Cold Case (23 page)

Might as well walk to the bar, I decided, sniffing the salt air, reveling in the breeze. See how my luck was holding out.

25

A rose is a rose is a rose, but a local bar is unique, especially a small-town local. I've learned to do the background fade in Boston's Irish pubs, afterhours cop hangouts, trendy Newbury Street fern-and-pickup bars. I didn't have a clue about Marshfield's Lucky Horseshoe.

On one count, Mrs. Nosy Neighbor was dead on target: I heard it before I saw it. The strains of “Black Velvet Band,” belted with more drunken enthusiasm than accuracy, made me feel that my pub savvy might come in handy. A shaky accordion, bad enough to be live, kept a few of the revelers on key. I paused in a narrow, barely lit parking lot and considered my predicament.

I'm no knockout drop-dead beauty, and I've never regretted it.
Lie. So I regretted it in high school, who the hell didn't?
But I'm basically shaped like a woman—leggy, extremely tall, red-haired—and when I walk into a bar unescorted, men tend to notice, if only to wink, nod, tsk-tsk their disapproval, and speculate about my profession.

Briefly, I wished for camouflage. My khaki shorts, turquoise tank top, and bone sandals were suited to the steamy weather. I hadn't foreseen a bar stop. I could march off to the Toyota, rummage in the backseat, probably locate a disreputable raincoat or roomy sweatshirt, sneakers. Die of heat prostration on the return trip.

I didn't know what MacAvoy looked like. Disadvantage. On the other hand, he didn't know me at all. Advantage.

I could stroll inside, perch at an empty table, order a beer, and keep checking my watch. Pretend my date was late.

I could belly up to the bar, boldly display my credentials to the barkeep, ask him to point out MacAvoy. The barkeep would expect a tip. TV spoils real life. Bartenders think PI's dispense twenty-dollar bills like Kleenex.

A parade of pickup trucks pulled into the lot and broke my reverie. I stepped into the shadows, saw salvation in a mixed crowd of patrons—male and female—going off some factory shift, removing regimental overalls and caps. A group I could enter with, to blend or not to blend as circumstance played the hand.

I walked beneath the horseshoe nailed over the doorway; sure enough, the ends faced up so the luck wouldn't run out.

The money'd run out first. The interior was rustic, hung with tattered fishermen's nets. The seafaring theme stopped with the nets, as if the owner had discovered them abandoned on the beach, then found other nautical items—shells or boating paraphernalia—too pricey. The accordion player's hat, displayed on a dusty upright piano, had a sign beside it advising that tips were welcome. The piano had so many missing keys it looked like an old crone's grin. The linoleum floor had begun to curl at the edges and the seams. A neon sign flickered “Budweiser” minus the “r.” My cover group drew a hopeful glance from the barkeep, then a quick frown. One long-nursed beer apiece, his downcast face seemed to say, not a Chivas-on-the-rocks in the crowd.

The accordion player attacked another tune. A couple of elderly gents applauded and joined in doubtful harmony. I wondered if the accordion player owned the bar, or if he'd married the owner's sister. One thing, he was a drunk, the way his hands skipped over keys and buttons, fumbled the draw.

One of the factory crowd—older teens, younger twenties, wearing cutoff jeans and a rugby shirt—noticed me playing tag-a-long.

“I haven't seen you here before,” he said.

Better than some openers I've heard.

“Haven't been here before,” I said. “And if the accordion player kills one more song, I'll leave.”

“He quits soon,” he said with a crooked grin. “What'll you have?”

“I'll buy my own,” I said, “but if you're heading to the bar anyway, I'll have whatever's on draft.”

“Harp or Bass?”

“Harp,” I said. Good choices both; probably what drew the townies. Not the feeble accordion, for sure.

I sat at a tiny unbalanced table till my far-too-young swain appeared with a generously filled schooner for which he was loath to accept money. Since his buddies were staring speculatively from the bar, I slipped three dollar bills under the table. My new friend and I smiled conspiratorially.

“Jimmy,” he said, leaning forward expectantly. He had a good chin, chiseled and dimpled, and he led with it like he knew it was his strong suit. His gray eyes were small, close together under shaggy eyebrows.

