by Ray Flynt
The driver kept staring at me every few minutes in the rear-view mirror. I started making a funny face when he looked and killed that habit after two more glances from him. I settled back in the seat and watched as the world drifted by my window.
As I’d done on my last trip to Ruddigore’s, I got a phone number for the driver and promised to call him when I was ready to return home. To ensure he’d return, I gave him a generous tip.
I shimmied out of the back seat, put the witch’s hat on my head, and walked toward the bar.
When I entered the front door, a roar went up from the crowd as people spotted my costume. I smiled, which lasted a moment, until a slob at the bar yelled out, “Hey, look, it’s the Wicked Bitch of the West.”
Thanks to colored latex gloves which I’d found at the Halloween costume shop, I popped a green middle finger at the oaf taunting me, prompting a chorus of “Whoa” from his buddies.
Ruddigore’s looked a lot busier than my last visit. I spotted an empty table for two on the far wall with excellent views of the whole room and I headed toward it. A young woman who couldn’t have been older than a college sophomore said, “Nice outfit” as I passed.
After a minute or two adjusting to the dim light conditions, I scanned the room hunting for Skull Sanders, Jack Barkow, and Axel Elverson. Skull was playing pool with a guy I didn’t recognize, though he looked college-age. The guy’s girlfriend—dressed to resemble Kim Kardashian—clung to his arm when he wasn’t taking shots.
I couldn’t see Barkow, but Axel had pulled up a chair next to two guys across the room from me, and they were engaged in intense conversation. This wasn’t a back-slapping, see-any-hot-girls-you-like discussion. I might have been influenced by the meeting we’d had that morning with Curtis Franks, but it was easy to imagine Axel drawing them into a drug deal.
Phil’s plan to offer half-priced drinks to those in costume worked. Eighty percent of the tables were occupied and standing room only at the bar. In addition to Phil, a second bartender worked the room and took orders. I wondered if it was Steve, the bartender Brad had met previously.
None of the guys standing at the bar wore costumes, but nearly half the people at the tables did. Phil seemed to be lenient with the half-priced discount for any first responder whose uniform could be considered as meeting his criteria. Creative costuming appeared in short supply, since many just stuck on an odd-ball shirt from their closet, a pair of farmer overalls, or a weird hat. One dude even draped a sheet over his head with holes cut for the eyes—like Patty had suggested for us. Unfortunately, with the cowboy boots on his feet he looked more like a Klansman than a ghost. I was tempted to call him over and use lipstick to write “Casper” on the front of his sheet.
I glanced at my watch, wondering where Patty might be, when I heard the tinkle of the bell at the entry door. In swept Patty in her southern belle gown, blonde wig, and with a tiara that looked like a cardboard Burger King crown spray-painted silver and doused with sparkly glitter. From her theatre experience, Patty knew how to make an entrance. She stepped a few feet into the room, fluffed the edges of her skirt, and waved her wand in a circular motion at the guys playing pool.
They loved it. Oohs and aahs rewarded Patty.
Wish I could make my entrance again.
With her long skirt, Patty appeared to float across the room looking like Glinda from the original Wizard of Oz movie. At first, I imagined she was trying to find me—vanity kept her from wearing her glasses, but I stuck out in the crowd. Then I realized she knew where I was seated; she was just searching for her next date. Patty is quite the party animal.
Patty approached my table acting like she was seeing me for the first time.
“Can you sit in that dress, or do you have to hover about all evening?” I asked.
“I can sit. I’m wearing a couple of crinoline petticoats instead of the wire frame, which is how it came for the wedding.”
The second bartender approached.
“Hi, Steve,” I cooed, testing my theory. He smiled. I’d guessed correctly.
“We’ll have two light beers.”
“Bottle or tap?”
“Tap.”
“Make it a pitcher,” Patty yelled after him.
I grinned as I gave Patty’s costume the once-over.
“What?”
“You look just like Glinda.”
“Thanks.” She beamed.
