Big Rat materialized at my side, saying, “Dude can sing. The guy’s like a rock star. I’m impressed.”
“Me, too.”
“Where the hell’s this coming from? He’s a douche bag.”
“Apparently, he’s not. Or maybe you can be a douche bag and talented at the same time.”
I stayed for the entire set. I’d expected the band to be amateurish; loud, and discordant, running off covers of popular songs done better by the recording artist. Instead, they played what I had to guess were original numbers with blues and jazz undertones. At some point, Big Rat peeled off, and 11:00 came and went and I realized this was way too late for me. The waitress passed and I caught her attention, making the universal gesture for the check.
She nodded and proceeded to the bar. The band took a break and the temporary vacuum was suddenly filled with loud talk and boisterous laughter. Instead of feeling magical, it was only a bar again; badly lighted and smelling rank. The waitress returned and handed me a bifold of leather with a cash register slip hanging out like a tongue. I moved to the nearest table where the light was better. I opened the folder and looked at the list of charges that ran all the way down the page. The total was $346.75.
“Wait, wait. This isn’t mine. I had two glasses of wine.”
“Anna said you were running a tab.”
“Me?”
“Wasn’t that your party?”
“We came in together, but I wouldn’t call it my ‘party.’”
“Is now. Everybody else is gone.”
I looked at the check again. “This has to be a mistake.”
“Nope. Don’t think so.” She peered over my shoulder, using her pen to refer to each item in turn. “Two beers. Those were Hank’s. He’s a cute guy, isn’t he? Ellen had three margaritas and two shots of tequila.”
“I counted two margaritas.”
“Are you going to argue with me over every little thing? She ordered the third one while you were in the other room, watching Anna play pool. Now see here? Anna ordered two martinis and this is where she switched to Champagne.”
“For two hundred and ninety bucks? How many glasses did she drink?”
“She ordered a bottle. She likes Dom Pérignon. She wanted the ’82, but I talked her out of it.”
“I can’t believe they did this to me.”
“Guess you don’t know them very well. I could have told you straight off if you’d asked me nice.”
I fumbled in my shoulder bag and came up with my wallet and took out my American Express card.
“We don’t take AmEx. Visa or MasterCard.”
I pulled out a second card, this one Visa.
She studied it briefly. “You have a photo ID?”
I experienced the miracle of self-control as I opened my wallet and held it up so my driver’s license was clearly visible.
“No offense. Boss requires us to check. I’ll be right back.”
“You are too kind,” I said, but she was already heading for the bar, where I saw her pass the check and my credit card to the closest bartender. Moments later, she returned with a copy of the cash register receipt and the charge slip, complete with carbons, bearing the numbers she’d swiped. She held out the pen.
For a moment, I struggled, trying to determine the amount of a tip. It wasn’t like she’d served us food.
“The pay here is really crummy,” she reported conversationally. “We pool our tips and split with the bartenders, which doesn’t leave much. Most of us can barely make ends meet. And I’ve got two kids.”
I ran the tip up another five percent, making it an even ten. It wasn’t until I was going out the door that I chanced to look back. In the far room, the redhead Anna had been playing pool with was leaning up against the wall and Ethan was using his index finger to trace a line along the low square of her dress. By some uncanny intuition, he glanced in my direction and saw that I was watching him. I made my exit before he had a chance to react.
• • •
At 2:35 A.M., I sat straight up in bed. I pushed the covers back and padded across the room to the desk chair where I’d flung my shoulder bag. As is true in so many motel rooms, the glaring lights from the parking lot threw all the surfaces into high relief. I picked up my bag and dug into one of the outside pockets, feeling for my index cards. I removed the rubber band and sorted through as though preparing for a magic trick. Pick a card, any card. I flicked on the desk lamp, pulled out the chair, and settled uneasily into the leather upholstered seat, which was chilly from the air-conditioning. While I’m frugal in my use of California water, I keep a motel room at arctic temperatures. The Holiday Inn had graciously accorded me an extra blanket that I’d pulled down from the closet shelf in its clear plastic bag.
I’d gone to sleep in my usual T-shirt and underwear, blanket and spread pulled up almost over my head. Now I was aware of the cold. I returned to the bed, propped two fat pillows against the headboard, and slipped under the covers again. In checking the 1942 Polk, I’d found two Dace families: Sterling and Clara, who lived at 4619 Paradise Road; and Randall J. and Glenda, living at 745 Daisy Lane. In the 1972 Polk, I’d found R. Terrence and Evelyn, also at 745 Daisy Lane, and I’d speculated that the couple had moved into his parents’ house at some point during the intervening years. I’d also noted the names and addresses of neighbors on either side. The Pilchers, who’d lived next door to Terrence and Evelyn Dace in 1974, had since disappeared. On the other side, at 743, Lorelei Brandle was no longer in evidence, but there was an L. Brandle on Ralston. I looked up the name for the second time in the current phone book and this time I made a note of the phone number. I turned off the light and burrowed under the covers.
I woke again at 6:00, disoriented. Still in Bakersfield. Just my luck. I’d have given anything to have been at home in my own bed. I lay there in a funk. Since I didn’t intend to jog, I had time to go through my mental checklist again. By and large, I’d taken care of business. The only remaining question had nothing to do with my responsibilities as executor of the estate. I wanted to know what Evelyn Dace was up to. A man’s honor was at stake and that troubled me. I realized I’d been hoping for a way to rehabilitate Dace’s reputation in the eyes of his kids, but two of the three were unreceptive and I hadn’t been able to budge them. While, technically, this was unpaid work, that half a million dollars did suggest a different point of view. In some respects, this was the highest-paid job I’d ever undertaken and I decided I might as well satisfy myself in the bargain.
I ate breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, opting for orange juice, cold cereal, buttered rye toast, and three cups of coffee. Once in my room again, I checked my notes. It was by then 8:35, which seemed early but not indecent for a Saturday-morning call. I picked up the handset and dialed an outside line, then punched in the phone number for the L. Brandle listed on Ralston Street. I was about equally torn between wanting to succeed and wanting to fail. Chances were I was on the wrong track and this L. Brandle was in no way related to the Brandle who’d lived next door to Terrence and Evelyn Dace. If that were the case, my job in Bakersfield was done and I could go home.
The number rang three times and then a woman picked up. “Hello?”
“Oh, hi. May I speak to Mrs. Brandle?”
There was a moment of quiet and I couldn’t help but burble on as though adding information would change the facts. “I’m calling because I’m trying to locate a Lorelei Brandle, who lived on Daisy Lane in the early seventies.”