Pale Kings and Princes

“Or maybe a jock, except you’re kind of old.”

“But lithe,” I said, “and still vigorous.”

Virgie grinned. “Bet you were, though,” she said. “You weren’t born with that nose.”

“Used to box,” I said.

“See,” Virgie said, “I know something.”

I drank some beer.

“So what kind of business you in?” Virgie said. She was leaning her left hip against the beer chest below the bar. Her arms were folded, and she talked to me by turning her head left toward me.

“Detective,” I said. “I’m here to see if I can find out what happened to Eric Valdez.”

Virgie straightened and turned fully toward me. “Jesus Christ,” she said.

“There’s that,” I said.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said.

I drank some beer. Virgie walked down to the other end of the bar and began to slice lemons into neat half circles. Probably struggling with her libido. I drank the rest of my beer.

“May I have another beer, please, Virgie?” I said.

She came down and drew the beer and put down a new paper napkin and set the beer in front of me. She rang up the bar bill and put it back down in front of me.

I said, “Virgie, are you mad ’cause I’m a detective?”

“I got nothing to do with that Valdez thing,” she said.

“Never probably ever even heard of it,” I said.

“Look,” Virgie said, “you may be a big tough guy...” She shook her head.

“Valdez stayed here,” I said. “He probably drank at the bar. He was, ah, flirtatious. He’d have talked with you.”

“Lotta people talk with me. I’m friendly. Part of my job.”

“Sure,” I said. “And you don’t remember anything about any of them. Any more than you’d notice that my nose has been broken.”

“You a state cop?” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “Private.”

“A private detective?”

“Un huh.”

“And you’re out here alone asking questions about Eric Valdez?”

“Un huh.”

“Chief Rogers know you’re here?”

“He said I was a wiseass and he didn’t need me,” I said. Virgie almost smiled.

“You know any of the women Valdez was dating?”

“No. Or anything else. Get it? I don’t know anything about Valdez. He came in here, had a few drinks, made small talk, left. That’s what I know.”

“Where’s the action in town,” I said.

“What kind of action?”

“Booze, music, women, good times,” I said.

“Here,” Virgie said.

I looked around. “People come flocking in here evenings to feast on salmon loaf?” I said.

Virgie shrugged. “Nothing else around, for singles stuff,” she said.

I drank some beer.

“You a private cop, who you working for?” Virgie said.

“Central Argus,” I said.

She nodded. “Figures,” she said.

“Because Valdez worked for them?” I said.

“They been stirring up trouble down here for a long time,” Virgie said.

“Or maybe there has been trouble down here for a long time and they’ve just been reporting it.”

Virgie shrugged again. “They’re paying you,” she said.

“Much coke around here?” I said.

“You got me,” Virgie said. “You looking to score some?”

“Maybe.”

Virgie shook her head. “No, you’re not. You do coke like I do caviar. You aren’t the type.”

“It’s my clear blue eyes and square jaw,” I said. “They’re always giving me away.”

“Sure,” Virgie said. “You got any clues about Valdez?”

“No,” I said. “I was hoping you might.”

“See you’re not listening to me,” Virgie said. “Watch my lips. I don’t know anything about Valdez.”

“Or coke?”

“Or coke.”

“Or Chief Rogers.”

“No.”

“Or anything that isn’t small talk.”

Virgie nodded. “Hey,” she said. “Man’s a quick learner.”

“If you were me,” I said, “who would you talk with.”

“If I were you, I’d go home,” she said.

“And if you didn’t do that, what would you do?” I said.

“Nothing,” Virgie said. “I wouldn’t do nothing.”

5

The specials didn’t bode well for the Reservoir Court dining room so I went out to a supermarket and bought some fixings and a six-pack of beer and went back to the motel to dine alone. I got some ice from the ice machine in the corridor and cooled the beer in a wastebasket I had tuna salad and coleslaw and whole wheat bread and some paper plates and plastic cutlery, and a jar of bread and butter pickles. Green vegetables are important.

I made supper and marveled at the progress I had made in only a day. The police chief had told me to get lost, after careful probing and a liberal application of the old rough-hewn Spenser sex appeal the woman tending bar had told me to get lost. So far my only success was not getting carded at the Wheaton Liquor Store. I sipped from my bottle of Samuel Adams beer. I was on an American-beer binge. Working on the assumption that locally brewed is fresher and hence tastier. The Sam Adams seemed fresh and tasty, thus confirming my suspicions. Who said I couldn’t detect. Who said I couldn’t find a whale in a fishbowl. Who had said that Valdez was fooling around with Colombian women?

I hadn’t mentioned that. Bailey Rogers had said that. It was after all the suggestion of a clue. If Valdez had been having an affair with a Colombian woman, that cut the suspects from 15,734 to fewer than 5,000.