“Nasty bruise you got there, had an accident?”
Ed touches the tenderness on his forehead but doesn’t answer. The bartender returns to polishing already clean glasses, one eye never leaving his only customer, at just after 5pm on a weekday he didn’t expect too much custom. The saloon looked as if it had been built around the bartender, who, in his late sixties, was still tall but too thin, with a gaunt, haunted face and a bald head patched with liver spots, he seemed to belong behind the dark wood panelling, along with the rest of the fixtures and fittings. His white apron seemed to envelop him and appeared many sizes too large. Without looking up, Ed asks “You ever hear of someone go missing around here, a little girl?”
The bartender pauses for the briefest of movements before continuing to clean.
“Not that I recall.”
His disinterest is almost convincing but something in the old man’s voice makes Ed look up, he thinks he sees a conflict raging behind the barman’s eyes before he continues, “You mean recently or ever? You lost someone?”
“I don’t know, a long time ago I guess, maybe the fifties or sixties?”
The bartender looks intently at the bottom of the glass he is polishing, the only noise now coming from deep inside the music machine as it hunts down another track. The bartender seems to reach a conclusion, puts the glass on the shelf above his head, neatly folds his cloth then turns directly to Ed.
“Well now, there was a girl, back in, oh ‘62, ‘63 maybe, from the negro side of town, cycled into the woods, and never came back”
“Was she ever found?”
“Nope, I don’t recollect she was. Bud, Bud Gibson, he was the sheriff back then, he took out some folks, had a look around, I think they found her bicycle?”
“How long they look for?”
“Oh, a day, maybe two I reckon, long time ago now, hard to remember”.
Ed nodded, understanding perfectly. Who would want to make much of an effort for a negro, even a little girl, in the early sixties?
“Did they ever find who did it?”
“Did what?”
“Took her, kidnapped her?”
“No, you misunderstand me, she weren’t kidnapped or nothing like that, just got lost up in the hills is all, like I said, she just pedaled off and never came back, nothin’ sinister about that”
The silence stretched out, even the Jukebox seemed to notice the mood and had no more tuneful advice to offer. Ed took a long sip of his drink while watching the bartender straighten a line of already soldier-like bottles, pick up his cloth then put it back down again.
“The kid’s family kept looking of course” he offered in defence, “never stopped looking I suppose. What’s it to you anyhow?”
This time it was Ed’s turn to feel uncomfortable, dropping his head to study the last disappearing bubbles in his drink. “Nothing, just something I read somewhere I guess”.
“Well I tell ya something for nothin’, maybe it was a long time ago now, but folks in this town got long memories. You’d do yourself a whole heap a good to not kick up old history like that if that’s what you’re thinkin’”. Ed looked at the old man and saw the ‘do you understand me?’ expression on his face. Ed abruptly pushed the stool away from the bar, loudly scrapping wood against wood, threw a few dollars on the counter, and with a final scornful glance at the bartender, headed for the door.
THREE
As he drove away from the saloon the fuel light came on in the dash accompanied with an audible ping. Fuel or motel first? Get fuel, ask about the motel, a good plan. As Ed drove further away from the centre of town, he saw more business’ that had closed down but a few second-hand car sale lots, tire & muffler shops and more pawn shops as the area got poorer seemed to struggle on. He spied a neglected gas station that had a hand-painted “STILL OPEN” sign propped against some old soft drinks crates near the entrance. Ed heard a weary muffled ring somewhere out back as he rolled over the rubber strip and pulled up at the second of the two aged gas pumps. A sign stating ‘We Serve You!’ with the picture of a smiling happy-faced attendant hung above the pumps so Ed stayed put in his car. A mesh door to a dim office slapped lazily against its cracked painted frame, keeping time with the occasional breeze coming up the street, Ed’s mind pictured a ghost town in the old west, he was half expecting a tumbleweed to roll on past his car as he waited. Just as he had made his mind up that the place was abandoned and to drive on, a black man, resembling a sizable skyscraper, shuffled out from beneath a rusted Buick that he hadn’t noticed jacked up under a lean-too beside the office. Wiping his enormous hands on his faded dungarees, the big man took large, lumbering steps as he walked slowly over to the pumps.
“Yassir? Help ya?”
“Yeah, fill ‘er up would you; regular. Hey, would you know where the Mountain View Motel is from here?”
The attendant spoke as slowly as he walked. “Sure thang, jus a few blocks up on the right, can’t miss it”
“Right” replied Ed. The attendant turned away from Ed’s window and set to the task of refuelling. The salesman turned his wing mirror up slightly so that he could watch the attendant’s slow purposeful movements as he removed the gas cap and started to fill the tank. The man had skin hued like the strongest of coffee and even with a pronounced stoop, the man stood almost seven feet tall. The oil stained bibs carried the name of the gas station on the back, the attendant’s name, ‘Buster’ on the front and evidence of a thousand tire changes and lube jobs. The cotton of the man’s once white T-shirt strained to confine the bulging biceps and pectoral muscles. Except for the eyes, Buster’s smooth face gave no clues as to his age; Ed figured he could have been ten years either side of fifty, but the big brown eyes seemed much older than that.
After gently replacing the nozzle on the pump and putting Ed’s gas cap back on the car, the giant stooped down beside Ed’s window.
“That’ll be twenty-seven bucks exactly”. Ed handed the attendant a twenty and a ten-dollar bill but held onto one end. The attendant looked in, but not directly into Ed’s eyes, a question slightly touching his smooth brow.
“Don’t I know you from someplace?” asked Ed.
“Pends how often you been through here, you a salesman right?” he replied almost automatically.
“First time today” replied Ed.
“Well then you ain’t never met me, I ain’t ever left this town ‘cept for vacations.” Ed knew it was a sad fact about his homeland that only 25% of Americans held passports, most were happy to stay where they were. He held onto the notes for a second longer, trying to get Buster to make eye contact. Buster remained still and looked like he could stay that way forever, a statue cast in ebony. Like a lost word on the tip of his tongue he could not place Buster’s face, so reluctantly Ed released the note.
“Keep the change”.
“Thankya boss”.
The huge man eased himself back up so that all Ed could see was a few holes where buttons should have been on the now faded denim and a well-worn brass buckle that secured a thick brown leather belt.
Still puzzled as to where he had seen Buster before, Ed selected drive and moved out toward the two-lane blacktop, pausing to let a semi-trailer go past. He looked back in his rear-view mirror and saw Buster standing in the same position; hand still slightly extended holding the two bills, staring intently at the reflection of Ed’s blue eyes. Ed pulled forward, ringing the bell again, Buster still hadn’t moved when Ed finally lost sight of him.