Small Town Trouble

by Jean Erhardt

  Like one would expect, the place was mostly filled with guys, but there were a few women sprinkled around which was comforting in a tribal sort of way. If you didn’t count the bare-breasted babe in the spangled cowboy hat who was dancing with a pole that ran from bar-top to ceiling, it all seemed tame enough. I was kind of hoping that the dancer wasn’t Charlene. I don’t know why, but I’d pictured Abbott with a woman who had a full set of teeth.

  The bar maid came along and said, “What’ll it be, girls?” She was the same big-boobed blonde who’d hoisted Rick Rod onto the hood of my car, but I didn’t see any good reason to bring it up.

  She eyed Amy and me in way that let me know she was trying to sum us up. Hmmm, a lesbian couple, or just a couple of chicks trying to get laid?

  I wished her luck. I was still trying to sum us up myself.

  We ordered a couple of Little Kings and helped ourselves to a bowl of pretzels.

  “I can’t believe I’m here,” Amy said as she tentatively eyed the half-naked Dolly Parton rip off who was two-stepping her ass off for tips at the other end of the bar.

  “Not quite the lounge at the Hilton, is it?”

  Amy snorted. “Not quite.”

  The blonde brought our beers and charged us about ten times what we’d paid for Little Kings at Sparkie’s Lounge. Of course, one had to expect to pay extra for ambiance.

  “Say,” I said, nodding toward the Miss Nearly Nude, “is that Charlene?”

  “Who wants to know?” she said, snapping open her traveling bank and making fairly measly change of my twenty.

  I almost said Martina Navratilova, but thought better of it. “Me. I’m Abbott Claypoole’s cousin.”

  This definitely caught her attention.

  “That’s Charlene all right.”

  “I’d like to talk with her.”

  The waitress glanced at the Budweiser clock behind the bar. “She’ll be on break shortly.”

  “Thanks.” I slipped her a twenty.

  “I’ll let her know,” she said, folding up the bill. “And hey, sorry about Abbott. What’s this town comin’ to anyway?” She said it like she could give a shit and left us.

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Amy said. “Or shall I just continue to sit here and look stupid?”

  Amy took a cigarette from her purse and lit it.

  “You don’t look stupid.” I bummed a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands.

  “Are you gonna tell me about the twisted candlestick now?”

  “It was just an allusion to a Nancy Drew book.”

  “So there is no twisted candlestick?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Then I proceeded to fill Amy in on what I knew in the detail department regarding Abbott’s love life.

  “You mean her?” Amy said. I could tell that she was eyeballing Charlene in a whole new light.

  “Apparently.”

  Charlene was quite a sight, but maybe that’s what all topless dancers in mourning looked like.

  “Whoa,” Amy said.

  “That’s just what Ted said.”

  “Whoa,” she said again.

  Then I gave her the rest of the gory story.

  “Oh great. So this is like a serial killer thing?” Amy furtively surveyed the barroom. “Swell. The killer could be right in this room.”

  “Exciting, huh?”

  “Lunatic is the word that comes to mind.”

  “How do you say lunatic in French? It must come up all the time over there.”

  But Amy ignored me. “Damn! I have to pee.”

  “Want me to go with you?”

  She put out her cigarette. “Forgive the unfortunate parallel to recent events, but I’m not a total weenie.”

  “Tell you what, you’re not back in three minutes, I’ll come in after you.”

  “Gee,” she said, sliding off her captain’s chair, “I feel better already.”

  Amy was back from the ladies room in two minutes flat, just in time for break time at Jimmy’s. The jukebox kicked in, and Charlene hopped down from the bar. She slipped on a tight T-shirt and an eager young man in a John Deere cap lit her cigarette. He looked about sixteen. They visited amiably for a moment while the bartender poured Charlene a drink and set it in front of her. She seemed to have her order memorized.

  “Man,” Amy said, “she does have one major set of booballabies.”

  “Booballabies?”

  “Well,” Amy said, sounding a little testy, “what do you call them?”

  “Breasts?”

  “Okay then, breasts.”

