quick trip down.
“Whee,” the girl said, as if by rote, without much joy in her voice. “Again.”
Behr obliged. He looked at the girl’s pale white skin, her raisin eyes, her runny nose. Losing her mother was a tough deal, but having her grandmother was a break in her favor. She was starting out somewhere close to even, and Behr wondered where she’d end up.
It was the fourth or fifth time down the slide when Kerry Gibbons emerged from the house. “Here you go,” she said, extending a Ziploc bag that held a blue plastic Goody hairbrush pretty well covered with blond strands. “That’s my daughter’s. Probably some of mine and Katie’s in there too. But like you said …”
“It should work,” Behr said. Then he had her sign the standard release he’d printed out.
“Any way I can get that back after the test?” Kerry Gibbons asked. “It was hers after all.”
“Sure,” Behr said.
“Did you end up finding that Jonesy?” the woman wondered.
“Yes, Jonesy’s been found,” Behr said. Her eyebrows rose in interest at this, but his tone discouraged further questions, and she didn’t ask any.
“Well …” she said.
“Oh, one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m getting some pretty good courtesy extended from the police, so it’d be good if you ran any further inquiries into the case through me,” Behr said.
Kerry Gibbons took his measure with eyes that seemed to know all the angles, and when she was done she must’ve arrived at an acceptable sum. “Okay, Frank,” she said. “Will do. You’re my investigator.”
17
“Should I drop you right fucking now and save the run up?” asked Gene Sasso, the stocky and now bald owner and bartender of the Trough.
Sasso was not happy to see him. In case Behr missed the scowl on his face, Sasso reached under the bar and came up with a sawed-off baseball bat to make the point doubly clear.
Behr hadn’t been to the bar, in fact hadn’t seen Sasso, in close to seven years. He’d last been there in the middle of a period of heavy drinking, self-disgust, and all-around antisocial behavior. Behr had gone from rowdy-patron status, beyond old-friend-in-a-bad-way dispensation, and had even careened past oh-no-it’s-him-again standing.
“Not here for any trouble, Gene,” Behr assured him. He didn’t think Sasso really meant to hit him, but he wasn’t completely sure. Somewhere in the no-man’s-land of his mid-fifties, Sasso was still strong-looking and had a beard going that helped cover the ravages of countless late nights, first as a cop, then as a tavern owner.
“You never come for any, but the shit manages to show up just the same when you’re around,” Sasso said. “All six of my pool cues ended up broken last time you were in. Same for a bunch of my customers.”
“That was a long time ago. And
I
didn’t break ’em all,” Behr said.
“I’m counting the last three that got busted over your back. Andthen there’s that …” Sasso pointed at a badly patched piece of drywall between the doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms.
“Some of your clientele are real assholes, what can I tell you. Didn’t I pay for the damage?” Behr wondered.
Sasso just looked at him, and Behr supposed the answer was no. Not that anyone would notice. At the time the Trough had opened, it looked like the interior wasn’t quite finished, and it hadn’t made any progress since, although that had been nearly ten years ago. The place currently sported a thin crowd of day drinkers seated along the dozen mismatched stools that lined the bar. The assortment of battered tables and chairs was unoccupied, as was a pool table that almost shined because the felt was worn to the slate.
After a moment, Sasso stowed the bat and reached into his shirt pocket for a flash drive, which he held up.
“How you got a world-beater like Breslau to give you this, I’ll never know,” Sasso said.
“My charm is underrated,” Behr answered.
“Charm? Fuckin’
“Whee,” the girl said, as if by rote, without much joy in her voice. “Again.”
Behr obliged. He looked at the girl’s pale white skin, her raisin eyes, her runny nose. Losing her mother was a tough deal, but having her grandmother was a break in her favor. She was starting out somewhere close to even, and Behr wondered where she’d end up.
It was the fourth or fifth time down the slide when Kerry Gibbons emerged from the house. “Here you go,” she said, extending a Ziploc bag that held a blue plastic Goody hairbrush pretty well covered with blond strands. “That’s my daughter’s. Probably some of mine and Katie’s in there too. But like you said …”
“It should work,” Behr said. Then he had her sign the standard release he’d printed out.
“Any way I can get that back after the test?” Kerry Gibbons asked. “It was hers after all.”
“Sure,” Behr said.
“Did you end up finding that Jonesy?” the woman wondered.
“Yes, Jonesy’s been found,” Behr said. Her eyebrows rose in interest at this, but his tone discouraged further questions, and she didn’t ask any.
“Well …” she said.
“Oh, one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m getting some pretty good courtesy extended from the police, so it’d be good if you ran any further inquiries into the case through me,” Behr said.
Kerry Gibbons took his measure with eyes that seemed to know all the angles, and when she was done she must’ve arrived at an acceptable sum. “Okay, Frank,” she said. “Will do. You’re my investigator.”
17
“Should I drop you right fucking now and save the run up?” asked Gene Sasso, the stocky and now bald owner and bartender of the Trough.
Sasso was not happy to see him. In case Behr missed the scowl on his face, Sasso reached under the bar and came up with a sawed-off baseball bat to make the point doubly clear.
Behr hadn’t been to the bar, in fact hadn’t seen Sasso, in close to seven years. He’d last been there in the middle of a period of heavy drinking, self-disgust, and all-around antisocial behavior. Behr had gone from rowdy-patron status, beyond old-friend-in-a-bad-way dispensation, and had even careened past oh-no-it’s-him-again standing.
“Not here for any trouble, Gene,” Behr assured him. He didn’t think Sasso really meant to hit him, but he wasn’t completely sure. Somewhere in the no-man’s-land of his mid-fifties, Sasso was still strong-looking and had a beard going that helped cover the ravages of countless late nights, first as a cop, then as a tavern owner.
“You never come for any, but the shit manages to show up just the same when you’re around,” Sasso said. “All six of my pool cues ended up broken last time you were in. Same for a bunch of my customers.”
“That was a long time ago. And
I
didn’t break ’em all,” Behr said.
“I’m counting the last three that got busted over your back. Andthen there’s that …” Sasso pointed at a badly patched piece of drywall between the doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms.
“Some of your clientele are real assholes, what can I tell you. Didn’t I pay for the damage?” Behr wondered.
Sasso just looked at him, and Behr supposed the answer was no. Not that anyone would notice. At the time the Trough had opened, it looked like the interior wasn’t quite finished, and it hadn’t made any progress since, although that had been nearly ten years ago. The place currently sported a thin crowd of day drinkers seated along the dozen mismatched stools that lined the bar. The assortment of battered tables and chairs was unoccupied, as was a pool table that almost shined because the felt was worn to the slate.
After a moment, Sasso stowed the bat and reached into his shirt pocket for a flash drive, which he held up.
“How you got a world-beater like Breslau to give you this, I’ll never know,” Sasso said.
“My charm is underrated,” Behr answered.
“Charm? Fuckin’
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