Newcastle, California * September 17, 1943
It’s the nature of the friendship between those two boys that puzzles me,” Agent Bonner says, shaking his head at Deputy Henderson and staring into the giant amber eye of his beer glass. “It’s an awful big change: One minute Louis Thorn and Harry Yamada are sworn enemies, and the next minute the Yamadas trust Louis enough to sign over their land for safekeeping—the very land that started their beef in the first place.”
The two men are perched on a pair of stools at the bar. To Agent Bonner’s relief, it is dim and cool inside the saloon, the damp air scented with a mixture of barley and mildew. As promised, Deputy Henderson had shown Bonner the way to Murphy’s Saloon, and the agent was making good on his offer to buy a round.
Bonner absently inspects his surroundings as they drink and talk. Decorations in the saloon are spare and reassuringly free of a feminine touch. Old newspaper clippings hang in cockeyed frames on the walls; the bulk of the clippings themselves date back to the Gold Rush days, featuring local prospectors who struck it rich. Laid out in haphazard fashion, they make up a sporadic, lopsided mosaic of various shades of yellowing newspaper, a conspicuous overuse of exclamation marks, and the occasional flash of a toothy grin glimpsed through a wild man’s beard. The only other adornments in the saloon are posters urging folks to buy war bonds, a smattering of colorful brewery advertisements, and a few now-defunct Anti-Saloon League signs and handbills—no doubt displayed with a sense of humor.
“You ain’t the first to puzzle over it, that’s for sure,” Deputy Henderson replies now. “There’s been a lot of talk all over town.”
“Say, fellas,” comes a voice from behind the bar. “Will you have another?”
Bonner glances at his glass and realizes it’s already empty. A short, broad-shouldered man with a red complexion and dark, badly trimmed hair is looking at them with a stern expression that would be best described as a glare if it were not for the kindly crinkles around the man’s eyes. The bartender flips a dishrag over his shoulder and leans on his elbows, waiting.
“I meant to ask: Are you Joe Abbott?” Bonner inquires.
“I am. Will you have another?”
Bonner flicks his eyes in the direction of his companion. Henderson smiles awkwardly and looks away, scratching sheepishly at the scar of a healing pimple. It is clear that he is willing to drink as many as Bonner is willing to buy.
“Well, all right,” Bonner replies, after a pause. “Suppose after one, a second tastes twice as nice.”
The bartender retrieves their glasses, places them under the taps, fills them with lukewarm beer, and picks up the wooden paddle used for slicing off the foamy heads.
“You say you’re Joe Abbott?” Bonner repeats.
“I did. Who wants to know?” the bartender asks, shutting off the taps once the glasses are frothing over. He arches a wary eyebrow at the stranger.
“This here is Agent Bonner from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Deputy Henderson announces in an eager, important tone, thumbing in Bonner’s direction.
Bonner nods in tacit greeting.
“Hmph,” Joe replies, unimpressed, slicing away the foam. Despite his show of indifference, his left eye begins to twitch ever so slightly, and it is clear he isn’t saying the one thing he’s thinking: Why does “Agent Bonner from the Federal Bureau of Investigation” know my name, and what does he want?
“You read the headlines about how Harry and Old Man Yamada broke out of that camp up at Tule Lake, didn’t you?” Henderson prompts.
“I did,” Joe replies.
“Well, that’s why Agent Bonner’s here: He was investigating their whereabouts.” Henderson pauses and looks thoughtful for a brief moment. “Course, now it looks like there may be nothin’ left to investigate,” he adds, “since there ain’t nobody to track down anymore.”
“What does that mean?” Joe asks in a flat voice, leery.
“Well, you seen the smoke yesterday, ain’t you?” Henderson continues.
“Sure. Pretty certain everyone within forty miles or so caught sight of that. Heard there was some sort of accident.”
“It was an airplane crashing down.”
“That so?”
“Not only that, but it looks like them Yamada boys stole Louis Thorn’s plane and was the ones to crash it.”
Joe Abbott frowns.
“I’m surprised you ain’t heard all about it, Joe,” Henderson says. “You working here at the bar, I’da thought you heard everythin’ first.”
“I been sick,” Joe replies, clearly irked by the glee Henderson takes in gossiping. “So you’re telling me the Yamadas passed on?” he repeats. Joe’s frown deepens, and Agent Bonner is interested to detect a flicker of surprised distress on the man’s face.
“Yes,” Bonner answers. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news about your neighbors.”
Joe Abbott stiffens.
“They weren’t my neighbors. I live here in town.”
“I just mean your fellow community members,” Bonner clarifies. He knows that, with the war on, even if Joe cared for the Yamadas, he won’t want to give that impression. Bonner changes tack. “But speaking of neighbors . . . mind if I ask you a few questions about the Yamadas’ next-door neighbors?”
Joe blinks, bewildered by the shift in topic.
“The Thorn family?”
“Yes. Louis Thorn in particular.”
“All right,” he replies, his tone unfriendly. “Shoot.”
“Louis Thorn says he was in here the other night, says he got into some kind of a fray . . . His whole face is busted up.”
“What’s your question?”
“Can you verify that? Do you recall Louis Thorn getting into a bar fight here?”
Joe’s eyes slide from Agent Bonner’s face to Deputy Henderson’s and back again.
“Sure,” Joe grunts finally, after a stoic silence. “I remember that. Big scuffle, and for no good reason, too. Don’t even know how it started, but lots of fellas joined in. I spent the rest of the night cleaning up their mess. But you know how it is. Boys’ll be boys.”
The tension thickens as Joe Abbott and Agent Bonner lock eyes with each other. Another agent watching from the outside might have later scolded Bonner for the manner in which he asked Joe the question—serving it up to him on a plate instead of trying to trip him up. But Bonner sees everything he needs to know right there in Joe’s uncomfortable expression.
“Say,” Deputy Henderson chimes in. “Old Whitcomb keeps pointing out how you’re real funny about Louis Thorn,” he continues, his eyes widening with fresh realization and the buzz of new gossip. “You’re thinking Louis Thorn might be a suspect in this crash?”
“I didn’t say that,” Bonner replies. “I only said Louis told me he got into a bar fight a few nights ago.”
“He did,” Joe Abbott affirms. With an air of finality, he grunts and reaches for the dishrag over his shoulder, wets it, and sets about scrubbing dirt off the wooden countertop—working his way down the bar and effectively ending his side of the conversation.
Bonner turns back to his beer and takes a long, deep sip, allowing the suds to wash over his upper lip. Eventually, he and Henderson carry on with their chitchat without Joe Abbott. They circle away from talk of the crash and the Yamadas to more benign topics as Bonner mulls over his case quietly to himself. He still can’t prove Louis Thorn’s bruises mean anything, but he is sure Thorn didn’t acquire them four nights ago in the saloon where Bonner now sits. The truth is often complicated and requires some coaxing, but if there’s one thing Bonner knows when he hears it, it’s a bald-faced lie.