  “And yes,” I said, finishing off my Little King, “she does have one major set.”

  I could tell that Amy wanted to follow up on the breast thing. I ordered us another round of Little Kings and waited patiently. It didn’t take long at all.

  “So,” she said, leaning on one elbow, “do you go for women with large breasts?”

  This was going to be more fun than watching the Discovery Channel.

  “I tend to go for women with large ambitions and I don’t necessarily recommend it.”

  Amy said nothing. She just stared at me in a quizzical way.

  But our girl talk was about to be put on hold. It was Charlene Time.

  Chapter 21

  Charlene touched my arm as she slipped into the captain’s chair next to me. “So what can I do for you?” On closer inspection, I could see that Charlene wasn’t really missing teeth at all. It was just that God had left plenty of space between several of her uppers.

  I figured Big Hair had already filled her in, but I ran over it again.

  “I’m Kim Claypoole, Abbott’s cousin,” I said. “And this is my friend, Amy.”

  “Well, howdy.” Charlene set down her drink and we shook. Amy just sort of waved.

  “I hear you were special to Abbott,” I said, delicately. “You must be very sad.”

  “Oh I am,” she said, not convincingly. She lit a fresh cigarette, drained her drink, then signaled the bartender for a refill. “Abbott was a real sweetie pie. What a terrible thing.”

  Gee, she was emotionally torn up.

  “Yeah,” I said, “a terrible thing, all right. And, as I understand it, that makes two terrible things in a row. First Jimmy, now Abbott.”

  Charlene seemed to wait a beat too long. Then she flicked her ashes and said, “Must be some kinda nut loose out there, huh?”

  “Got any guesses as to who that nut might be?”

  She shook her head. “That’s what the police chief asked me earlier today.”

  Chief Cokie and I were on the same trail. But whatever trail that was, so far it was unmarked. And for all I knew, the trail led to a primitive, unimproved campground somewhere east of North by Northwest.

  “Hell,” Charlene went on, stubbing out her smoke. “The world’s full of nuts.”

  “Ever meet a guy named Larry White?”

  Charlene definitely waited a beat too long this time. “Don’t think so. Why?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well,” she shrugged, picking up her drink and her pack of cigarettes, “It’s back to the grind, if you’ll excuse the pun.” She slipped out of her chair. “Nice meetin’ y’all.”

  “Thanks for your time. And, Charlene, do take care.”

  “I guess it’ll just take time to ease the pain, huh?” she said, smiling a poor-wounded-me smile. “You take care, too.”

  “I will.” Somehow, it always makes things a little easier when the grief is shared.

  I really hated to miss Charlene’s next set, if you’ll excuse the pun, but it was clearly time to go. John Deere and his pal, a guy with a gut that came in extra-large, had started to take a keen interest in Amy and me.

  John Deere struck a Rico Suave pose on my left with Fat Boy parked just to his left.

  “Don’t think I’ve seen you ladies in here before,” John Deere said.

  “Don’t suppose you have,” I said, trying to str
ike a cool, but social tone. You really couldn’t blame a guy for trying.

  “Oh, Christ,” Amy whispered on my right.

  “Well, hey,” he said, warming up. “My buddy and I’d like to buy you ladies a drink. How ‘bout it?”

  “Yeah,” Fat Boy chimed in, “how ‘bout it?”

  “Oh, Christ,” Amy said, this time with real sibilance. I was beginning to notice that she had a fondness for repeating herself.

  “That’s awfully sweet of you boys,” I said, “but we’ve got to run along.”

  “So soon?” John Deere said, almost a whine.

  I checked my watch. “Yep, don’t wanna be late for the lesbian barn dance.”

  Fat Boy nudged John Deere and said, “Told ya.”

  I was waiting for Amy to say ‘oh, Christ’ again, but she was already beating feet out to the parking lot.

  “Well, you gals have yourselves a real nice evening,” John Deere said, more than a bit sullenly.

  “Thanks,” I said, “you, too.”

