DUST

I found The Gobbler just where Sam had said it would be.  It was on a main commercial street that ran through a mostly residential area in town.  It looked classy from the outside.  There was a sign in front with a large tom turkey holding a mug of foamy-headed beer with the words ‘The Gobbler’ arcing over him and the word ‘Tavern’ straight-lined below.  Beneath that in smaller letters were the words ‘Spirits, Ale and Food’.  There were no windows in the front wall, but it wasn’t a dive.  There was a flowerbox on the building face with some sort of greenery in it that looked tended and healthy.  The sidewalk and doorway were both clean, the door itself attractively painted in a glossy finish.  Not a dive.

It was three in the afternoon.  Not exactly rush hour for a bar.  After the lunch crowd, before the early birds.  I walked in and waited a second or two for my eyes to adjust.  Like most bars, the lighting was dim, and I’d been in bright sunlight outside.  I took my sunglasses off and put them in my shirt pocket; that seemed to help.

It was bigger inside than it looked from the outside.  Straight ahead of me was a bar that took up half the width of the room, then took a right-angle turn and ran an equal length toward the back.  There was a small bar-sized pool table in that back section, and behind it was a dart board and a partition that I assumed was for restrooms.  I guessed there was a kitchen of sorts to the side of that.  In the front section there were a few tables with tablecloths in the center of the floor set up for meals, and there were plush, comfortable-looking booths along both walls.  There were pictures and shelves holding knick-knacks on the walls.  The place felt homey.

I was the only customer.  I was the only person there, in fact, other than a woman behind the bar, unless there was kitchen help in the back washing dishes out of sight.  The woman glanced up at me, then back to what she was doing, which appeared to be making lemon-peel twists from a number of lemons on a cutting board.

I made my way to the bar and sat on one of the stools.  They were the kind I like; they had padded seats, backs, and they swiveled.

The barkeep finished with the peel she was cutting, then wiped her hands on her apron before walking over to me, bringing a bowl of mixed nuts with her.  When she was closer, she slid it along the bar to me.  My opinion of the establishment rose.  Mixed nuts instead of peanuts or pretzels!  I sampled a cashew.

She was definitely the female bartender Sam Bookman had described.  He’d said thirtyish, but I made it more specific than that, either 32 or 33, just a few years younger than I was.  She had a trim figure except for the part between her clavicles and her diaphragm, which was bounteous but not over-ample.  Her hair was in a pixie cut, a look which on the surface seemed too young for her but which heightened her cuteness; on her it worked.  Her face wasn’t classically beautiful, but certainly was attractive.  It may be difficult to describe the difference in words between beautiful and cute, but I knew it when I saw it.  This lady was cute.  I had nothing against cute.  Large dark eyes which seemed to be smiling at me, seemed to find me somehow amusing, but maybe she saw all men that way.  Fair skin which contrasted with her dark hair.  Everything melding together into a tight, appealing package.

She looked at me, seemed to be studying me just as I was her.  Then she smiled.  “You want me to pull you a draft, don’t you?”

I blinked.  “I haven’t heard that in years.  But usually it’s ‘pull you a pint.’  You don’t sound like you’re from England, but that’s where I last heard it.”

She laughed.  “I spent a summer there, working in a pub.  Yes, we pulled pints, but here, we serve draft beer in twelve-ounce glasses, so I’ve had to improvise.    I liked it there and some of the language rubbed off.  My fondness for the place lasted until winter showed up.  England in the winter is a much meaner place than it is in the summer; I came home.”

Her voice was lower-pitched than one would expect on her slim, small frame.  Throaty.  It was very pleasant, however.  Delightful, even.

I guess I’d been wrapped up in looking at her.  “So… a draft?” she finally prompted.

“How’d you know?  Maybe I’m a scotch-and-water man.”

“Instinct.  Experience.  And most men with a size-20 neck are beer drinkers.”

I didn’t bother to refute her.  Had I argued she might have fixed me a gimlet just to prove her point.  “What do you have?”

Rather than answering, she pointed to six taps, all with different logos, that were mounted against the wall behind her working space.  She was standing in the well between the wall and the bar itself.  Luckily, I have good eyesight, and recognized all the logos.  Perhaps this was a test.  Maybe she just wanted to check my capabilities.

