Last Call

by Paula Matter

  “And he never caught on?”

  “Diane’s very sneaky when it comes to Dick, but there was one time she got caught. I clean her house once a week and she doesn’t want Dick to know. He says it’s her job as the wife.” I shuddered. The wife. I hated that expression. It was almost as bad as the old lady. “Anyway, one time her check bounced and the bank contacted Dick. He was royally pissed. Gave her hell for ‘throwing his hard-earned money away on something she should do herself.’ From then on Diane paid me in cash.”

  “She has guts. What if he found out?”

  “I think she cares more about keeping up with Pam than pissing off Dick. Although there was talk when Diane was gone for a few days after that happened. All sorts of speculation and rumors.”

  Michael asked, “Such as?”

  “Somehow word got out about the bounced check. They all thought it too much of a coincidence when Diane suddenly went to visit her mother in Gainesville. People were saying Dick had roughed her up and she was laying low at home until the bruises cleared up.”

  “Is there a history of abuse between them?”

  My mind flashed to Tuesday night at the club when Dick grabbed Diane’s arm and yanked her away from talking to me. And how she’d been wearing long sleeves lately. I told Michael what I was thinking.

  “So you think she’s covering up bruises?”

  “Could be.” I shook my head. “No, wait a minute. That’s not right. Diane wore long sleeves the day before Dick pulled her arm. Oh, hell, I don’t know. Unless she did something else to piss him off. I know he left her to empty their car trunk, the rotten bastard, so maybe they’d had a fight that day. Would’ve been Monday.”

  “The same day you think Dick was eavesdropping on you and Sam?”

  “Yeah.” I closed my eyes and replayed the conversation that day with Sam. He’d given me a cup of coffee, asked if Jack’s notebook was in the truck, if the police thought it could be a robbery. I told him that Bobby Lee said only my scrunchie was found. I shared what I remembered with Michael.

  “Doesn’t sound like much to me. And Dick said nothing to you?”

  “Nope. Not even a greeting. But that’s not unusual for him.” I picked up my legal pad and flipped through my notes. “I keep going back to what Gussie said about two people and two cars. And how she didn’t see Sam leave.”

  “I wouldn’t think she stands there all day and night looking out her window. Did she say if Sam’s truck was there?”

  “I didn’t ask, but Sam has a reserved spot on the other side of the parking lot. I’m pretty sure Gussie wouldn’t be able to see it from her window.” I didn’t feel like looking through more of my notes, so I pulled Jack’s notebook from my stack. I flipped open to the page I’d been reading.

  Dec. 18, 1962

  Spent last three days drunk. Joined a vets club near here. Good guys. Talked to one guy who has the same problem as me. Said I should take notes of everything. It’s helping him remember. Doctors don’t know what’s wrong with him. He said his dreams are bad, real bad. Hard to get through most days. Forgets shit all the time. I still haven’t told him about Daryl. Don’t know if I will. But I am going to start keeping track, writing shit down, giving myself reminders.

  Dec. 19, 1962

  Back to work. Told the boss my story, said he’d give me another shot but to watch myself. VFW is a good place, good guys. They know. They just do.

  Dec. 20, 1962

  Writing in here is helping. I got notes all over the place. Haven’t been forgetting as much, but I still keep all the damn lights on. Joon used to hate that. Dreams still bad.

  Dec. 21, 1962

  Not sleeping. Got to be at work in 2 hours.

  “Michael, do you know anything about post-traumatic stress disorder? I think Jack may’ve had it back in 1962.” I read the last page aloud to him. “See what I mean?”

  “I know a little. Of course, they didn’t have a name for it back then. PTSD began to become known in the 1980s, if I’m remembering right from what I read. It was called shell shock or battle fatigue for the World War I vets. From the little bit you just read to me, sure sounds like he suffered from it.”

  “Poor guy. I’m glad he at least had the VFW back then.” I went back to reading.

  The next thing I knew I felt the car slowing down. Michael was pulling off of the interstate.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “You needed a nap, don’t worry about it. We should be at the hotel in a half hour.”