  We wagon-trained it over to Sparkie’s Lounge. Amy and I needed a quiet place where people were fully dressed to mull things over, analyze the data. Plus, we were hungry. A bowl of pretzels just couldn’t be called dinner.

  We grabbed a booth and ordered Sparkie’s Supreme Combo and a bottle of Chianti.

  “The lesbian barn dance?” Amy said.

  I just grinned.

  Amazingly, Mario Lanza was still singing Because You’re Mine. Maybe it was an eight-track tape. The never-ending loop. The eight-track was a great invention. You could hear the Captain and Tennille non-stop until the tape broke or the player exploded. All too often, this was only a matter of minutes. Mad Ted had a nice little collection of eight-tracks which he showed off to anyone who’d pay attention. His pride and joy was Disco Duck, which he liked to play in a little red Panasonic portable. Unfortunately, it only played one track, but it played it over and over.

  The waitress brought our wine and a couple of glasses. I’ll bet she still didn’t know what a hoagie was. Or a Tequila Sunrise either.

  The Chianti wasn’t half bad. Not that I’m a wine snob. I certainly wasn’t the type who needed to sniff out every nuance of anise, leather, roses or the La Brea Tar Pits to enjoy a glass of wine. Call me snooty, but I’d just as soon my wine didn’t taste like fermented grape Kool-Aid.

  “Okay,” I started, “let’s sort things out. So far we’ve got one dead, dickless, topless tavern owner, one dead cousin in like condition, his topless dancer girlfriend who’s not talking and a guy named Larry White who doesn’t exist.”

  “Wanna bet that the police aren’t much further along on this than we are?” Amy said, sipping her wine. “What makes you think Larry White’s connected anyway?”

  “It’s just a lame theory.”

  “He called again, wanted to know if we’d made up our minds on selling the farm. I told him we were still thinking it over. He wasn’t thrilled.”

  “Probably didn’t cheer him up much when Bud Upton told him the WFOG deal is on hold either.”

  “Jeez, he gives me the creeps.”

  I love a woman who says ‘jeez.’ “Has anyone actually met Larry White?” I said.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe he’s just a computer-generated figment of someone’s imagination, like the guy who leaves a message on your voice mail telling you that your library books are overdue.”

  “But the money’s real,” Amy said.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The pizza showed up and it looked all it was cracked up to be. We’d ordered it with extra everything.

  Amy pulled the first slice loose. “Can I ask a stupid question on an entirely different subject?”

  “Is this about breasts?”

  “Sort of. You don’t have to answer.”

  “If I don’t, will I still get to play Final Jeopardy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then shoot.”

  “Well,” she said, drawing it out, building the suspense, “if I were lesbian, would you be attracted to me?” Staring me dead on, she took a generous bite of pizza and chewed.

  She was right on schedule with the If I Were One Question.

  I sipped some Chianti and without breaking eye contact, went pensive for a moment.

  Amy Delozier was a true beauty. Bright, sexy, adventurous and a great sense of humor. Other than the dentist, she was practically perfect. But I needed another married woman like I needed Liberace’s hairless Chihuahua.

  But the question had probably been a difficult one for her to ask, and before I answered I wanted to get the words just right.

  I settled on “Hell, yes!”

  “Really?”

  “Are you nuts? Of course, really.”

  Amy took another bite. “Thank you,” she said through her mouthful of pizza.

  Chapter 22

  That night, in my dream, the original Addams Family was chasing me down the Yellow Brick Road. The sky was black and thick with those hideous flying monkeys and a rather large one had just taken roost on my head. Lurch was about a half-step off my heels and he was reaching out to strangle me when the phone next to the bed rang. It probably saved my life.

  I thought about ignoring the phone, but it could’ve been Nancy. Or Amy. Hopefully not Morticia Addams.

  But I was wrong all around. It was Bud Upton. He’d definitely had his morning drive to Detroit coffee. I envied him.

  Bud was nearly bursting with details to share. By the end of our conversation or, more accurately, Bud’s monologue, I learned a great deal more than I’d expected.

  Bud’s source had told him that the police had a list about a mile long of people who might have taken great pleasure in seeing the late Jimmy Jacobs dead and dismembered.