“Carlotta,” I responded.

“You're not from around here.”

Everybody could tell.

“I'm a narc,” I whispered, expecting total disbelief. “Working undercover.”

The guy stared at me for a split second, burst into laughter. That's exactly what they used to do when I
was
a narc, working undercover.

“You're sure at the wrong place,” Jimmy said, “'less you want to nail a couple underage kids ain't been carded.”

“You one of 'em?”

“Hell, no,” he said, mixing indignation with pride. “I'm twenty-one.”

Well, I was twenty-one once, I felt like telling him, for no other reason than it seemed impossible that I'd ever been as young as he was. Had I ever grinned that own-the-world grin? Had I ever seemed so carefree?

The sickly accordion faded from my mind, replaced by a blues lick: “Been on the job too long,” followed by a sweet guitar slide. Dave Van Ronk sings it in a gravelly voice, some old-timey tune about sheriffs and outlaws. The same line I'd quoted Mooney earlier in the day.

The kid asked me something, but I couldn't hear him over the din. I inquired if he was a local.

He nodded, sipping beer from his mug.

“Know a man named MacAvoy, ex-cop hangs around here?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“You're not from one of those social service agencies, are you?”

“I don't think they work nights or hang out in bars, unless you're talking about a social service I definitely do not provide.”

The kid blushed scarlet, and I couldn't help wondering if he saw me as a possible date, an older sister, or someone who might be his mother's pal.

Hell, how did I see myself?

Not coming on to a twenty-one-year-old. No way.

“Is Sergeant MacAvoy here?” I asked.

His gray eyes searched the room, came to a stop at a table for four, back corner, far as you could get from the accordion. Score one for MacAvoy.

“White hair with glasses?” I asked.

“Next to him, on his right, the heavy old coot, heard he used to be tough.”

“Plaid shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“If you mean it, have another beer. On me.”

“Blond girl in the denim vest, see her? She's gonna smack me if I don't leave you alone.”

“Laurie doesn't own me.”

“Is that what we're playing at here? Do I look like the Declaration of Independence? Why not do her a favor? If you don't want her, tell her. Other guys look interested.”

“Who?” he snapped.

“Never mind,” I said dryly, standing. “Tell her you thought I was your cousin, Elsie. I look a lot like her.”

“Well … okay, if that's what you want. Nice meetin' you.”

“You never met me,” I said.

I worked my way past the wounded piano and the small knot of crooners. A sign pointed to the rest rooms. I followed it, hoping the scorned Laurie wouldn't trail me. Girls and Boys, the signs on the doors read, like grade school.

I stared at my face in the ill-lit bathroom mirror. I swear, crow's feet had sprung from the corners of my eyes overnight, like someone had etched fine lines on my twenty-one-year-old face while I was sleeping. Maybe I ought to go back to Jimmy, snatch him away from Laurie, drink him under the table. Take him home as a souvenir.

I ran cold water in the sink, mopped the back of my neck.

The hell with it.

Two things I know about retired cops: they like to reminisce; they like to feel important. I had to hope MacAvoy would be drunk enough to talk, but not too drunk to tell me what I wanted to know.

A delicate balance.

I consulted the mirror as if it were a crystal ball. If I'd carried any powder, I'd have powdered my nose.

I edged out of the girls' room into the narrow corridor, brushed by a leather-jacketed man whose sweaty stink lingered after he passed. I moved a chair into the breach between MacAvoy and his eyeglass-wearing neighbor, sat myself down in suddenly suspicious silence.

“Sergeant,” I said, taking a deep breath and placing my ID on the table, “how do you feel about private investigators?”

He took his time studying me, then my photo, passed my license around to his buddies, who nodded and murmured appreciatively.

I spent the time gazing at MacAvoy. Maybe he'd been as young as Jimmy once, almost handsome. Now his face was round and jowly, nose doughy and lined with drinkers' veins. His skin seemed pasty in the fluorescent glare, too pale for a man who lived so close to the sea.

“Well,” he announced finally, playing to his cronies, “I think they look a heluva lot better than they used to.”

This drew an uproarious laugh that centered attention on our table.

