Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,23
an appropriate amount of stubble appeared on his chin. He passed his left hand across his face, nodded approval, then checked the time.
“Four-thirty . . . Must be nearing happy hour down at the docks.”
On the way to the Red Admiral, he made one detour to drop off the blood samples for analysis at TX Bio-Lab. “Thursday’s the best we can do,” he was told. “Wednesday night, maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
Although Rosco had never entered the Red Admiral, he’d driven past it, and had had the opportunity to observe the arrivals and exits of its clientele. Almost all appeared to be commercial fishermen: men accustomed to spending a month chasing cod on the outer banks, running through their earnings in a weekend, and then shipping back out, broke and hungover. Their brief hours on land were dedicated to consuming the tavern’s inventory of alcohol. Lacking any permanent home, some men even used the Admiral as a mailing address; for them, it was all they knew of stability. There were, of course, fishermen in Newcastle with families, houses with mortgages, kids in school, and wives holding regular jobs. However, these men did not frequent the bars on Water Street.
From the sidewalk, it was impossible to see into the Admiral. The door was solid if battered; the two small, grimy windows bracketing it were curtained with dense beige cloth. Displayed in the left window was a neon Miller Lite sign; the right held a blinking Budweiser sign. When Rosco stepped through the door, all conversation ceased; the eight customers—all of whom were men—swiveled their eyes, although not their heads and bar stools, in his direction.
Rosco opted to sit on the right side of the horseshoe-shaped bar. He noticed that no one sat with their back to the door, and followed suit, leaving two empty stools between himself and the next customer. Then he spun around slowly on the stool, appearing to study a collection of neon domestic beer signs littering the walls while he waited for the bartender to amble over—an event that took a good five minutes.
The man was balding, in his late forties or early fifties with a hefty build, bulging gut, and arms that were preternaturally long, giving him a decidedly apelike appearance. He hadn’t shaved for several days; suspicion was etched in his scruffy face. “Are you from down Baltimore way, or just looking to get your neck broke? This is Red Sox country, pal.”
Rosco removed his hat and pretended to ponder the black-and-orange oriole. “I work out of Maryland a lot. Don’t pay much attention to baseball. It’s functional.” He placed the hat back on his head.
“What kind of work.”
“Chesapeake stuff. Stripers and blues, mostly. Crabs when those slack off.”
“What brings you to Newcastle?”
“On my way to Maine.”
“Yeah? What’s in Maine?”
Rosco shook his head slightly. “Death in the family . . . Not that it’s any of your damn business.”
They exchanged an icy stare that lasted until the man to Rosco’s right tossed a five-dollar bill toward the bartender.
“Hell, Vic,” he said, “give the Oriole a beer on me. Closest I’m ever gonna get to Cal Ripkin.”
With a show of dismissal, Vic reached below the bar, uncapped a Budweiser long neck, and slid it toward Rosco. No glass was offered. As he turned to the cash drawer, the front door of the Red Admiral flew open and a huge man strode in. He was thick-shouldered, bullnecked, ham-fisted, and padded with as much fat and muscle as a prime steer; he was also probably only twenty-one years old. A toothy smile was pasted to his blubbery face, and a wad of cash stuck in his upraised left hand. He slammed the money down on the bar. “The Sally-B is back, and Charlie Yarnell’s buying the beers.”
For the next two hours the atmosphere resembled that of a stag party. It took Rosco that long to get the patrons to accept him—without noticing he wasn’t keeping pace with their alcohol consumption—and another hour before the subject of the Orion was introduced. Naturally, it was the newly returned Charlie who instigated the discussion; despite being a regular customer, Yarnell’s questions elicited only the most evasive answers from Vic Fogram. “I don’t know more than they’re saying on TV,” the tavern owner kept repeating.
“Was she burning when you found her?” Rosco finally interrupted, making the question sound as disinterested as possible.
“Nah . . . We hit a surprise squall that night. Short and sweet . . . Happens all