College libraries don’t, as a rule, carry many mysteries, but I got lucky. The browsing room had Ross MacDonald’s The Zebra-Striped Hearse. I first read it fifteen years ago, a time when I read about private eyes without thought of being one. I found a comfortable chair in a comer near the window and began reading. Lew Archer would show me the way.
“Sir, sir!” I felt someone nudging my shoulder. “You’re disturbing the others,” the voice sternly warned.
“Huh, ah...” My mouth felt like wax. I opened my eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, very sorry,” I tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I must have dozed off.” The librarian turned and walked away. Students at a nearby table snickered. I blinked a few times and realized it was close to sunset. How could I just fall asleep like that? Looking at the book, I saw that I only got to page fifty-seven. Oh, brother, I thought. Well, at least I won’t be too tired tonight.
After putting the book on a table, I went to the water fountain. No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t get the dryness out of my mouth. I must have sucked an awful lot of air.
Back in my car, my stomach started growling and I headed for the Blue River Rib Company for their special — all the ribs you can eat for $8.95. I knew that I’d feel a lot more like myself after dinner.
The ribs were spicy, just the way I like them, and they served beer in quart mason jars. After three plates and two beers, I was content. Singles were filing into the bar’s lounge as I was leaving. I checked my watch: 7:20, a little too early for Berrini’s, so I sauntered through the double western doors and looked for a seat at the bar. All the scats had backs with wraparound arms. Just great, I thought. Even if I could have fit into one of them, which was doubtful, they’d have to call the rescue squad to get me out. I stood at the bar and ordered a schnapps.
The waitresses there wore short shorts with flowered blouses; their midriffs and backs were exposed. Some people would think that to wear an outfit like that, the girls would have to be thin. These weren’t. They looked fine to me, but I liked the way they dressed before — a black leotard top, a dark red skirt slit up to the waist, black stockings and heels. Almost anyone would look good dressed like that. No, I reconsidered, let me take that back.
I looked around the lounge. It was nothing special — hardwood floors, ceiling fans, a lot of instruments set up in a far corner on what could be a small stage, vinyl booths, and a good many small Formica tables. A woman, about thirty, sat at one near me. She looked like she had been crying. I never could understand why people cried. Maybe it had something to do with hormones, which reminded me of an old joke. I smiled. The woman at the table looked at me and scowled. Maybe she thought I was smiling at her.
I ordered another drink. The place got to be about half-full. I tried to spot a smiling face without having much luck. Maybe frowning was in. I wondered if people practiced in front of mirrors. It was not a happy thought. I finished my drink, paid my chit, and headed across town to Berrini’s.
I had never been there, before and took two wrong turns, which I didn’t mind. It was still early. When I did find it, I thought I was at the wrong place. It sat on a quiet part of Broad Street, and there were nothing but empty parking spaces in front of it. I parked and went in.
The place was chic, at least compared to where I’d been. The cut-glass doors opened to a solid walnut bar. Behind it was the biggest mirror I’ve ever seen topped by a panel of dim orange lights. At the bar were stools — no backs, no arms. Maybe my luck had changed. I took a seat and ordered a schnapps. No sense in mixing drinks unnecessarily. The bartender smiled. She was about forty, short cropped blond hair, and wore a black dress with short-heeled black shoes. She had on a string of pearls as white as her teeth. Her smile was warm. I hoped she would smile again.
There were only a few people seated at the twenty or thirty small tables that extended a good way back to the stage. They were covered with white linen, and white linen napkins rested like crowns in the center of the place settings. A single, live carnation in a small glass vase dotted the center of each table.
On the stage, a large, three-part mirror like those old changing screens covered the back wall. In front of it was a baby grand with large bouquets of pink flowers on it. They were too far away for me to tell what kind they were. Both walls had the kind of lights I remembered theaters having when I was a boy.
“What do you call this decor?” I asked.
“Art deco,” the bartender replied smiling and then quickly went to a table almost directly behind me. A kingdom for that smile, I thought.
I was the only one at the bar. I looked at the man at the table through the minor. He was talking to the bartender, and she was paying close attention. Maybe he was the owner. He looked about my age but was a little taller, and his gray suit fit him well. My suit always looked like I slept in it. He wore what I imagined was an old school tie and had the habit of looking at her over the top of his half glasses as he spoke. A large, partly smoked cigar lay in the ashtray in front of him. He caught my reflection in the mirror and held my eyes for an instant before I turned away. I felt a pain rise in my chest. Schnapps usually took care of that. Give it time, I told myself, but I couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was gallstones. My hands became clammy. I had to concentrate on my case, gallstones or not.
Maybe I could ask that man, if he was the owner, or the bartender if Lauren would be in tonight. I took out her picture and looked at it again. I began rehearsing my pitch about being her father, but then gave it up. Fathers just don’t go searching for their daughters these days. Or do they? I always wanted to have a daughter, a grownup daughter. One that would meet her old dad for a drink in a place like this and tell him about how great things were going for her. Yeah, I could almost see her talking excitedly, forgetting the time and then remembering that she had to rush to catch a plane to go to a UN reception. She’d smile like sunshine, kiss me on the cheek, squeeze my arm, and then be off.
“Another drink?” the bartender asked.
I looked up startled.
“Must be a fascinating picture,” she said.
“It’s my daughter,” I replied automatically. “I guess you caught me reminiscing.” I smiled and put the photo back in my pocket. I don’t think that she saw it. “Sure, I’d love to have another drink.”
“Coming right up.”
Two black men, about forty or so, came in and sat at the other end of the bar. She brought me my drink and then took their order. I’ve seen a lot of bartenders before, and this one was a real pro. She mixed the drinks in front of them with speed and aplomb, if not style. They were drinking those funny-looking drinks that took four different kinds of liqueur.
A few younger couples came in and took tables near the stage. The bartender served dinner to the man behind me. Whatever it was, it sure smelled good. No, I just couldn’t eat again, I managed to convince myself. A tuxedoed waiter took orders from the tables.
A man stepped on stage and began playing the piano. It sounded like a mix of classical and jazz. The music was faintly familiar; in fact, the whole place seemed that way. After two tunes, he was joined by another man who sat across the stage from him and started playing saxophone in a bluesy tone. After the first sixteen bars I recognized it. It was “Blue Moon.” “Moon River” followed that and then “You Send Me.” I was aware of other people coming in but didn’t really pay attention. The music, lighting, maybe my drinks, and especially the bartender’s smile were pushing me off the edge of a daydream.