Kunkle’s inbred restlessness shot to the surface. “So when do we get a warrant to search and bust the guy?”
He was echoing the same thoughts I’d been mulling over after the rally. My conclusion then held all the more true now. “As soon as we’ve answered every question we can on our own. When I sit down with Bob Vogel, I want to know more about him than he does-like why he drives home the way he does. And what he talks about in there.” I gestured to the bar. “And what he was doing to make him miss his appointment with Boisvert the morning after the attack.”
Kunkle merely nodded, apparently satisfied.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” I added. “Maybe a couple more days, especially if Dunn puts on the pressure.”
The bars close at two during weekdays, and it had been after one when Bob Vogel had wheeled his bicycle into the Barrelhead’s lot. Nevertheless, he looked much the worse for wear when he staggered outside exactly at closing time-the last to leave-and fumbled with his handlebars. It was with an element of relief that I saw he was too drunk even to get on the saddle, and contented himself with pushing his transportation homeward. I didn’t need him flattened under some passing truck-not just yet.
Simultaneously, Willy and I swung out of the car and walked over to the bar’s entrance. I faded back slightly to let Willy cover obviously familiar ground.
He pounded on the thick glass window covering the top half of the door.
The predictable answer was instantaneous and reflected the manner of the establishment: “We’re closed-fuck off.”
Kunkle pulled out his badge and tapped it against the window, calling out, “Hello, Ray.”
A muted curse barely reached our ears, followed by footsteps and the sound of the lock being shot back. The actual opening of the door, however, was left to us, as we heard the footsteps retreating without further ceremony.
Raymond Saint-Jacques-short, squat, balding, and in dire need of a shave-was heading back behind the bar as we entered, like a mole seeking the sanctuary of his hole. The gargantuan waitress was still perched on her endangered chair, as oblivious to us as an overdressed fire hydrant.
Willy and I parked ourselves on two stools opposite Ray, who was now safely barricaded among his bottles and shot glasses.
“What do you want?” He kept a wary eye on Kunkle, which made me wonder about the full extent of their shared past.
Kunkle smiled. “We were working late. I told Joe what a wonderful place this was, and what a great conversationalist you were, and he said he wanted to meet you.”
Ray stared at us sullenly for a few moments, fully understanding Willy’s gist. He turned to the waitress, who’d done no more than breathe since I’d first seen her an hour ago. “Nora-go away. Do something outside.”
Nora slid off the creaking chair with the delicacy of a dolphin in heels and drifted off through a door leading to the back.
“What’ll it be?” Ray then asked Willy.
“A beer. Joe?”
“Tonic water.”
Willy laid two twenty-dollar bills on the bar; Ray served us our orders and stuffed the money into his pocket. He didn’t make change. “What do you want?” he repeated, with no less hostility.
Willy took a sip from his beer, allowing me to ask, “You know the guy who just left? The one on the bicycle?”
Ray shook his head. “Nope-Bob somethin’.”
“How long’s he been coming in here?”
“A few months.”
“Good customer? Pays his tab?”
“He’s okay-a little behind sometimes.”
Willy wiped his mouth and spoke, “Not a good guy, though, Ray-could cause you problems.”
Ray merely stood still and looked from one of us to the other, a resigned look on his face.
“Does Bob talk about himself much when he’s here?” I asked.
“He’s usually working the bottle too hard.”
“He have his ups and downs, like most of us?”
“I suppose.”
“Night before last,” Willy asked, “what was he like?”
“Wasn’t like anything. He wasn’t here.”
“That unusual?”
The bar was as still as a confessional, the three of us utterly motionless. I could see in Ray’s face that he was becoming interested, tipped off by Willy’s comment about Bob’s character and our having pinpointed the time we were interested in. Gail’s rape had played big enough in the media by now-including on the currently silent television that hung above the bar-that Ray would have to have been brain dead not to know of it.
He finally said, “Yeah. It’s the first night he’s missed since I’ve known him. He came in later, though.”
Willy jumped on that. “How much later?”
“’Bout nine in the morning. He was in a real bad mood.”
I poked at the ice in my untouched drink. “How so?”
We were all playing by different rules now. By telling us Vogel had messed up his routine on the night of the attack, and had appeared at the bar later in a depressed state, Ray had moved from informant to witness, whose statement would in all likelihood make it into court. All three of us knew that, and Willy and I knew further that we’d better tread carefully, making sure we couldn’t later be accused of putting notions into Ray’s head.
But the bartender was no stranger to the process. He and Willy went back a long way. He even seemed to bask in the moment a little, understanding the importance of what he was about to tell us, and knowing we could do nothing but wait for him to do so.
“You want me to freshen those up a little?” he asked with a smile.
Kunkle was not in the mood. “Cut the crap.”
Ray Saint-Jacques looked pleased with himself. “All right. Look, I read the papers, like everybody, so I know about the rape, right? It was sort of a hot subject that morning-even on the radio. Bob didn’t start right in on it. He maybe knocked off a few at first, but later, after everybody else had pretty much left, he started in, saying shit like, ‘Sure as hell I’m fucked now-they’ll be all over me-don’t even have an alibi-fucking broads.’ Stuff like that.”
I chose my words carefully. “Did he explain what he meant? Go into any detail?”
Ray laughed now, his entire mood changed by the conversation. “Well, shit, he didn’t confess, if that’s what you’re after, but it was kind of creepy. It was like he was resigned to it. Most of my customers are a little paranoid, you know-got a record and all, or maybe just think the world’s out to get ’em. But he didn’t seem all worked up-just in the dumps.”
“Did he explain why he didn’t have an alibi?”
“Nope.”
“He didn’t say anything else?”
Ray grinned again and made a tossing-back gesture with his fist and thumb. “Too busy, you know?”
“He drink a lot?” Kunkle asked.
“No more’n the rest of ’em.”
“That’s not telling me a hell of a lot, Ray.” Willy’s voice had gained a touch of menace.
The bartender held up both hands in mock surrender. “Hey-it’s the truth. He drinks, but he always gets out the door. That’s more’n I can say for some of ’em-remember, Willy?”
Kunkle glared at him.
“Has he been drinking more in the last forty-eight hours?” I asked.
He tilted his head to one side, looking thoughtful-or at least pretending to. “Could be, you know?”
That didn’t satisfy Kunkle. “Has he or hasn’t he?”
Ray’s voice suddenly went surly, as if he understood that with me there, there was little Willy could do physically to back up his aggressive tone. “What the fuck am I-his nanny? He has, all right?” He stepped away from the bar, grabbing both our glasses and dropping them into a sink of greasy water at his waist. “I got work to do before I can turn in. Are we done here?”
I slid off my stool. “For the moment.”
“Good. That’ll be six-fifty.”
Willy stood and leaned across the bar, his powerful right hand splayed out on its surface as if he might vault right over it. “Don’t, Ray. I could come back alone.”