across the desk.
“I
hear our boy is missing his head,” Cliff said without segue. “I also hear
someone who passed by that night reported seeing a man dressed all in black - a
dark man they called him - lurking outside his trailer.”
His
question provided the sheriff with a bargaining chip, presenting an exchange
which could benefit both of them.
“Tell
you what Cliff, you help me and I’ll help you. How does that sound?” Sam
proposed. “I need your help on these cases but I need you to keep the subject
of what we’re about to talk about off the record.”
“Off
the record huh? Well, I suppose I could do that so long as once this is over
I’m the first to get the whole skinny,” Cliff responded. “What about the head?”
“Tell
you what Cliff, you help me out and before I leave I’ll tell you all about the
head,” Sam offered.
His
bargain was readily accepted by the small-town journalist. Cliff was intrigued
since he was rarely called upon to help solve a case.
“Deal,”
Cliff answered as he leaned forward interested in what was on the sheriff’s
mind. “So what’s this matter that you need my help on? I’m all ears.”
“What
do you know about the old Red Dog?” Sam asked.
His
question obviously set the wheels rolling in the reporter’s mind. Cliff sucked
his empty pipe and furled his brow.
“Wow,
the old Red Dog,” Cliff repeated as he reclined in his chair, lacing his
hands behind his head. “Funny how that place won’t die after all these years.
So do you think there’s a connection between these killings and the old
saloon?”
“Hey,
you’re supposed to be providing the answers right now, remember?” Sam pointed
out. “I’ll return the favor in a few minutes.”
Cliff
nodded in agreement. He squinted almost like he was trying look back in
time and access the long forgotten drawer where he had deposited the Red Dog
file.
“Let's
see," Cliff began. "The Red Dog was built sometime back during
the 1950s off East Ridge Highway. It started out as just a little package
store, not really much more than a shack. Over the years the owners kept adding
a little here and a little there until it grew into a regular bar. Actually, it
was quite a popular little hang out during the sixties and seventies. There
were a lot of folks who would head out there on Saturday nights for dancing and
drinking. They even had a Bingo game out there on Tuesdays. Back then it wasn’t
that bad. Sure you’d get a fight here and there, but it wasn’t anything your
regular bar doesn’t see. It was one of those places you’d go with sawdust on
the floor, peanut shells crunching under your feet, thick with cigarette
smoke.”
Lowering
his tone, Cliff recalled a change that came over the well-known club in
the early eighties.
“At
some point Earl Cutts took over the place. I believe it was sometime in the
eighties,” Cliff revealed. “That’s when things started to change. See, it was
around then they passed legal liquor in Easton so bars started popping up, nice
pubs folks could go to instead of the old Red Dog which was getting pretty long
in the tooth by then. Plus the Red Dog was out in the country located right on
the most dangerous curve in the whole county. Frankly, whoever built the place
should have had his head examined. I know of at least two people who got killed
out there by wandering out in the highway which was just a few steps from the
front door of the bar. I mean drunks and traffic don’t mix.
“Now,
once the decent folks started frequenting the clubs in the city, the Red Dog
turned into a hangout for thugs and rednecks. As I think you know, back during
the eighties and until it burned down in the nineties, you didn’t go out there
unless you knew how to use your fists. It was the first place some folks
stopped after they got out of the penitentiary and was pretty popular with your
wannabe tough guys. Of course the fact Earl Cutts ran the place added to the
issue since he
“I
hear our boy is missing his head,” Cliff said without segue. “I also hear
someone who passed by that night reported seeing a man dressed all in black - a
dark man they called him - lurking outside his trailer.”
His
question provided the sheriff with a bargaining chip, presenting an exchange
which could benefit both of them.
“Tell
you what Cliff, you help me and I’ll help you. How does that sound?” Sam
proposed. “I need your help on these cases but I need you to keep the subject
of what we’re about to talk about off the record.”
“Off
the record huh? Well, I suppose I could do that so long as once this is over
I’m the first to get the whole skinny,” Cliff responded. “What about the head?”
“Tell
you what Cliff, you help me out and before I leave I’ll tell you all about the
head,” Sam offered.
His
bargain was readily accepted by the small-town journalist. Cliff was intrigued
since he was rarely called upon to help solve a case.
“Deal,”
Cliff answered as he leaned forward interested in what was on the sheriff’s
mind. “So what’s this matter that you need my help on? I’m all ears.”
“What
do you know about the old Red Dog?” Sam asked.
His
question obviously set the wheels rolling in the reporter’s mind. Cliff sucked
his empty pipe and furled his brow.
“Wow,
the old Red Dog,” Cliff repeated as he reclined in his chair, lacing his
hands behind his head. “Funny how that place won’t die after all these years.
So do you think there’s a connection between these killings and the old
saloon?”
“Hey,
you’re supposed to be providing the answers right now, remember?” Sam pointed
out. “I’ll return the favor in a few minutes.”
Cliff
nodded in agreement. He squinted almost like he was trying look back in
time and access the long forgotten drawer where he had deposited the Red Dog
file.
“Let's
see," Cliff began. "The Red Dog was built sometime back during
the 1950s off East Ridge Highway. It started out as just a little package
store, not really much more than a shack. Over the years the owners kept adding
a little here and a little there until it grew into a regular bar. Actually, it
was quite a popular little hang out during the sixties and seventies. There
were a lot of folks who would head out there on Saturday nights for dancing and
drinking. They even had a Bingo game out there on Tuesdays. Back then it wasn’t
that bad. Sure you’d get a fight here and there, but it wasn’t anything your
regular bar doesn’t see. It was one of those places you’d go with sawdust on
the floor, peanut shells crunching under your feet, thick with cigarette
smoke.”
Lowering
his tone, Cliff recalled a change that came over the well-known club in
the early eighties.
“At
some point Earl Cutts took over the place. I believe it was sometime in the
eighties,” Cliff revealed. “That’s when things started to change. See, it was
around then they passed legal liquor in Easton so bars started popping up, nice
pubs folks could go to instead of the old Red Dog which was getting pretty long
in the tooth by then. Plus the Red Dog was out in the country located right on
the most dangerous curve in the whole county. Frankly, whoever built the place
should have had his head examined. I know of at least two people who got killed
out there by wandering out in the highway which was just a few steps from the
front door of the bar. I mean drunks and traffic don’t mix.
“Now,
once the decent folks started frequenting the clubs in the city, the Red Dog
turned into a hangout for thugs and rednecks. As I think you know, back during
the eighties and until it burned down in the nineties, you didn’t go out there
unless you knew how to use your fists. It was the first place some folks
stopped after they got out of the penitentiary and was pretty popular with your
wannabe tough guys. Of course the fact Earl Cutts ran the place added to the
issue since he
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