Chat - Archer Mayor [82]
It was Friday night and the place was packed—a harbinger, he hoped, of her business prescience. He knew that many were here out of curiosity, of course. She’d even warned him about that. Not to mention the offer of opening night discount beer.
Bars weren’t really his preference. He spent most days out in the public eye. Rest and relaxation for him came in isolation, most happily in the woodworking shop that he’d attached to his house on Green Street. He’d supplied almost everyone he knew with lazy Susans, birdhouses, and magazine racks as a result, and himself with some substantial furniture.
But he recognized the value of bars, and their historical place, as among the earliest of democratic gathering places. Vermont’s own independence, it could be argued, found birth in Bennington’s Catamount Tavern, where the likes of Ethan Allen—an archetypal barroom bully—took time off from being a lout to act like a leader.
Joe’s gaze swept across the crowd. There were Allens aplenty here tonight, if appearances were telling, from the brooders to the boisterous. But, in Lyn’s favor, they remained a minority, vastly outnumbered by those simply seeking a good time and companionship.
If she was able to maintain the present mood and clientele, her prospects looked good.
“How’s it going, boss?” Sam asked, having appeared at his shoulder.
Joe waved at the activity before them. “See for yourself. A runaway success. You come home with the bacon?”
But she wouldn’t be so easily derailed. “Dispatch said I’d find you here, with what they called your ‘person of interest.’”
He smiled, shaking his head. “That sounds like Maxine. God, what a small town.”
“So, where is she?”
Joe finally turned in his seat to look at her. “You that much out of the loop?”
Sam punched him gently in the shoulder. “Come on, boss.”
Joe faced forward again and gestured to Lyn, who’d been subtly keeping tabs on him.
She came down the length of the bar with a smile.
“Lyn Silva,” he said as she drew near, “this is Sam Martens, my right hand. You don’t call her Samantha, and she won’t call you Evelyn.”
The two women exchanged greetings, laughing at the introduction and eyeing each other carefully.
“I have to go,” Joe told Lyn. “Duty calls. Congratulations again on making the deadline.”
Lyn leaned over the bar and kissed him on the cheek, which he felt was as much for Sam as for him. There were a couple of moans and whistles from nearby customers.
“Thanks for coming, Joe. If you’re still up at two, come back.”
“I will,” he said, sliding off his stool and heading toward the door with Sam.
“Dishy,” she said, grabbing the knob and letting in a blast of cold air.
“Dishy?” he asked, incredulous.
Chapter 19
Lester Spinney was already at the office, writing his report about the Pennsylvania trip on his computer. It was late, after nine.
He looked over his shoulder as Joe and Sam entered, and raised his eyebrows at Sam. “So, what does she look like?”
“Enough,” Joe told him. “Her name is Lyn Silva. She just opened up the new bar on Elliot, and we’re just friends.” He circled his desk and dropped his coat across the back of his chair, sitting down heavily before adding, “Christ. I can’t believe I just said that.”
“It’s okay, boss,” Lester said. “Rumor has it that’s a nice way to start a relationship. Good going.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, hoping to end the conversation. “What did you both find out?”
Fitting her character, Sam began first, pacing the small office as she spoke off the cuff. “Red Fred, Ready Freddy, or R. Frederick, as he registered at the motel, turns out to have been Frederick Nashman, of greater Waterbury, Connecticut. Middle-class, married with a kid, worked at an insurance office. He had no record to speak of, was unremarkable at work, according to his boss, and, from what I could get out of the wife, was about the same at home. He bowled, played cards with the boys every Saturday night at the Elks, took the family out to the movies about twice a