I stared at her wand with bristles at one end coated with glitter matching her tiara. “The magic wand is a nice touch.” After further inspection, I said, “Is that a toilet brush?”
Patty grinned. “Yes.”
“Ewww.”
“It’s brand new. I bought it at the dollar store. Where is he?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Where’s who?”
“You know, the lad young enough to be my son.”
I rolled my eyes. “Over near the pool table.” I leaned my head in that direction. “The guy in the middle.”
“He’s cute.”
“Like a cobra.”
“What did you say?”
I swatted the air with my hand. “Nothing.”
Steve returned with a pitcher of beer as Patty had requested. I paid cash and added a reasonable tip. I didn’t want to run a tab in case we had to make a hasty exit.
Patty poured a glass from the pitcher and kept ogling Axel.
The TV aired a soccer game. Over the noise of the game and the din of the crowd, I leaned forward and whispered in Patty’s ear. “He’s one of the guys we came here to keep an eye on.”
“He’s easy to look at.”
“That’s not the point. My boss thinks they might be dealing cocaine.”
“Like nose candy?” Patty said innocently.
“Where did you learn that?”
Patty shrugged. “I watch all those cop shows.”
She could have knocked me over with a feather.
Musicians arrived and began to set up near the karaoke equipment. It would soon get a lot noisier.
I had just finished pointing out Skull as one of the other men we were watching, when Jack Barkow walked through the front door.
He wore a surly expression and fist-bumped Skull as he rounded the pool table heading for Axel’s table.
I took my phone from my purse and asked Patty to stand for a picture. I motioned for her to move to the right, since I intended to capture photos of the four guys gathered at the table behind her.
“Smile…wave your wand,” I urged, as I zeroed in on Barkow, Elverson, and the two younger guys.
Phil brought bottles of beer for Barkow and Elverson. He didn’t collect any payment from them.
I asked Patty to hang on to our table while I visited the little girl’s room.
When I returned I noticed a man seated alone at the table immediately behind mine and paying rapt attention to the same group of people I’d been watching. Then I saw his prosthetic right hand. It had to be Saul Kasheski. His interest in what Barkow and Elverson were up to reinforced Brad’s theory.
“Time for a selfie,” I announced to Patty. I summoned her to stand next to me. I lined up my phone so that Kasheski’s face was visible between our shoulders.
I checked the picture and his face was recognizable but dark. Damn.
Behind me, lights came on to illuminate the musicians. “Let’s do another,” I suggested. I could tell from the view on the phone screen that this one would turn out much better, and I snapped the second shot.
After I returned to my seat, Patty decided to circulate. I envied the easy way she mixed with people. Patty had a soft-spoken simplicity, which came across as naïve to strangers. Because I’d once worked with her, I knew she’d been around the track enough to play “dumb like a fox.”
The band, named “D”—perhaps it stood for dumbestnameever—started their set.
The group consisted of a keyboard, saxophonist and vocalist. They played tunes mostly from the 80s and 90s. First responders mig
ht appreciate their music, but the college crowd would have to sit through oldies all night for the chance to buy beer unchecked.
I sipped my beer and observed the room. I noticed a couple seated at a table for two near the bar. They looked to be in their thirties and didn’t fit the profile of the other customers. I could only see the man from the back. He had on a brown suit and a preppy haircut, and kept dipping his hand into a bowl of pretzels. She had short black hair, wore a gray suit with white blouse, and sipped from a glass of clear liquid, which could have been vodka or maybe club soda. I wondered if they might be from Internal Affairs, sent by Curtis Franks. But if so, with all the cops in the room they should have been made by now.
Still, she was doing the same thing I was doing—watching the room. Our gaze met for an instant before she turned away, after which she leaned forward and spoke with her “partner.”
The vocalist sang a tune made famous by Sheena Easton.
I glanced over to see what Barkow and Elverson were up to. Nothing. Patty flirted with Elverson, even though she was old enough to be his mother. He enjoyed the attention and blushed as Patty felt his biceps. Her presence halted any further business between the men.
