“Then you are a peeping Tom. Swear to God, Thatcher, I ought to arrest you again.”
Thatcher shot him a look.
“Well then, tell me what’s compelled you to go over there every night for the past week?”
“I wish now I hadn’t. I wish I’d left it alone.”
“No you don’t.”
Thatcher gave him another hard look, which didn’t dent Bill in the slightest. He said, “If you had wanted it left alone, you wouldn’t have told me about Norma’s late-night visit.”
Thatcher didn’t have a chance to form a comeback. They had arrived at the roadhouse. There were twenty or thirty vehicles parked around it, and yet only weak light shone through the screened windows. Built of unpainted clapboard, the structure was as square as a box of saltines and totally without character. A set of warped wood steps led up to the entrance.
It looked nothing like the speakeasy Thatcher had been to in Norfolk, which had had the classy veneer of the haberdashery and an aura of intrigue.
“You seem let down,” Bill remarked.
Thatcher shrugged. “Doesn’t have much atmosphere.”
“Oh, it’s got atmosphere.” He reached beneath his car seat and came up with a Colt revolver. “A hostile atmosphere.”
Twenty-Eight
Bill passed the pistol to Thatcher. “It’s loaded.”
“Will I need it?”
“Depends.” He didn’t say on what.
Even though Thatcher had been told the gun was loaded, he checked the cylinder before pushing the pistol into his waistband and buttoning his jacket over it.
He and Bill got out of the car and walked toward the porch steps where two men sat smoking. As they went around them in order to reach the door, Bill addressed the men by name. They kept their heads down and replied to his greeting with surly mumbles.
The instant they stepped inside, the low rumble of conversation died. Bill acted as though he didn’t notice and pointed Thatcher toward an empty table. They sat in adjacent chairs, both facing out into the room, their backs to the wall.
Thatcher was about to take off his fedora, when Bill said, “Leave it on. Bad manners, I know, but the brim shades your eyes. Nobody can tell where you’re looking.”
Following Bill’s example, Thatcher left his hat on. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, made even foggier by tobacco and grease smoke, he surveyed the place, trying not to noticeably move his head.
The bar ran almost the full length of the back wall, but behind it, the shelves were stocked with bottled soft drinks only. A gramophone in the corner emitted scratchy, tinny music. Only a few of the tables were occupied.
Thatcher remarked on the small crowd. “Doesn’t match the number of vehicles outside.”
“And you say you’re no detective.”
A steep staircase was attached to the far wall. Thatcher noticed a hulking figure leaning against the bannister halfway up, smoking a cigarette, and staring at him through the haze.
Bill said, “I see you’ve captured Gert’s attention.”
“That’s Gert, the madam?”
“What did you expect? A red velvet dress and hourglass figure?” Lowering his voice, Bill added, “Careful how you answer. Here comes her other half.”
The man approaching their table had the proportions of a praying mantis and the lips of a lizard. They formed a tight seam between his beak of a nose and pointed chin. A smile would have looked out of place on such a face, but, in any case, he didn’t fashion one.
“Sheriff. Been a while.”
“Hello, Lefty. How’re things?”