I wasn’t the oldest guy in the room, but the crowd was mostly made up of men and women in their twenties. And, knowing Patchett’s as I did, probably several in their late teens. They were easy to spot, and not just because they looked younger. They were the ones trying the hardest to look cool while drinking. Holding the necks of their beer bottles between their index and middle fingers, like they’d been drinking this way their whole lives.
I scanned the room for Skilling, spotted him talking to a man at the bar. With the speakers blaring the 1969 hit “Proud Mary” by Creedence Clearwater Revival — there couldn’t have been a person here who was alive when that came out, and even I’d only just made it — I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I’m no lip reader, so I sidled up to the bar, behind him, caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a Corona, all the while trying to hear what the kid was saying.
It wasn’t that hard, once I got close, considering everyone had to shout to be heard over the music. The man Sean was talking to yelled, “Haven’t seen her, man. When’d you last talk to her?”
“Saw her last night!” he shouted.
“She not answering her cell?”
He shook his head. “Look, if you see her, tell her to call me, okay?”
“Yeah, no problem!”
Sean Skilling moved away from the bar and crossed the room to talk to someone standing in a group of three by the pool table, where a couple of overweight bearded men in black leather jackets, who didn’t look like they were from around here, were thoroughly engrossed. I kept my position for about thirty seconds, then took my beer and ambled in that direction.
There was a pillar about two feet away from him. Taking the side that would put my back to him, I leaned against it, but there was too much noise to pick up anything he had to say, even though his voice was raised. So I pushed myself off and wandered close to the group, pretending to watch the two bikers play pool. I thought they were wannabes, guys who didn’t make the cut for Hell’s Angels but wanted to look the part.
“Sorry, man!” I heard a girl say. “I saw her here, like, yesterday? I think it was yesterday, or it might have been the night before!”
Did Hanna know her boyfriend was so interested in finding Claire? Was Sean Skilling the guy in the pickup Claire was trying to get away from? But would Hanna have helped Claire pull a disappearing act so her own boyfriend would stop stalking her? Did that make any sense at all?
“Okay, well, if you see her, call me?” Sean asked.
Nods all around. A young man in a black T-shirt with a Batman insignia on it asked, “Hey, can I place an order with you for Saturday night?”
“Not right now, man.”
Sean spotted someone else he knew in the far corner of the room. I didn’t see much need to eavesdrop on another conversation that was going to be the same as the previous two, and besides, there was no place over there where I could lurk undetected.
I watched Sean ask some questions of a young man who was sitting at a table, wiping chicken wing sauce off his fingers with a moistened napkin. The man shook his head, and Sean nodded. Then he turned, scanned the room for anyone else he might know. Spotted a waitress, stopped her as she was crossing the room with two pitchers on a tray that she was balancing just above her shoulder. She shook her head, moved on.
Sean Skilling stood there, as if wondering what to do. He dug into his jacket for his cell phone, probably checking for a text or message he might not have heard come in, then shoved the phone back into his pocket.
He headed for the door.
I set my beer on the closest table and went out after him.
He was about to round the corner of the building when I called out to him. “Sean!”
He whirled around, squinted at me. “Yeah?”
“Sean Skilling?”
“Who the hell are— Do I know you?”
“I’m Cal Weaver.”
He cocked his head at a funny angle. “Weaver?”
“That’s right.”
“Scott’s dad.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You’re, like, the private dick guy.” Emphasis on the word you’d expect.
“Yeah,” I said.
He shook his head violently and raised a hand, palm out. “I don’t know anything about anything.”
“You don’t even know what I want to ask you about.”
“It’s about Scott, right? I got nothing to tell you.”
“I’m not here about him. I’m trying to find Claire Sanders.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out for a second. “What the hell have you got to do with that?”
I heard the bar door open and close behind me, a couple laughing as they walked across the street.
“Sean, listen to me. I need to talk to Hanna. I think Hanna might know where Claire is. The police are trying to find her.”
He waved a hand at me. “Fuck you, pal.”
I took a step toward him. “I’m not out to cause trouble for you. I just want to make sure Claire’s okay. Where can I find Hanna? Is she with Claire?”
I heard the door open again behind me, the brief cacophony of voices and music spilling out into the night air.
“Come on,” I pleaded. “We’ll go someplace quieter, get a coffee, you can fill me in.”
Sean Skilling laughed. “Yeah, like I’m going to go someplace with you, you fucking psycho.”
I thought I caught him looking past my shoulder for half a second. I glanced that way as someone yelled, “Take off, man!” I didn’t move quickly enough to stop the fist from connecting, though I did get an arm up in time to partly deflect it. But the blow still caught me in the side of the head, and I went down before I could get any kind of look at my attacker.
As I hit the ground, non-celestial stars swirling before my eyes, I heard two sets of footsteps running off in opposite directions.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, putting a hand to the side of my head. I’d landed on my back. I rolled over and brought myself up to my knees, making sure the world wasn’t rotating too speedily before I got to my feet. From the parking lot, I heard the growl of a pickup, then the squeal of tires as the truck shifted from loose gravel to pavement.
“You okay?”
Standing over me was a heavyset woman, mid-sixties, gray hair hanging straight down to her shoulders in a style she probably hadn’t changed in four decades. She gave me a grin.
“Looks like you just got your ass whupped. Why don’t you come in, we’ll see if you’re in need of medical attention. My name’s Phyllis. I own this dump. And I think I got a pretty good idea who you are.”
Eleven
Phyllis led me back through Patchett’s, behind the counter, and into an office. I briefly considered protesting, telling her I was fine. But first, she had a viselike grip on my arm. And second, I thought she’d be worth talking to. As we passed the guy who’d handed me my Corona, she said, “Get me some ice in a towel, Bill, for Sam Spade here.
“Have a seat,” she ordered, releasing her grasp on me and pointing to a leather couch across from a desk. I sat. Bill appeared with a red-and-white-checkered towel in which he’d collected half a dozen ice cubes.
“Put that on your noggin,” Phyllis said. I took the towel and held it against my temple, which, I had to admit, was throbbing. As Bill left and closed the door behind him, Phyllis parked her butt on the edge of the desk and held up a fist in front of my eyes.