Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

Marvin lived in an area of middle-class homes, small houses on small lots with architecture typical of the ’40s and ’50s. I slowed, absorbing the flavor of the neighborhood. Exteriors were stucco or frame, roofs made of aged red tile or an asphalt material fashioned to resemble shake. I could see the care with which property owners maintained their parcels. Most kept their lawns mowed, the hedges clipped, and their wooden shutters painted. While the homes weren’t large or lavish, I could see the appeal to someone like Audrey, whose other stops in life had included at least one state prison and a few local jails. Moving in with him, she must have thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

I circled back to State Street and turned right, rolling past a short stretch of businesses, most of which were closed. Streetlights shone bleakly on a barbershop, a darkened hardware store, a Thai restaurant, and a hair salon. I remembered a small bar along here somewhere because I’d seen it in passing.

I went around the block and spotted it on my return. I’d missed it the first time because the signage was poor. The name of the bar, Down the Hatch, was painted on the front of the narrow yellow building, which was modestly illuminated. The point was apparently not to attract new patrons, but to cosset the loyal, long-term clientele. The door stood open, revealing a comforting darkness within, relieved by a blue-neon beer sign on the back wall. I parked on the nearest side street and approached on foot. I picked up the smell of cigarette smoke from a hundred yards away. A haze of tar-and-nicotine residue hovered in the doorway like a curtain one had to pass through to gain entry. This meant a trip to the cleaners where I’d picked up my denim jacket the day before. I deserved far more money than I was being paid.

Once inside, I was assailed by odors of beer, bourbon, and sour dish towels. Two tall clear-glass cylinders with glass lids had been set side by side at the near end of the bar, one holding a murky liquid, brandy perhaps, in which peaches or apricots had been submerged. The other was half filled with pineapple rings and maraschino cherries. The heady scent of fermentation lent an aura of Christmas to the atmosphere. As in many bars, there were assorted television sets mounted across the room, no two tuned to the same channel. One choice was an old black-and-white gangster movie with lots of guys in fedoras toting tommy guns. Option two was a boxing match, and three was a night baseball game probably being played in the Midwest. Rounding out the selection was a home-improvement show in case you were unsure how to use a miter box.

Marvin stood at the bar, where guys were layered two deep, crowded against the knees of drinkers who’d staked out the black leather bar stools. Marvin wore charcoal dress pants and a sport coat over an open-collared polo shirt. He had a martini glass in one hand and in his other a lighted cigarette. His gaze flicked to me, veered off, and returned. He smiled and raised his glass.

“Hey, guys, look who’s here. This is that private detective I was telling you about.”

His coterie of stalwart drinkers turned as one, five pairs of eyes fixed on mine, some more focused than others. There were introductions all around. I made a quick study of the women, easy since there were only two of them. Geneva Beauchamp was in her late fifties, heavyset, with shoulder-length gray hair, bangs cut severely across her forehead. The other woman, Earldeen Rothenberger, was tall, thin, and round-shouldered, with a long neck, slightly undercut chin, and a nose that might have benefited from the gentle adjustments of a plastic surgeon. I had to chide myself. These days when so many women have undergone correction, refinement, and reconstruction, you have to admire those who accept what they were given at birth.

The men were more difficult to sort out, primarily because there were three of them, and the names came so rapidly I hardly had time to separate them. Clyde Leffler to my immediate left was clean-shaven with a sparse gray pompadour, bony shoulders, and a sunken chest, accentuated by a green V-neck acrylic sweater, which he wore with jeans and running shoes. Buster Somebody, his physical opposite, had a big chest, heavy arms, and a bushy black mustache. The third fellow, Doyle North, had probably been handsome in his twenties, but he hadn’t aged well. The fourth fellow of the sixsome had gone off “to see a man about a dog.” He’d be back shortly and Marvin said he’d introduce him.

I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m never going to remember who’s who anyway.” I leaned closer to Marvin so I could make myself heard. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t except occasionally when I drink. Speaking of which, can I buy you one?”

“No, thanks. I’m a working girl. I have to keep my wits about me.”

“Come on. A little something. A glass of white wine?”

I declined, but the words were lost in a momentary outcry of excitement and dismay. I looked up in time to catch a replay of the last few seconds of a prize fight in which one fellow hit the other so hard, you could see his jaw dislocate. Marvin was already inching toward the waitress, who was picking up a tray of drinks at the far end of the bar. I saw him lean in and say something to which she nodded before heading to a table. Marvin made his way back, holding his drink aloft to avoid an errant elbow knocking into it. His cigarette he also held above the fray lest he sear small holes in the clothing of those he sidled past.

When he reached me, he gave the bartender the high sign, and I watched the man amble over to our end of the bar. Raising his voice, Marvin said, “This is Ollie Hatch. He owns the place. Ollie, this is Kinsey. Anything she wants, she gets.”

“My pleasure,” Ollie said. He reached across the bar and the two of us shook hands.

Marvin turned to me. “You have business cards?”

“I do.” I searched the depths of my shoulder bag and came up with the little metal case in which I carry my cards. I gave him six and he held them up, saying, “Listen, gang. You think of anything that might be useful, Ollie’s got a bunch of Kinsey’s cards. She’d appreciate any help she can get.”

This did not generate an outpouring of pertinent information, but perhaps the timing was off. He passed the cards across the bar to the owner and then took my arm and steered us to one side. The noise level made it impossible to converse. If he lifted his voice and I tilted my head, I could still pick up only disjointed portions of what he said. “Apologize again for that business with the newspaper gal. Guess I got carried away…”

“She set you up. She’s done it to me too.”

“Say again?” Marvin put a finger behind the flange of one ear, pressing the rim forward as though to capture more sound.

I was about to raise my voice and repeat myself when I decided what I’d said wasn’t worth the effort. I pointed at the door and he pointed quizzically at his chest. I nodded and moved toward the exit with Marvin close behind. I more or less fell through the open door. The fresh air was so chill and clean, it felt like I’d stepped into a refrigerator. The noise level dropped to a blessed hush.

I said, “I don’t know how you stand it in there. You can’t hear a thing.”

“You get used to it. Crazy bunch. We call the place the Hatch. We’re Hatchlings. Most of them have been coming here for years. Place is open seven days a week. Tonight was rowdy for some reason. Lot of times it’s dead. You take it as it comes.”

He glanced down. “Hey now, the waitress never brought your drink. Hang on and let me see if I can catch her…”

“I’m not here to drink. I’m hoping to pick up the key to Audrey’s house in San Luis. I’ve got time in the morning to make the round-trip drive.”