V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

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.”