  Jimmy Jacobs was your basic low-life creep trying to keep his topless lounge and fungoid lifestyle afloat anyway he could. Somehow, apparently he’d managed to keep from getting busted for anything major and had never spent more than 30 days in jail. He owed money to just about everybody he knew and many he didn’t, including the IRS, bookies, suppliers of goods of all sorts, not to mention his three ex-wives.

  “Whoa,” I said, quoting Amy and Ted. “You’ve got one excellent source, Bud.”

  “Thanks,” Bud said. “Actually, it’s my brother, Irvin. He wanted to be an FBI agent, but got into a little trouble awhile back. Oh, and on Larry White? Can’t find anyone who’s actually seen him in the flesh. It’s entirely possible, even probable, that whoever he is, he’s never even been to Fogerty.”

  “I guess that makes it hard to pin two murders on him.”

  “Very hard. Listen, Kim,” Bud said, taking on a paternal tone, “your cousin, Abbott, and Jimmy Jacobs probably tangled with the same scumball whose psycho streak flares up now and then, and from what I understand, that’s about half the clientele at Jimmy’s Place. So I wouldn’t let my imagination run wild on this Larry White angle. Let the cops figure it out.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Bud.” Actually, I wasn’t all that convinced of it, but I said it anyway.

  “Under the circumstances it’s reasonable enough to put the WFOG deal on hold for now. Let’s just not let it get too cold if we’re serious about the money.”

  “Excellent point. I have one more question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Did Jimmy Jacobs have an ex-wife named Charlene?”

  “Let’s see.” I heard him rattling his papers. “How’d you know that?”

  Charlene was certainly popular. I wasn’t sure exactly what it meant that she had been both Abbott’s squeeze and fungoid Jimmy’s ex-wife, but I had a feeling that more than love grows where Charlene goes.

  “You said that Jimmy had other exes. You have names?”

  “Yeah,” Bud said, hesitantly, “but I’m not sure it’s a great idea to give them to you. I hear you’ve already made one field trip to Jimmy’s Place.”

  “Gee, your brother is thorough.” />
  “Obsessively so.”

  “How about if I say pretty please?”

  “Gosh, I’m a sucker for pretty please.”

  I liked it that Bud was showing a little life. I just hoped it didn’t get in my way.

  “All right,” he said, “here it is. Ex-wives include Charlene Jones, Cherry Kirchbaum and Pebbles Dugger. And guess what? They’re all dancers at Jimmy’s Place.”

  “Cherry and Pebbles?”

  “Be careful.”

  I hung up with Bud and could easily have rolled over, covered my head with a pillow and gone back down dreamland’s Yellow Brick Road, but I was still a little haggard from my last trip. Amy and I had been out way past midnight. Not that we hadn’t had a swell time, it was just that midnight was way past my usual bedtime.

  And it showed. I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I was sorry I did, but I did it mostly to make sure I still had one. Weary was the word that came to mind. Another word was aging. At just past forty, I wasn’t wearing my wine, women and late bedtimes as well as I used to.

  After about ten additional seconds of self-reflection, I’d had all I could handle for the morning, possibly the week.

  I took a quick shower and headed downstairs for coffee.

  Evelyn already had a pot on. She was sitting at the table reading the Fogerty Journal and eating her bowl of Cheerios. Bunky was lounging in the chair next to her. He looked up long enough to snort at me when I came into the kitchen.

  Ignoring Bunky’s rude behavior, I said good morning to Evelyn and bee-lined it for the coffee.

  “The coroner’s finished with Abbott,” Evelyn said, setting her newspaper aside.

  This was not Breakfast Talk Lite. “Any news?” I was hoping JFK’s missing adrenal glands hadn’t turned up. Things were already weird enough.

  “Guess not.”

  This was good news I supposed. I took a sip of the lousiest cup of coffee I’d had since yesterday.

  “Abbott’s gonna be cremated,” Evelyn said, holding out her cup for a refill. “The boys’ll keep his ashes until they figure out what they want to do with them.”