They had Blue Moon, which was a current fad; to me it tasted like someone had poured orange juice into a too-light beer; I avoided it on principle.  They also had Bud, Coors Light—I assume everyone’s heard the joke comparing Coors Light to making love in a rowboat—Corona, Heineken and Sam Adams.  I looked them over and said, “Sam Adams.”

“Good choice,” she said, and got a frosted mug out of a cooler.

“I’ll bet you say that to all the studly customers, no matter what they order.”

“The non-studly ones, too.”  And she put the mug on a coaster and slid it in front of me.

She watched as I took a sip, then said, “Was it I, or someone else you wanted to talk to?”

I took another sip.  Sam Adams isn’t all that bad.  “Funny what you can learn, talking to someone.  You’re educated and smart, and probably haven’t been shy since you were twelve.  I’ve discerned that, and we’ve only said a few words to each other.”

She smiled.  “You’re right; you can do that.  I’ve learned that you’re a bit full of yourself, probably haven’t ever been shy, you like women, aren’t at all bothered by their wiles, and you have this false sense that they find you attractive.”

I pulled my head back in mock horror.  “What do you mean, ‘false’?  I am attractive!”

She stepped a pace further back and looked at me appraisingly.  “It’s true, you know.  So true.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  So that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?  If we’re to believe the adage.”

I hadn’t met too many women willing to verbally joust with me.  I liked it.  “And what say you?”

“I’d need more time for a full assessment.”

I laughed.  “Not bad.  Doesn’t show much confidence in your ability to make a decision, but not bad.  I can live with indecisive.”

She gave me a half-smile.  “Some misguided folks might call me indecisive, and some might see the wisdom in not making snap judgments.  And who you live with certainly has nothing to do with me.  And don’t think I didn’t notice you never answered my question.”

I had to think for a moment, knowing she was challenging me, and had to work at it with her dark eyes laughing at me.  Then, I said, “Oh, yeah.  T’was thou.”

She laughed again, and her eyes twinkled.  “OK, here I am.  Shoot.”

I reached behind me, took out my wallet and removed my PI and driver’s licenses.  Handing them to her, I said, “I’ve been hired to investigate something that began in your bar four nights ago.”  I went on and told her about Sam sitting with a guy he’d called Jim and what had happened after that.

“I was hoping maybe you’d be able to help.  I’d like to know something about this Jim guy, whether you know his last name,  whether you saw the woman who came in and came on to Sam, whether she’s been here before, whether you know her name, whether you saw the car they left in, what Jim did after they left... well anything at all, really.  But there’s something else I need to know that’s even more important.”

“What’s that?”

“Your name.”

I gave her my best smile.  It never fails to impress young women.  They get caught up in its brilliance, their knees go weak, and they become putty in my hands.

She looked at me carefully, judging, I guess.  Then she said, “You look pretty harmless.  It’s Pat.  Pat Donaldson.”

I hadn’t realized she was a kidder.  But she was, because I don’t look harmless.  I stand six foot three in bare feet and I don’t go shoeless when out on the town working.  I weigh a little over 230.  When I was playing college football, I was a linebacker and weighed 245.  I still lifted weights like I did then but didn’t eat as much because I wasn’t having to fight off 300 pound linemen any more, and quickness was more valuable to me now than weight.  Most women were intimidated by my size.  Pat didn’t seem to be.  She was teasing me.

“Harmless?” I asked, trying to sound shocked.

She ignored it.  “Those are a lot of questions.  It’ll take some time to answer them all, and you probably have to get home to your wife.”

I smiled.  “Fishing, huh?  OK, I’ll bite.  Nope, no wife.  Sort of a confirmed bachelor.”  
 
“Your license says you’re thirty-four years old.  Are you gay?”

I pulled back as though slapped.  Then, pondering a moment, said, “You know, I can say anything I want to answer that, but you’d still be wondering.  There’s only one sure way to prove it or not.  I think we should have dinner together, and if that goes well, we could go to your or my place and make out a little.  That would certainly prove the essence of my sexuality without question.”

“Just make out?  What, you think at my age I need wooing?”

