“You do much marriage counseling?”
He shook his head. “Nope, I try to catch people that did crimes and put them in jail. You ever been a cop? I mean a real one, not a private license?”
“I used to be on the States,” I said. “Worked out of the Suffolk County D.A.‘s office.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I wanted to do more than you do.”
“Social work,” he said. He was disgusted.
“Any regular boyfriends you know of?”
He shrugged. “I know she slept around a little, but I don’t think anybody steady.”
“She been sleeping around long or has this developed lately?”
“Don’t know.”
I shook my head.
Slade said, “Spenser, you want to see my duty roster? You know how many bodies I got to work with here. You know what a summer weekend is like when the weather’s good and the Kennedys are all out going to Mass on Sunday.”
“You got any suggestions who I might talk to in town that could get my wheels turning?” I said.
“Go down the Silver Seas, talk with the bartender, Rudy. Tell him I sent you. He pays a lot of attention and the Silver Seas is where a lot of spit gets swapped. Pam Shepard hung out down there.”
I got up. “Thank you, captain.”
“You got questions I can answer, lemme know.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Spenser, I’ll do what I can. But I got a lot of things to look at and Pam Shepard’s just one of them. You need help, gimme a call. If I can, I’ll give you some.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.” We shook hands and I left.
It was two-fifteen when I pulled into the lot in front of the Silver Seas Motel. I was hungry and thirsty. While I took care of that I could talk to Rudy, start running up that big bar bill. Slade was probably right, but I’d give Shepard his money’s worth before she showed up. If she was going to.
There’s something about a bar on the Cape in the daytime. The brightness of lowland surrounded by ocean maybe makes the air-conditioned dimness of the bar more striking. Maybe there’s more people there and they are vacationers rather than the unemployed. Whatever it is, the bar at the Silver Seas Motel had it. And I liked it.
On the outside, the Silver Seas Motel was two-storied, weathered shingles, with a verandah across both stories in front. It was tucked into the seaward side of Main Street in the middle of town between a hardware store and a store that sold scallop shell ashtrays and blue pennants that said CAPE COD on them. The bar was on the right, off the lobby, at one end of the dining room. A lot of people were eating lunch and several were just drinking. Most of the people looked like college kids, cut-offs and T-shirts, sandals and halter tops. The decor in the place was surfwood and fishnet. Two oars crossed on one wall, a harpoon that was probably made in Hong Kong hung above the mirror behind the bar. The bartender was middle-aged and big-bellied. His straight black hair was streaked here and there with gray and hung shoulder length. He wore a white shirt with a black string bow tie like a riverboat gambler. The cuffs were turned neatly back in two careful folds. His hands were thick with long tapering fingers that looked manicured.
“Draft beer?” I asked.
“Schlitz,” he said. He had a flat nose and dark coppery skin. American Indian? Maybe.
“I’ll have one.” He drew it in a tall straight glass. Very good. No steins, or schooners or tulip shapes. Just a tall glass the way the hops god had intended. He put down a paper coaster and put the beer on it, fed the check into the register, rang up the sale and put the check on the bar near me.
“What have you got for lunch,” I said. He took a menu out from under the bar and put it in front of me. I sipped the beer and read the menu. I was working on sipping. Susan Silverman had lately taken to reprimanding me for my tendency to empty the glass in two swallows and order another. The menu said linguica on a crusty roll. My heart beat faster. I’d forgotten about linguica since I’d been down here last. I ordered two. And another beer. Sip. Sip.
The juke box was playing something by Elton John. At least the box wasn’t loud. They’d probably never heard of Johnny Hartman here. Rudy brought the sandwiches and looked at my half-sipped glass. I finished it—simple politeness, otherwise he’d have had to wait while I sipped— and he refilled the glass.
“You ever hear of Johnny Hartman,” I said.
“Yeah. Great singer. Never copped out and started singing this shit.” He nodded at the juke box.
“You Rudy,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Deke Slade told me to come talk with you.” I gave him a card. “I’m looking for a woman named Pam Shepard.”
“I heard she was gone.”
“Any idea where?” I took a large bite of the linguica sandwich. Excellent. The linguica had been split and fried and in each sandwich someone had put a fresh green pepper ring.
“How should I know?”
“You knew Johnny Hartman, and you add green peppers to your linguica sandwich.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know where she went. And the cook does the sandwiches. I don’t like green pepper in mine.”
“Okay, so you got good taste in music and bad taste in food. Mrs. Shepard come in here much?”
“Lately, yeah. She’s been in regular.”
“With anyone?”
“With everyone.”
“Anyone special?”
“Mostly young guys. In a dim light you might have a shot.”
“Why?”
“You’re too old, but you got the build. She went for the jocks and the muscle men.”
“Was she in here with someone before she took off? That would have been a week ago Monday.” I started on my second linguica sandwich.
“I don’t keep that close a count. But it was about then. She was in here with a guy named Eddie Taylor. Shovel operator.”
“They spend the night upstairs?”
“Don’t know. I don’t handle the desk. Just tend bar. I’d guess they did, the way she was climbing on him.” A customer signaled Rudy for another stinger on the rocks. Rudy stepped down the bar, mixed the drink, poured it, rang up the price and came back to me. I finished my second sandwich while he did that. When he came back my beer glass was empty and he filled that without being asked. Well, I couldn’t very well refuse, could I. Three with lunch was about right anyway.
“Where can I find Eddie Taylor?” I said.
“He’s working on a job in Cotuit these days. But he normally gets off work at four and is in here by four-thirty to rinse out his mouth.”
I looked at the clock behind the bar: 3:35. I could wait and sip my beer slowly. I had nothing better to do anyway. “I’ll wait,” I said.
“Fine with me,” Rudy said. “One thing though, Eddie’s sorta hard to handle. He’s big and strong and thinks he’s tough. And he’s too young to know better yet.”
“I’m big-city fuzz, Rudy. I’ll dazzle him with wit and sophistication.”
“Yeah, you probably will. But don’t mention it was me that sicked you on to him. I don’t want to have to dazzle him too.”
Chapter 6
It was four-twenty when Rudy said, “Hi, Eddie” to a big blond kid who came in. He was wearing work shoes and cut-off jeans and a blue tank top with red trim. He was a weightlifter: lots of tricep definition and overdeveloped pectoral muscles. And he carried himself as if he were wearing a medal. I’d have been more impressed with him if he weren’t carrying a twenty-pound roll around his middle. He said to Rudy, “Hey, Kemo Sabe, howsa kid?”
Rudy nodded and without being asked put a shot of rye and a glass of draft beer on the bar in front of Eddie. Eddie popped down the shot and sipped at the beer.
“Heap good, red man,” he said. “Paleface workem ass off today.” He talked loudly, aware of an audience, assuming his Lone Ranger Indian dialect was funny. He turned around on the barstool, hooked his elbows over the bar and surveyed the room. “How’s the quiff situation, Rudy?” he said.