I tried to catch Patty’s attention to motion her to move on, but to no avail.
Saul Kasheski rose from his table, walked over to Barkow and pulled him aside for a conversation.
No sooner had Kasheski left his seat than a young couple took possession of the now empty table.
Ruddigore’s had filled up. All the tables were taken, a college guy tried to “borrow” Patty’s chair, but I wouldn’t let him. Phil laughed it up with patrons at the bar, and Steve worked the room taking orders and returning with drinks ASAP.
Just as the band took a break, a man dressed as a pirate walked in with brown dreadlocks and a red bandana on his head, topped with a tri cornered hat. He sported a five o’clock shadow, mustache, and eye-patch.
The same jerk who’d dubbed me the Wicked Bitch of the West, yelled, “Hey, it’s Cap’n Jack Pigeon.”
The man took the put-down in stride, ordered a bottle of beer and proceeded to clink bottles up and down the row of guys at the bar. Then he turned, scanned the room, arched his eyebrow not covered in a patch, and spotted me. He bowed deeply at the waist in full pirate character and strode toward me.
Cap’n Jack gestured toward the open seat across from me. When I didn’t see Patty in the vicinity, I said, “Sit down, Brad.”
Brad leaned toward me. “Do I look as foolish as I feel?”
“You fit right in. You’d stand out if you weren’t in costume. Kasheski’s here. He’s talking with Barkow.” I nodded in their direction, and Brad casually turned to check it out. “The guy sitting in the middle at the table next to them is Axel.”
I gave Brad the rundown on all I’d observed and my suspicions on Axel priming the guys for a drug buy.
The band resumed after their break with Shania Twain’s “From This Moment On.”
Brad spotted another couple starting to slow dance. He took my hand and said, “Let’s dance.”
If I hadn’t been wearing green makeup, I would’ve blushed. “I’m gonna rat you out to Beth.”
He laughed. “This is strictly business. She’ll understand. Besides, while we’re dancing I can be less conspicuous watching people.”
I turned us a hundred and eighty degrees and suggested Brad check out the conservatively-dressed couple at the table near the bar. “I haven’t seen him drink, and I’m willing to bet she’s sipping club soda. I think they’re cops.”
“Sharon, Ruddigore’s caters to cops.”
“I don’t think they’re Philly cops. I haven’t seen anyone else acknowledge them.”
Brad spun us in a different direction. “Feds?”
I honestly didn’t know. “Oh my God,” I blurted, a little too loudly.
“What?”
“Patty’s dancing with Skull.”
We twirled so Brad could see.
He laughed. “She moves fast. Does she know he’s one of the guys we’re watching?”
“Yes.” I sighed. “He’d be easier to ‘watch’ if she weren’t pressed against him.” I doubted waxed dental floss would slide between them.
“The guy sitting next to Axel just pulled his wallet out. I want to dance closer to them,” Brad whispered in my ear.
We made a few fancy moves and soon stood close to their table. I saw the kid extract two Benjamins from his wallet. Axel motioned for him to put them away after the kid showed he’d be good for the money.
The street value of an eightball—one-eighth of an ounce—of cocaine was $150 to $200.
The sax player took the mic to sing “Never Gonna Give You Up.”
We returned to our table. I said to Brad, “Don’t look now, but Ms. Club Soda is on the move,” adding, “and so is the other guy.”
She approached the table next to ours, flashed a badge, and I heard her say to the two young ladies sitting there, “Liquor Control, I’d like to see your ID.”
Her partner confronted two guys with his badge at a table on the opposite side of the room. While one of them dug out his ID, the other bolted for the door.
Word of the agents’ presence spread quickly, and the bell mounted on the front door sounded like Tinker Bell on steroids as patrons spilled out of Ruddigore’s in droves. The liquor agents appeared unconcerned at the defections. They would have observed no carding by the bartenders and could document several instances of underage drinking—enough to cite the establishment for liquor law violations.