“Just being polite, ma’am.”  I gave her the 1,000-watt smile again.  It didn’t seem to faze her any.  I wasn’t even sure she noticed.

“I do have to eat,” she said, “and I’m working the day shift today so get off in a couple of hours.  Maybe we could meet somewhere, have a bite, and then discuss this making out you were mentioning in greater detail.” 

I made a reservation at Fazio’s, an upscale Italian restaurant.  No red and white checkerboard tablecloths or waxy Chianti bottles with candle nubs in them on the table.  The tablecloths were white, the waiters all men in tuxes but without the jackets, the music very soft classical that didn’t intrude.  They did favor Italian composers, but there’s nothing wrong with Puccini or Leoncavallo or Rossini, guys like that.  They understood romantic.

“This is very nice,” she said.  She was wearing a black dress, short but elegant.  I’d told her where we were eating.  She’d said she’d heard of it but it wasn’t in her budget.  I didn’t tell her it wasn’t in mine, either.

I took a sip of my beer.  She had a gin martini.  It was incredible; so far the girl hadn’t got a thing wrong.  Vodka martinis were for wimps.

She asked me what I was having, and I told her she had to choose first, that I wasn’t going to let her just order what I did, or something less expensive.  She stuck her tongue out at me.  Even that was perfect.

We went to my apartment for a nightcap.  She wandered around, looking at things while I washed the dust off two brandy snifters, then poured two fingers of Remy Martin XO cognac in each.  I saved it for special occasions as I’d seen it listed at $200 a bottle.  I didn’t pay that, of course.  A very happy client had given it to me for services rendered.  I saw Pat as a special occasion. 

I sat on my couch, and she curled up next to me.  We talked about ourselves.  She was finishing her degree through the correspondence route.  Still had two courses to go, and she’d be done.  She was getting a degree in Library Science.  We talked about that, as it seemed a dead end to me.  She just smiled a smile that told me she suffered fools all the time behind the bar.  She said today the course focused on using the computer to do research, and that was an invaluable skill.

I told her I’d got a degree in Criminal Justice, but when I tried out for the FBI, they only wanted accountants and lawyers; they had plenty of action heroes waiting in the wings for an opening.  I looked into the local sheriff’s department and went through the training, but then they changed their practices and were starting all rookies out working the local county jails for their first two-year assignment.  I think the purpose was to show us what bad guys were all about and perhaps harden us.  I didn’t need hardening and I wasn’t about to be a jailer.

So I struck out on my own.  That didn’t bring home much bacon for over a year, but I was lucky.  I’d been a teammate of Frank Felini in college, he’d joined the police department out of school and he started steering some work my way.  There’s lots of stuff the police department doesn’t have the time or manpower or interest to pursue.  Not long after that I was on my feet because word got back to Frank that I was doing pretty well on what he’d sent my way.  I wasn’t rolling in dough by any means.  Dinner would about wipe out my savings.  But I was making ends meet, I had a one-bedroom apartment and a 12-year-old junker car and I was my own boss.  I was getting by.

And if I could get away with it, I’d put the dinner down as an expense item on Mrs. Bookman’s bill.

She listened to all this, and snuggled closer.  Maybe it was the cognac.  But the mood in the room had been getting steamier as the hours passed, and we both felt it.  We’d finally both stopped talking.  We were looking at each other.  Then I leaned down and kissed her, and suddenly it was like someone had sucked all the air out of the room.  I was panting like a racehorse when we stopped.  Then we started again.

Somehow, within minutes of that kiss, we were both naked on the couch.  Later, we were naked in my bed.  She had as much staying power as I did, and I had a lot. 

I really liked this lady.  We seemed a matched pair.  She fit me like an old shoe.  This woman might be dangerous.

In the morning, I fixed heuvos rancheros for breakfast.  Being a bachelor, you either learn to cook or you eat out a lot, and I couldn’t afford the latter.  I’d learned how and found I enjoyed the creative aspects of it.  She smiled at me a lot while eating, and I didn’t know why, until she left.  She kissed me and said, “OK, you proved it.”

I was washing everything up when I realized I hadn’t got a single question answered.  I smiled a full, satisfied smile about that.  Meant I had to see her again.