to be the Dairy Queen. Even at night people were visible, their body-heat making a glow on the screen.
I studied it for a moment and heard myself say, “Impressive.” With that Walter grinned; he was waiting for that; he wasn’t hard to please.
We drove in silence for the next few minutes, until we turned onto a gravel road, which led down a path between trees and tall grass, and pulled up to a country bar and grill, with a neon sign which read “Estella’s,” whom I assumed to be the owner. The place was so far away from the city that it was probably frequented by bikers and ranchers, farmers and country folks. From the looks of the parking lot, it didn’t seem very crowded, and Walter parked near the road. The parking lot was also made of gravel, and we had a long walk to the building. I saw a few motorcycles, and hoped there wouldn’t be any young toughs looking for trouble. I asked Walter about this, and he remarked that the bikers here were older fellows who liked peace and quiet like most people in our age group.
I admired the motorcycles for a moment but made sure not to touch them. As we turned to enter the establishment, I asked Walter about the silent treatment in the city. He said, “I don’t like to talk much on the city streets; cops have radar guns, and sound guns, like the ones used in televised football games, exist. It wouldn’t be too hard to put the two in one contraption. There are lots of cops in the city but not many out here.”
This made sense, in a way. “So when did cops become the enemy?” I asked.
“Cops aren’t the enemy per se,” answered Walter, “They work for the enemy, the government. The Man. The Elite. Big Brother. The Watchers. The…”
“I get the idea,” I said, interrupting his flow. “You don’t like being monitored. Well, nobody does.”
We walked into the bar and took a booth far away from anybody. The place was bigger than it looked on the outside, and had a homey, pleasant appeal, with lots of wood paneling, wood tables, wood chairs, a small stage, and a wide open middle wooden floor (for dancing, I presumed). There were a few pool tables at the far end of the place, but they weren’t being used at the moment. It was a little dark, but thank goodness it seemed to be clean. Someone put a quarter in the jukebox and an old but pleasant Beatles’ song played, “If I fell in love with you…,” a mournful tune.
“We can talk freely in here,” said Walter. “The jukebox plays continually, and I’ve swept the place for bugs more than once.”
“I assume you mean microphones,” I joked, hoping to make Walter laugh. I failed this time.
“This is a clean establishment,” he said with a straight face. “You could eat off the floor here.”
“I see. Well. Maybe I’ll do that sometime.”
“I know the owners,” he said. “They’re good people, not riff-raff.”
“It was just a joke,” I replied, beginning to understand Walter had emotional ties to this place.
This was about all the small talk and chit-chat that Walter could handle; he wanted to get to the matter at hand, because that was his nature. He looked around the room, and seeing very few people and nobody within earshot, turned back to me and said, “Why did you need to see me?”
I cleared my throat; I’d need that and a clear mind for this sales pitch. “Well, Walter, I have a problem, and I have a need for a man with special talents, you.”
“Why don’t you tell me what this problem is all about, and then we can decide if I want to get involved in this or not?” he said.
Fair enough. Without mentioning any names, I told Walter the story of an old friend who was having family troubles, who suspected her husband of having an affair with a younger, richer woman. I told him of what I’d found in a quick search on the internet, and mentioned that I wasn’t very deep into this problem yet, since I was still digging for information. I did mention that the girl in question’s name was Susan Lovely.
“Susan Lovely?” Walter suddenly sat up. “Heir to the Lovely chocolate empire?”
I was beginning to see that Susan Lovely would soon become a household name in Lovely; I was surprised that Walter knew of her; I probably shouldn’t have been.