She glanced across the room. "Yeah, well…" She left her thought unspoken.
Joe drained his mug, placed it on the coffee table, and stood up. "Guess I better get going."
She stood also. "You down here because of those two dead men I saw in the paper?"
"Yeah."
"Is it bad?"
He smiled slightly. "Right now it's just confusing. Might get bad, though. We've only started digging."
She escorted him to the pocket doors and out into the cooler, darkened room beyond. "I open next Friday, if you're going to be around."
He cast her a look and draped his hand on her shoulder, enjoying the warmth of her through her shirt. "I can rarely make promises with my schedule, but I'd love to be there. What time?"
"I open at six, but things probably won't warm up till nine or later."
"You expecting a crowd?"
"God, I hope so. It would be a killer to have nobody show up on opening night. I've been spreading the word the best I know how, but in the end…"
He retrieved his coat from where he'd dropped it onto a nearby box, and opened the door to the landing before turning to face her. Now he placed both his hands on her shoulders. "You are so good at what you do, Lyn. I don't think you have anything to worry about."
She took advantage of his gesture to step into his arms and give him a hug. "Thanks, Joe. I hope you can make it, but I'll understand if you can't."
He leaned back enough to look down at her. Under his open hands, he felt where her ribs came in to join her spine, just above her waist, and briefly imagined what it might be like to have only bare skin to explore.
"I'll try my best," he murmured, and kissed her, feeling her lips softening under his, then parting to let him in for the first time. His hands moved up her back, taking inventory, discovering that she wasn't wearing a brassiere.
He enjoyed her body being pressed up against his, and hoped this would eventually lead to where, he now realized, he was finally ready to go.
"This is nice," he said softly as they broke apart. "For me, too," she whispered. "Come back whenever you want.
JMAN: U hav a bf? Mandi144: no. had 1. loser
JMAN: Y?
Mandi144: 2 yung JMAN: for wat? Mandi144: wat do u think? JMAN: u r hot Mandi144: I feel hot JMAN: wanna do something about it? Mandi144: duh JMAN: Where in Vermont? Mandi144: Brattleboro. U? JMAN: not far – Erving Mandi144: kool. U sur Im not 2 yung 4 u? JMAN: ur just rite
Chapter 15
Willy slouched down in his battered pickup truck and pulled his soiled wool cap farther down above his eyes. Across the parking lot, barely visible under the single light over the bar's entrance, the famed E. T. Griffis, a bulky, big-bellied man in insulated overalls and unlaced snowmobile boots, slowly got out of a vehicle much like Willy's and shuffled across the hard-packed snow toward the door, greeting an exiting patron with a joke and a laugh before vanishing inside.
Willy bided his time, waiting for the second man to get into his car and leave, before entering the freezing night air himself and heading for the bar.
It was about what he was expecting-crowded, noisy, none too clean, and filled with the kind of people he'd come to see as extended family. For decor, the walls were lined with hubcaps, and the windowsills with empty bottles. The thin carpeting crunched underfoot with debris. It was the type of bar Willy had called home for years before realizing, at the very last minute-and with Joe's then much resented help-that he was facing an alcoholic's version of suicide.
He selected a spot at the end of the bar, near where E. T. had planted himself between two similar-looking men, who were still greeting him. They weren't effusive in style, reminding Willy of a pair of walruses congenially making room for one of their own, but there was an element of respect, as well. True, E. T. was visibly older than his mates, but, outward appearances notwithstanding, he was being awarded a muted homage for his elevated social status.
Willy wasn't surprised. Before he'd headed up here-he was in the Thetford area's primary workingman's bar-not only had Joe briefed him on E. T.'s history and neighborhood standing, but Willy had spent a few days on his own, soaking up all he could of the man's lore and legend. The resulting portrait had been familiar. In most communities, there was some equivalent of E. T. Griffis-a man who, through hard work, reputation, money, or a combination of all three, had established himself as an icon of some sort. Usually, this archetype was a man with working-class roots, an easy way with his peers, and enough money that when the occasional deserving local hit a rough patch, he or she might be eased through it by a loan or gift that never went advertised but was somehow made known. Willy, born and bred in New York City, where he'd also briefly been a beat cop, had first met these pseudo paternal types as neighborhood gang leaders or mob subcaptains, feeding as much off the social glow as off the fear that had struck its match. There had also been a few that might have been termed non-"connected," truly benevolent dons, but they had been harder to find, mostly because of the circles in which Willy had traveled.
Here, in Vermont, this latter, benign phenomenon prevailed, although Willy was still, all these years later, trying to suppress a natural suspicion that the likes of E. T. Griffis were treated as they were because of some hold they had over their cohorts and admirers.
Willy had acquired his cynicism the hard way.
The bartender, a thin, tall man with glasses and a blank expression, placed an unordered glass of what looked like scotch before E. T. and, then, paused in front of Willy.
"What'll it be?"
"Ginger ale."
The barkeep turned away without comment, but Willy caught the glances from those within earshot, including E. T. A stranger didn't come into a bar and order a soft drink unless he was a teetotaler, which wouldn't make much sense, or a cop.
The bartender returned thirty seconds later with a glass, which he placed on a coaster. "Two bucks."
Willy took a few crumpled bills out of his stained barn coat pocket, separated the money from some old receipts, two rubber bands, and an assortment of small bolts and washers, and paid the man.
Willy waited until the barkeep had turned his back, and then reached into another, inner pocket, extracted a small bottle of amber fluid-actually tea-and poured a generous dollop into the drink. The flask bottle vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but not before the same onlookers had seen the quick and practiced gesture. Comforted by both the supposed alcohol's surreptitious appearance and its owner's seeming need to watch his expenses, the others at the bar allowed their suspicions to be lulled.
He left his subtle communication at that, pretending to focus on his drink and the numbing comfort it promised, while in fact eavesdropping on the conversation around E. T.
This wasn't terribly difficult. Both its volume and its content made for easy listening. In essence, it was the same "guy talk" that Willy had listened to and participated in his entire drinking life, dealing with, in no particular order, engines, guns, dogs, women, a touch of politics, and how to use the word "fuck" as many times, and in as many ways, as possible. It was all as soothing, complex, and subtle as it was outwardly moronic, simple-minded, and gross-a distinctly male medley that was routinely dismissed by most women and academics.
And which made Willy, in a moment's distraction, think of Sammie Martens. As his companion of several years by now, she would not have fit into those judgmental categories-a character trait he valued greatly, not that he'd ever admit it. She was as highly tempered, competitive, and driven as he, and as good at holding her ground. This secondhand conversation would have been a natural for her to consider, had she been here, and one she could have joined at any point.