  “Good.” The dashboard clock read 5:40. I retrieved Jack’s notebook from where it had slid to the floor at my feet.

  Dec. 22, 1962

  Guy at the VFW told me about a place he goes to. Invited me to tag along. Said it might help. Told him I’d think about it. Not ready, if I ever am ready to tell him or anyone about what happened to Daryl. He thinks I’m just not talking about the bad war stuff. He told me it helps him to keep a diary, just write down whatever shit he doesn’t want to talk about. I told him I already do that. Some shit is nobody’s business. And what I did to Daryl isn’t anybody’s business.

  Twenty-Seven

  “Okay, here it is,” Michael said and swung into the Holiday Inn parking lot. Just after six o’clock, it was dusk. I wished we had arrived earlier in time to see the sun set over the Gulf. “I made reservations under my name. Connecting rooms.”

  I remembered Diane’s remark about connecting bedrooms. This time I blushed and I grabbed my bag and followed him into the hotel. Our rooms weren’t ready for some damn reason, so we went into the lounge to wait.

  The only customers in the place, we had no trouble getting seats at the bar and the bartender, a pretty young thing named Stephanie according to her name tag, waited on us immediately.

  As soon as we got our sodas, Michael’s cell phone rang. Stephanie smiled and pointed to a sign behind her. No Cell Phones At the Bar.

  Good idea. I should put one of those up behind my bar.

  Damn. Where had that thought come from? I had no bar, no job. Hell, I was teetering on having no life.

  I sipped my soda while I waited for Michael to return. The lounge was really nice. A little too dark for my taste, but the stools were comfortable and good music from the ’70s played in the background. The bar had a back mirror just like my bar. Let it go, Maggie, let it go. Because it was a real bar, there were dozens of different liquor bottles lined up on the shelves. Tequila, Absolut, Grey Goose. The officers at the club were always adamant about keeping it simple—just cheaper stuff and no fancy drinks. That made me think of Abby and the first time I’d met her.

  “That was Chris,” Michael said as he sat down. “Everything’s fine, she called to say hi.”

  “Good.” I looked at the rows of bottles again. I finally realized what had been bugging me in the back of my mind and told Michael. “I knew something about the bar looked wrong. Sam never would’ve lined the bottles up like that, so why were they set up that way?”

  “Because he lied to us and to the police.”

  Sadly, I nodded.

  “Mr. Bradley, your rooms are ready.” The young man from the front desk stood behind us. “Sorry for the delay. My manager says to give these to you,” he said handing Michael two business-sized cards. “Dinner for two, our compliments.”

  Cool. Now I could pig out without worrying about how much it cost. Sheesh. Here I was thinking about food when I just figured out Sam’s lie. We grabbed our bags and headed up to our rooms. I dropped my bag on the bed, unlocked the deadbolt on my connecting door, and knocked on Michael’s side.

  When he opened the door, I said, “Let’s talk some more. Your room or mine?”

  “Come on in,” he said and moved aside to let me in.

  Our rooms were identical, decorated in the standard hotel chain motif. Light aqua walls, floral bed
spreads, paintings of beach scenes hanging on the walls. I’d brought my legal pad with me and dropped it on the round table by the window, then sat down.

  “Give me a minute, I’ll be right there.” He walked back over to his bed and started unpacking. He lifted a shirt out of his bag, walked over to the tiny closet, and hung it up. I watched as he did this two more times with a pair of slacks, then a pair of shoes. Back and forth from the bed to the closet. Couldn’t he carry more than one thing at a time? Sheesh. Tapping my fingers on the table, I hoped when he went into the bathroom with his shaving kit, he’d be about done. The shower curtain rattled and I pictured him putting his shampoo and his own bar of soap away. He came back out to his bag, pulled out briefs, socks, and a T-shirt and carefully placed them in the top drawer of the dresser.