In a matter of minutes, patronage dwindled to less than a dozen. They were regulars, I presumed, or ones who couldn’t bear to part with more than half a glass to consume.
The male liquor control agent now confronted Phil who looked grim.
The guys we’d been watching disappeared in the confusion.
Brad removed his tricorne hat. “We’re not going to accomplish much more tonight.”
Patty wandered toward where Brad and I sat, saying, “Where did everyone go?”
“There was a liquor control raid for underage drinking,” I explained. “As a result, our efforts were a bit of a bust.”
Patty beamed. “Oh, I don’t know. I had a good time.”
“We noticed.” I still couldn’t believe she’d gotten so cozy with one of our suspects.
“I managed to get a date for Friday night.”
I resisted an eye roll. “That’s nice, Patty.”
“And Donald promised to bring me an eightball of cocaine.”
Brad and I stared at each other in disbelief.
27
Brad and Sharon arrived back in Bryn Mawr after 11:00 p.m. Upon leaving Ruddigore’s, they thanked Patty and called a taxi for her. Once Patty had left, they crossed the street to visit Starbucks where their costumes caused a fuss. Following lattes and a debrief on the events of the evening, they caught a cab for the trip home.
Brad chuckled to himself every time he pictured Patty referring to Skull Sanders as Donald. He doubted she’d be keeping her date with “Donald” on Friday night since Brad expected Curtis Franks would take disciplinary action before then. If not, the LCB raid on Ruddigore’s might prompt Skull and the others to lie low.
In spite of a short night’s sleep, Brad managed to rise early the next morning and spend a half hour in his gym before fixing a breakfast of granola and yogurt.
With his wall-mounted TV tuned to the Today show, Brad sipped coffee and perused The Philadelphia Inquirer. As if there weren’t enough depressing news in the newspaper, the local news break showed a video of the remains of three American soldiers killed in Afghanistan being returned to the US. He remembered hearing of their deaths over the weekend when he visited Ruddigore’s. How far away that moment felt.
The TV screen showed an honor guard receiving the flag-draped coffins of the fallen soldiers for processing at Dover Air Force Base before their bodies would be returned to home communities an
d families. The Secretary of Defense was on hand for the ceremony.
At 7:30 a.m. Brad muted the sound on the TV and called Nick.
“It’s Brad,” he announced when Nick answered.
“Don’t you realize I have a real job now and can’t be helping you out at all hours of the day and night?” Nick laughed.
“Are you at your office?”
“Yeah. I’m making sure nobody forgets who the boss is. It’s amazing how much activity I missed for only being gone one week.”
“I’m sure Ruth’s happy.”
“Ecstatic. You have no idea.”
Nick sounded like his old self.
Brad updated Nick on developments, starting with Riley Truit’s disappearance and finishing up with what had transpired at Ruddigore’s.
“I heard about the raid,” Nick said. “One of my detectives stopped by to tell me. He was there last night.”
“Small world. Do you think Franks alerted the Liquor Control Board after our meeting yesterday?"
“Don’t know.”
Brad waited for him to say more, but nothing came. “Well, I’ll catch up with Grayson to see if he’s heard any news from Truit. If not, Sharon and I will try to track him down. I’m headed to Houston this afternoon for a board meeting. If and when Franks takes any action, give me a call.”
“I will.” Nick disconnected the call.
Brad returned to his bedroom suite and spent the next hour reviewing all of the paperwork Andrew had sent him for the special meeting of the Joedco Board. He liked to separate Joedco matters from his detective business and kept those papers in the bedroom, employing a small desk his dad had formerly used for his home office.
Finally, he packed an overnight bag for the trip to Houston and dressed in the suit he’d wear for the meeting.
Brad dropped the bag off in the trunk of his car and headed for the office shortly after 9:00.
He found Sharon sitting on her side of the partners’ desk. Pointing at her chin, Brad said, “I think you missed a spot of green makeup.”
“Ha, nice try. I took an hour last night getting it all off. If I’d known how long it would take, I might have dressed like Little Bo Peep.”
