Damaged Goods

The place, which had been a popular dive before my time, was as seedy as I remembered it. Mismatched wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the horseshoe-shaped bar. I perched on the cracked upholstery of a teetering stool and waved to the barkeep. The man aimed his dark button-like eyes, surrounded by wrinkles from too much sun, my way and approached with the speed of a sedated sloth.

“Does Dell still live upstairs?” I asked.

“No one lives upstairs.” He grabbed a rag and wiped an invisible spot on the counter.

I pasted on a smile. “Any idea where Dell lives now?”

“You buying a drink or what?”

“Sure,” I said. “You got root beer?”

The bartender pulled a sour expression. “No.”

“Any kind of cola then. Not too much ice.”

The man shuffled off to fill my order. By the time he returned with my drink, I had laid a $20 bill on the counter in front of me.

“You can keep the change, if I find the service up to par.” I smiled wider.

The bartender looked me over. “This your idea of a bribe?”

“No, but this is.” I added another twenty and dangled a third over it.

He nodded, humming what sounded like an assent.

“Suppose you could dig up an address for Dell?” I asked.

The old man rubbed his chin. “I suppose.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dell’s place was located on a side street off the north end of Ocean Highway. Little more than a shack, the small building cowered behind a row of tall marsh grasses. In an apparent attempt to make the place look more like a California or Florida resort, the owner had planted a hapless palm tree in the yard. The plant thrust its way upward, but it was dying, its dry brown fronds drooping listlessly despite the breeze.

A small walkway poked through a gap in the overgrown grass. I plunged through and approached the door.

A few seconds after a quick knock, the door opened a crack. A rheumy eye peered out. “Yeah?”

“Hi, my name’s Erica. Are you Dell?”

The eye squinted. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”

“Good, because I’m not here to sell anything. I’m looking for Terry.”

“What?” It came out like a bark. “

What’s your game, girlie? How did you get this address?”

I gave him my hardest look. “I’m an old friend of Terry’s. You used to live with him, back in the day. Frankly, I’m worried about him.” I held up the photo. “Can I assume that you are Dell? If you are, this should worry you, too.”

The eye widened. It’s gaze darted between me and the photo. “Hang on.” The door closed.

Be patient, I told myself. Either he’s here or Dell’s going to call him.

I was counting the limp fronds on the doomed palm when the door opened wide. A man about my height and three times my age faced me. Slightly stooped with thinning gray hair, the man waved an invitation to enter.

“I’m Dell. Come on in,” he said. “Sorry about the wait, but you can’t be too careful these days.”

The entrance led directly to the living room, furnished like the stereotypical man cave. A worn, stained sofa stretched against one wall opposite a flat-screen TV. A recliner and a coffee table strewn with magazines and remotes finished off the ensemble. On the right, I spied part of the kitchen, the rest of which hid behind a wall.