  I knew enough to wait until he’d completely finished. Sure enough, after he zipped up the bag and put it on the floor of the closet, he came over to the table.

  “All set?” he asked and he sat down across from me.

  I nodded. “Ready if you are.” Thank God, finally. I got my pencil and legal pad ready to take notes while we talked.

  “Now, back to Sam. It’d been bugging me that something was different about the liquor bottles. When Sam trained me, he was very specific on how the bottles were lined up on the shelves, so whoever was working could just grab the bottle needed. He also wanted them wiped clean every night. When I talked to Sam on Monday, the same day as the beer delivery, he almost knocked over a bottle. That’s when I noticed the bottles seemed dusty, like they hadn’t been cleaned in a couple days. It was the same day the bar itself felt sticky.”

  “Monday. The same day you saw Dick and Diane at the club.”

  “That’s right. And it was on Sunday, the day I was ‘arrested’ that I first noticed the bottles looked different. They weren’t lined up properly. The bottle of Jack Daniels was in the wrong place on the shelf. So much was going on, and I wanted to focus on the guys in the back of the room, that it didn’t click until now.”

  “So, Sam either didn’t train Abby as well as he did you, or he didn’t close that night. And if he didn’t, who did?”

  “And why lie about it? Sam told Bobby Lee that he had closed, but he had to have left early. That would explain Gussie not seeing him come out with Pete and Abby. It’s not a big deal if he asked an officer to lock up because they have security codes, but if he let Pete do it … yeah, that’s serious. But, according to JC and Dick, they both left at eleven thirty. And Kevin—another officer—had left around the same time. So, all the officers were gone before closing that night.”

  Michael asked, “If Sam gave Pete his code, that’s a big deal?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’d be a very big deal. Sam could get into a lot of trouble,” I said. “He could lose his job and even be suspended from the club. Sam’s been a member of the VFW for over forty years. I don’t think he could handle being kicked out.”

  “If Sam lied, then it makes sense that Pete closed, using Sam’s code. I assume each officer and bartender has their own code?”

  “Yeah, we do. Sam keeps a list of them in his office. Anyone could get to that list. Which would explain why it looked like I had been there at three thirty that morning. Someone used my code to set me up for Jack’s murder.”

  “That and the scrunchie in Jack’s truck,” he said.

  “Pretty lame, don’t you think?”

  “Explains why Chief Lee never arrested you. Maybe he actually does know what he’s doing.” He blinked his big brown eyes at me. “But, getting back to Sam—since Jack always wrote down any infractions, wouldn’t Sam be worried? I mean, Jack would’ve known Sam left Pete to lock up.”

  “That part doesn’t make sense. Unless Sam bribed him? Maybe gave him a year’s supply of beer chips? That’d keep Jack quiet.” But I couldn’t see Sam doing that. First of all, we don’t have that many beer chips, and I would’ve been suspicious. Wonder what excuse Sam would’ve come up with to explain why Jack Hoffman suddenly had all those beer chips.

  I didn’t want to believe it. Not of Sam. No way was he the killer. “We’re on the wrong track. We have to be, Michael.”

  He shrugged. “I know you hate to believe it—so do I—but it does make sense.”

  “Yeah, but, c’mon. Sam? He’s the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Sam wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  Michael stood up and stretched. “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat downstairs and we’ll talk more. Okay?” He checked his pocket to make sure he had the meal cards.

  I wanted to stay put, but he was in charge—well, the one with the car keys anyway. Plus he had the free food cards, so I went.

  After we’d ordered and I was sipping another soda, I said, “No way in hell do I believe Sam killed Jack. I do believe he lied about closing that night, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go.”

  He pulled a pen and a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Okay. Let’s make a list of questions we want to ask Abby tonight.”

  “Abby’ll be able to tell us whether or not Sam closed with her Saturday night. She can let us know if it was Pete, or even someone else. Also, who all was there that night at closing time?” I sighed and made a face. “Unfortunately, she was only there the one night, so she may not know people—who’s who.”

