. . . Back in Port St. Joe:
Aunt May was sitting straight up in bed for the first time in months. She needed both hands to clutch the cold metal can. “Preston won’t let me drink this stuff.”
Coleman crunched his own empty can against the side of his head Belushi-style and cracked another. “Plenty more where that came from.”
“What did you say this movie was called?”
“Pulp Fiction.”
“It’s not boring at all.”
“Hold on.” Coleman pointed. “This is one of the best parts.”
May leaned forward in bed. “What do you think that nice young man is going to do with that syringe?”
“Keep watching.”
Travolta came down with the needle in the heart.
“Wow, that was intense!” said Aunt May. “I never knew anything before about heroin. Are there other movies like this?”
“As many as you want to watch.” Coleman popped a fresh can and placed it in the old woman’s hands. “There you go.”
“You’re a very nice young man.”
Chapter 6
The Sawgrass Lounge
Reevis Tome entered the joint. It was one of those places where you could still smoke. He coughed and stopped to let his eyes adjust. All heads around the oval bar slowly turned. Bikers, barflies, suckerfish. They looked the baby-faced reporter over and returned attention to their highball drinks. Some smirked at first. That was the Reevis Effect.
He took a seat away from the others, at the end of the bar nearest the door, indicating a level of discomfort. Again, a Reevis tactic. An auburn-haired bartender strolled over.
“What can I get ya?”
“Diet Coke.”
She had some mileage but she was sweet. “Coming right up.” Reevis always did better with the women bartenders in knife-and-gun clubs, especially if they were moms. She came back with a soda. “That’ll be a buck.”
Reevis handed her two dollar bills. Another strategy. He raised the soda. “What’s your name?”
“Clementine.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.” She left and went back to taking orders from rough trade at the other end.
Minutes passed. Laughter. Someone stuck money in the juke and punched up “Kaw-Liga.” That would be a Hank Williams song, both junior and senior, but this was the original recording from 1952. More time passed. Reevis quietly finished his drink. That was his approach. Wait.
Sets of malevolent eyes occasionally gazed down the bar at Reevis, without concern of being noticed. Reevis noticed. Peripheral vision. It was the first thing he did in unfamiliar waters. Chart all points of potential confrontation. This time, an out-of-work plumber facing spousal battery, a middle-rung crack dealer bearing battle scars, and two bikers with probationary patches on their jackets. The last always carried a hammer on his belt, but he wasn’t in construction.
Outside in the Suburban: “What’s he doing in there?”
“He ordered a soda a few minutes ago, but since then nothing.”
Nigel pounded his door panel. “Why did I let him talk me out of bursting in with the camera?”
“What are we going to do?” asked the videographer.
“Okay, I know a way to make this work,” said Nigel. “Turn the camera on me.”
A lens focused on Nigel’s face.
An urgent, hushed tone: “Our reporter has fallen into the hands of dangerous elements. We must go in now!”
Nigel jumped out of the Suburban, followed by the cameraman. He raced toward the lounge. “Remember to make it jiggle.”
“It’s jiggling,” said Günter.
Nigel reached the door and was just about to open it . . .
“Hold up!” Günter placed a hand to the side of his head, where a small earpiece provided an audio feed from Reevis’s lapel mike.
“What is it?”
“I think the kid is making some kind of progress,” said Günter. “We should retreat and wait to see how it plays out.”
“Okay,” said Nigel. “Put the camera on me.”
“You’re on.”
“Pull back! Pull back!” Nigel sprinted for the Suburban, and a jiggling camera followed.
Inside the bar, Reevis had raised a single finger.
The bartender strolled over with a smile. “Another Diet Coke?”
“Sure.”
A refilled glass was set in front of him. “Thanks, Clementine.” Two more dollars.
She began to walk away.
“Oh, excuse me?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Well, uh, I’m a local reporter, and I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” said Reevis. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
“I’m supposed to do a feature on an old crime case that was never solved. A woman went missing about four years ago, and I heard maybe her car was abandoned behind this lounge?”
“The Dupuis case?”
“You know about it?” said Reevis.
“Shoot yeah. It was the big talk in here for months,” said Clementine. “People still bring it up once in a while.”
Reevis slipped out a notebook as casually as possible. “What do you remember about that night?”
“I was busy working and didn’t notice much, but I do know someone who can help you. The Mouth of the South.” Clementine toweled up a wet spot on the counter. “She’s over there right now. I’ll introduce you.”
A minute later, Reevis sat at the darkest, smokiest end of the bar. Next to him was a row of stools with several older women who seemed to have history. They favored mixed drinks. Beside one glass lay a leather cigarette case with a picture of an Irish setter.
“Maddy,” said Clementine. “This is a nice local reporter named— . . . I didn’t get your name . . .”
“Reevis.”
“Reevis,” repeated Clementine.
Maddy laughed. “You don’t look old enough to be a reporter. You don’t look old enough to be in a bar.”
Reevis grinned sheepishly. “I get that a lot.”
From the corner of the reporter’s eye: a plumber was nonplussed by his presence, a crack dealer incensed by his existence. The two bikers weren’t currently taking account, but they would soon respectively become nonplussed and incensed.
“Maddy,” said Clementine. “He was asking about the Dupuis thing.”
“Holy Jesus! Don’t get me started on that! I could talk all night!”
Reevis got out his notebook. “I have all night.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the missing woman’s car,” said Reevis. “Police had a suspect who was found driving it.”
“Sanchez!” said Maddy. “He wins the putz-of-the-year award. Boy, did he step in it that night!”
“Why do you say that?”
“The guy’s a regular in here . . .”
“. . . A regular pest, if you ask me,” said the woman sitting next to her.
“But nobody’s asking you,” said Maddy. “I’m telling the story here . . . Now I lost my place.”
“He was a regular,” offered Reevis.
“Worked landscaping, but unsteady.” Maddy slipped a new Parliament from her leather case. “By the end of the evening always bugging people for a dollar. Usually had mulch on him.”
“There’s one part that I’m trying to figure out,” said Reevis. “Police pulled him over in the early hours, and he gave them two contradictory stories. First, he said the owner lent him the car, then after he found out she was missing, he told them he found it abandoned behind this place and just stole it . . . You can see how that would make a big difference ruling him in or out—”
“Caprice, blue,” said Maddy. “No, green, definitely green.”
“You have a good memory,” said Reevis.