“Can I speak with you alone?” I asked.

“You don't have to ask twice, girlie. Get lost, guys. Find your own fun.”

“Outside,” I said. “I'll walk you home.”

“Haven't had that good an offer in twenty years easy,” he said, hauling himself to his feet by putting a lot of his weight on the table. He pulled out his wallet, yanked out a twenty and slapped it down. “Have a round on me, boys.” He added another twenty. “Drinks on the house,” he announced grandly to the room in general. “I'm feeling lucky tonight.”

He tried a little bit of bump and grind and I hoped he'd move it before I decided to hit him in his fat beer gut. I know, I know, I ought to use my feminine wiles to worm information out of old men, but honestly, does that mean I have to put up with crap that was stale before I was born?

I shoved my disgust aside. I'd be truly pissed if the guy was young. Older guys, hell, it was a different world then. Face it. Live with it. Pick your role, I ordered myself. They're limited: mother, daughter, wife, lover.

I'd be the sweet concerned daughter. It comes hard to me, as my late father would attest if he could, but I can pull it off for short blasts at a time.

I linked a filial arm through MacAvoy's and he was wobbly enough that he had no choice but to move, or else look as though I were dragging him unwillingly through the door. A buddy of his hooted as we left, but I had my man in tow and I didn't mind. The old goat slipped an arm around me and tried for a feel, but he was drunk and I was faster.

“Do that again, you'll need to use up some of those Medicare benefits,” I cautioned.

He stared at me with hostile drunken eyes. For a brief moment, I wondered if he was carrying his piece. I'd left mine in the car, locked in the glove compartment.

I hoped I wouldn't regret it. Ex-cops, drunk ex-cops, you can never tell.

26

The silence—a mere twenty feet from the bar's entrance—was eerie. The accordion player had called it quits for the night. I regarded the hulking elderly man beside me with misgiving.

“So what's yer problem, girlie?” he said.

“No problem with me,” I shot back. “How's your memory?”

“I reckon I remember more than you'll ever know, girl.”

“If you want to keep calling me ‘girl' and ‘girlie,' I guess I could call you ‘Daddy.' You like that?”

“Not particularly.”

“What do you like to be called?”

He stared up at the single string of wind-whipped red plastic flags that delineated the parking area. Made me think of salvage from a used-car lot, but his face relaxed into a grin, as if he were recalling other decorations, maybe the ceiling of the high school gym. Sock hop, Saturday night.

“Pretty ladies call me Mac,” he said.

Sweet daughter that I was, I smiled. “Mac, I'm Carlotta and I used to be a cop, too, but I didn't make my twenty, and I had to go private. I'd appreciate your help.”

“Who tol' ya where I live?”

Suspicion wiped the grin off his face.

“Head of Boston homicide.”

“An' he'd be named?”

“Mooney. I worked for him. You want to call D street, he'll tell you I'm a straight-shooter.”

“Ol' bat across the street tol' ya 'bout the bar, right? Like to use her fat head for target practice. Some con breaks outa the can—some punk I nailed thirty years ago—she'll tell him where to find me, no trouble, day or night. Bitch.”

He stumbled and I caught him by the elbow and damned if he didn't try the grab-ass bit again. I stepped on his toe. Hard.

“You really who ya say?” he asked.

“Yep. As I recall, your place is this way.” I wasn't relishing the idea of a lengthy stroll with a drunk hanging on my arm, balancing his weight while compensating for pebbles and gravel in my sandals.

“Don't ya have a car?”

“Left it parked near your house.”

“Damn, and I thought I'd be gettin' a ride home. Arthritis in my knee, and all.”

“I can't carry you,” I said. “Sorry.”

He didn't take a step. Just stood in shadows smirking, pondering his next move.

“And which a my old triumphs did ya wanna discuss? What's so vital that ya drive out here, track an old booze-hound to his lair?”

I played unconcerned. “Why would you think I'd be interested in your old cases?”

“Ya asked about my memory, girl. I can remember whatcha said not five minutes ago, girl.”

The last “girl” came out tough, a hurled insult.

I ignored it. My daughterly role was admiring and respectful. Not confrontational.

“You're sharp,” I said.