But then I recognized the waterline of the lake, just downslope from a tavern on the way to Phillipsburg where I’d had more than a few drinks on more than one occasion. I might have even sat on that same rock myself once, beer-stunned and singing ballads to the wheeling stars.
I didn’t get a good look the first time Marlowe passed her around, but when the photo came to me again, I held it longer and gave it a good stare. She was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her until Marlowe said, “You don’t recognize her, Franklin?”
“I do, but I don’t.”
“That’s Chloe.”
“Chloe?”
“Lockmer. Remember?”
Now I did. I grinned and shook my head. Chloe Lockmer, the titless wisp of a girl who ghosted through the halls of Butte Central — a freshman when I was a senior. How had she turned into this? This was a grown woman full of sugar and spice and everything vice.
The way she had her head tipped back, sitting on that rock, I took it as an invitation.
I pulled off the interstate at the first Butte exit, drove up Harrison Avenue, and headed straight for the Finlen where I booked a room for a week. I figured I’d get the job done in seven days. If God could do it, why couldn’t I? Then again, He never had to deal with zippers on grieving widows’ blue jeans.
I needed a little alcohol to loosen the rust on my gears, so I asked the desk clerk for the best place.
“You might try the distillery.”
“Distillery? Butte has one of those now?”
“Had it for a couple of years. Their booze is smooth and gets the job done quick.”
He wasn’t kidding. Two minutes after taking a stool at the Headframe, I was halfway to numb. Go a year without booze in a combat zone and your tolerance gets pretty low.
I held up my tumbler, looked through the generous two fingers of amber, and ordered another. I asked the girl behind the bar, “What do you put in this?”
“The Neversweat? The blood of virgins and a few drops of Novocaine.”
“Funny lady. Don’t quit your day job.”
“I don’t plan on it. Where else could I meet fascinating people like you?” She was wiping the bar with a rag and when she leaned over, there was plenty of agreeable movement inside her T-shirt. I could see all the way to Thursday from where I sat.
“You lived in Butte long?”
“Long enough,” she said. “I’m about ready to leave this dump.”
“I hear you.”
“What about you? Just passing through?”
“Sort of.” I was still reluctant to show my Butte roots. Five hours in town and I hadn’t seen any familiar faces. Fine by me. “I’m here for the Marlowe Memorial Madness, or whatever the hell they’re calling it.”
The girl snorted. “Red, White, and Butte Days.”
I made a gagging sound.
“Exactly,” she said with a laugh. She’d finished wiping, but still hung around at my end of the bar.
“You knew him?”
“Who, the war hero? Never met him. What about you? You a friend of his, or are you just one of those whaddayacallits — Rolling Thunder guys who go around protecting military funerals with baseball bats?”
“Do I look like one of those kind of guys?”
“I guess not,” she said. “So, friend of the family?”
“Not really. Like I said, just passing through.” I wondered if she noticed how I tap-danced my way around her questions.
A guy with a heavy, skunk-smelling coat came in and planted himself at the other end of the bar. My girl moved away to help him, leaving me to wonder what kind of weirdo wears a parka in June.
I finished my whiskey and called her back for another.
“Rules of the house — I can only give you two drinks per visit.”
“Oh,” I said. “What if I was to step outside for a minute, then come back in?”
She looked to her left. She looked to her right. Then she smiled. “I’d say I never met you before in my life.”
I went out and came back and she set up another pour.
She was nice, so I figured I’d proceed with my fishing expedition: “You know the widow?”
“Whose widow?”
“The war hero. Marlowe. He left a girl back home, didn’t he?”
“Sure, Chloe. I know of her, but I don’t know her know her. Rumor has it she runs with a different crowd.”
“What kind of crowd?”
“Funny you should ask. See that guy down there?” She tipped her head toward Mr. Skunk Parka.
“Yeah.”
“That kind of crowd.”
“Who is he?”
The barmaid leaned closer. Now I could see all the way to Sunday. “I forget his name. Brian something. But I know what he does.”
“And what’s that?”
“He deals.”
“Blackjack? Texas Hold’em?”
“Funny man. You should hold onto your day job.”
“I plan on it.” Widow Specialist, I thought to myself. “Never mind. I knew what you meant.” I leaned in and whispered, “He’s into methametics.”
“One plus two equals you’re right.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I’ll bet Marlowe had no idea he was going to come home to a skinny skank covered in sores.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“I never said that. I said I wasn’t a friend of the family.” Not yet, I thought.
“But you knew him?”
I grinned. “In bits and pieces.”
“Well, the dude sure has a reputation around here.”
“Like what?”
“To hear folks talk, that guy is everything right about the war. He could do no wrong. Cut him, he bleeds stars and stripes. That kind of thing.”
“Hoopla-worthy.”
“Apparently.”
“And now his wife is mayor of Skankville.”
“Well, I don’t know.” She scrunched her face. “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard here and there. You know how the truth gets watered down the more it’s repeated.”
“Yeah. So they say.”
“One thing’s for sure. If she is using, she hasn’t lost her looks. I mean, she was good enough to be on the front page of the paper yesterday. Smiling and shit. What kind of widow goes around smiling?”
Maybe the kind with insurance money. My plan was looking better and better by the minute.
I was about to say something else — better yet, I was about to drop something on the floor she’d have to pick up — but Mr. Skunk Parka interrupted by calling her down to his end again. Not to get another drink, but to pay his bill.
What kind of man walks away before his limit of whiskey smooth as this? The kind who has other people to deal with. Literally.
I finished my drink because I had another idea percolating. With regret, I’d have to leave the barmaid and her fabulous T-shirt, but I knew my thirst would bring me back to the Headframe before too long.
Marlowe and I had chased the terrorist into an abandoned warehouse and now I stood over him with my rifle. Its muzzle pressed against his forehead like a cold kiss. Rules of engagement said this guy was a suspected terrorist, but I had no doubt in my mind.
Marlowe wore out the warehouse floor with his pacing.
“This is wrong,” he said. “This is wrong, Franklin.”
“Shut up, Marlowe. We got him dead to rights. Nobody goes around with a washing-machine timer in one hand and a Nokia in their other when they’re just out for an evening stroll.”
“We should wait for the MPs. ISP at the very least.” There was something in Marlowe’s voice that almost sounded like a sob.