling the truth.”
“Okay, yeah, so you are. What do you want in return: money?”
“No, I just want to help you retaliate.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because Parker is in my way, and I’d like to see him distracted.”
“Getting in the way of your ‘vacation’?”
“That’s right. I’m also prepared to compensate you for your time. You can put the money toward a new truck, perhaps one with a more subdued sense of ornamentation.”
Billy grinned. “Seems to me that you might be up to no good here. Are you a bad man?”
Quayle smiled back, and the lights of the bar gleamed like dying stars in the void of his eyes. “Trust me when I say that you have no conception.”
Billy’s smile faded.
“What kind of retaliation did you have in mind?” he asked.
“Parker took something from you that you valued. I suggest you do the same to him. A little bird told me that he owns a vintage Mustang. He’s very fond of it. Why not burn it?”
Billy knew the car. He’d seen it around town. Burning it seemed like a very good idea. It wasn’t worth as much as his truck, but Billy was prepared to make allowances for sentimental value.
“I have a friend outside,” said Quayle. “She’s quite an expert at destruction. Why don’t I introduce you to her? After all, no time like the present . . .”