So Katy and I both had some ’splaining to do.
Ryan and I drove to the Selwyn Pub, a tiny tavern just a few blocks from Sharon Hall. To the uninitiated, the brick bungalow looks like a private home, small for Myers Park, but not intolerable.
Other than a nondescript sign, the only indication that the place is a bar is the assemblage of cars parked where the lawn should be. When I turned in, Ryan looked puzzled, but said nothing.
Patrons descend on the Selwyn Pub in two shifts. Early evenings it’s free-range professionals knocking back brews before a game, a date, or dinner with June and Wally and the Beaver.
Later, as the developers and lawyers and accountants head out, students from Queens College pour in. Silk, gabardine, and Italian leather yield to denim, cotton, and hemp sandals. The Benzes, Beemers, and SUVs give way to Hondas, Chevys, and cheaper SUVs.
Ryan and I arrived in the lull at shift change. I’d been in good spirits after my shower, a bit down over Tamela’s baby and the privy find, but buoyed by Ryan’s presence. Sad-happy. But crossing the pub courtyard, I felt a gloom settling over me.
I loved having Ryan here, was having a terrific time with him. Why the sadness? No idea. I tried to push the darkness aside.
Most of the regulars had gone, and only a few tables and barstools were occupied. Feeling less sociable by the minute, I led Ryan to the pub’s single booth.
I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Ryan chose the evening’s special from a handwritten blackboard above the fireplace: barbecue and fries.
Diet Coke for me. Pilsner Urquell for Ryan.
As we waited, Ryan and I rehashed our conversation with Sheila Jansen.
“Who owns the Cessna?” Ryan asked.
“A man named Ricky Don Dorton.”
Ryan’s draft and my Coke arrived. Ryan flashed the waitress a giant Pepsi smile. She beamed him a Jumbo Super Deluxe. My downward spiral gathered speed.
“Any chance I could have my burger medium rare?” I interrupted the dental exchange.
“Sure.” Sister Pepsi turned to Ryan. “You all right with Eastern?”
“Just fine.”
After smiling the waitress back to the kitchen, Ryan turned to me.
“What’s geography got to do with barbecue?”
“The barbecue from down east is made with a vinegar-mustard-based sauce. Western Carolina sauce relies more on the tomato.”
“That reminds me. What’s ‘swite tay’?”
“What?”
“Servers keep offering it to me.”
“Sweet tea, Ryan. Iced tea with sugar.”
“Learning a foreign language is a bitch. OK. Back to Mr. Dorton. When we first spoke of him you said the gentleman was saddened by the theft of his aircraft.”
“Devastated.”
“And surprised.”
“Dumbfounded.”
“Who is Ricky Don Dorton?”
The waitress delivered our food. Ryan asked for mayo. We both looked at him.
“For the fries,” he explained.
The waitress turned to me. I shrugged.
When she’d gone, I pounded ketchup onto my fries, transferred the lettuce, pickle, and tomato from the plate to my burger, and added condiments.
“I told you. Dorton owns a couple of strip clubs in Kannapolis, just north of Charlotte.”
I took a bite. The ground beef was somewhere between scorched and vaporized. I took a swig of Coke. It was Coke. Not Diet Coke.
My mood was darkening by the nanosecond.
“The police have been watching Dorton on and off for a few years, but they’ve never been able to nail him with anything.”
The waitress presented Ryan with a tiny corrugated cup of mayonnaise and more teeth than a coping saw.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Anytime,” she said.