  Michael shook his head. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem. You can just describe people to her. Pam, Diane, all of them are easy to distinguish.”

  “True.”

  Michael moved his pen and notebook aside when the waitress delivered our meals.

  I looked at his plate and immediately wished I’d ordered that instead of what was in front of me. Feeling bold, I took a forkful of his pasta, making sure I’d also stabbed a shrimp with it. Delicious. I dug into my own stuffed flounder.

  “Chris told me a joke when she called earlier. Want to hear it?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled, my mouth full.

  “It’s a knock-knock joke.” He waited for me to stop chewing. “You ready?”

  “Yep, go ahead.”

  He leaned closer. “Okay. You start it.”

  “Knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it.

  Michael burst out laughing at my confusion.

  “Smartass,” I said and joined in the laughter. “I’d tell you one of my jokes, but they’re all dirty.” I thought back to some of the good, funny times while working at the club. I hoped my next job would be somewhere I could be myself and not get in trouble for it. Smartass and all. I’d think about that later.

  “You okay, Maggie?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You were laughing, then smiling, then a sad little look came over you.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I said, and I told him about what I’d been thinking. “Once this is all over, I can concentrate on finding a job. I’m not worried. Not too much anyway.” Thankfully my bills for the month were caught up. I’d deal with April when it arrived. Only a week away, but I’d deal with it somehow. Too bad I was a lousy cook or I could take Sally up on her job offer.

  “Good. Do you want dessert? I’m just having coffee.”

  “Coffee sounds good to me too. I’ll need to stay awake when we go see Abby. I’ve gotten into the habit of going to bed earlier.” Just one week ago, I’d spent my one night off with a bag of popcorn and a novel. Good times, oh yeah. Tonight was band night, and I wondered how well Sam would handle it. Then he’d turn around and have to be back in the morning to have the Sunday brunch.

  “What should we expect tonight, Michael? Any ideas?” Since there weren’t any other pictures on the website, I didn’t have much to go on. I pictured a real dive, the kind of place I’d be afraid of sitting down in. Oh, God, I prayed I wouldn’t have to use a restroom. I’d have one more cup of coffee, then make sure it was all gone before we l
eft.

  “I did some checking with the local department—police department—and was told there’s never been any trouble.”

  “So, it’s not a strip joint?”

  Michael shook his head. “According to the authorities, it’s a nice, upscale place. And they would know.”

  Terrific. I’d packed jeans and a simple blouse. Could be I’d be underdressed. Maybe not as much as some of the other women, but still.

  Twenty-Eight

  As it turned out, my attire fit in fine. And I was glad to see I wasn’t the only woman customer in the place. Groups of men and many couples were seated at the bar and at tables on the main floor.

  A large stage, complete with two cages on either side of a brass pole, jutted out into the audience section. Michael and I found a table and sat down. A cocktail waitress clad in a French maid outfit, very sexy and alluring, welcomed us and took our drink orders.

  I relaxed immediately. No need to be all leery or afraid or apprehensive. I’d even be comfortable using the restroom if I had to.

  The waitress returned with our drinks. Michael paid her—including a nice, hefty tip, I was glad to see—and asked, “We’re looking for Abby Quon. Is she working tonight?”

  “She sure is. She’s on at nine, about an hour from now. Would you like me to tell her you’re here?” The waitress looked from Michael to me, then back to him. “Are y’all friends of hers?”

  “I worked with her for a while,” I answered. “At the same club.”

  She eyed me up and down. “Oh?”

  So I didn’t clarify it wasn’t at a men’s club. Let her think what she wanted.

  Michael said, “We’re Michael and Maggie. Any chance you could ask her to stop by our table before or after her dance?”

  “Sure, I can. Be happy to.” And she sauntered off. I watched her move to another table.

  “Hell, I could look like that if I wanted to.”

  Michael raised one eyebrow.

  “I could. If I were twenty-five years younger. And eight inches taller and about forty pounds lighter. Actually, if I was that tall, I wouldn’t have to lose weight.”