“Wouldn’t think of it,” I mumbled into my tilted bottle, hoping he’d not catch my sarcasm, and then I downed a big gulp of cheap beer.
“This dude you askin’ about, you gotta description?” Jimmy persisted.
Oh hell, it was worth a shot; maybe the kid did know something. So I said, “Better, I have a picture.” I pulled the photo of J.T. out of my bag, and Jimmy tossed the dishrag aside before grabbing the picture and giving it what appeared to be a good, long look.
At last he lowered the photo, and his narrowed eyes met mine. “You’re not some kind of a cop or somethin’?”
“I’m not a cop, I swear.”
“Reporter then?”
“No,” I said emphatically.
Jimmy glared at me, glanced back down at the picture of J.T., and then flicked the photo back at me. It landed faceup on the bar, and he turned away with a mumbled curse.
“So?” I asked Jimmy’s back.
“Uh, never seen him before,” he replied flatly, while showing a sudden interest in straightening the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. The one with the turkey on it apparently didn’t belong next to the one with someone’s—I squinted—old granddad on it. Yeah, right.
I met Jimmy’s eyes in the reflection from the mirror; the lie was written all over the kid’s face. “Come on, Jimmy,” I pleaded. “Tell me what you know.”
He turned back around but kept his eyes down while muttering, “You know, I could tell ’ya, but business has been kinda slow here lately.” He nodded to a tip jar nestled between two bottles. “Hard to remember things from the past when you’re worried about makin’ this month’s rent.”
OK, so the kid was shaking me down to pay for whatever information he had. I wasn’t entirely surprised, and luckily I’d brought extra cash in anticipation of this exact sort of thing. I pulled out a wad of bills and peeled a fifty off the top. Jimmy’s tongue darted over his chapped, peeling lips as I pushed the crisp bill across the bar. I thought I saw him salivate a little.
With his hand hovering above the money, he hesitated. “Ya know, you wouldn’t believe how much it costs for a dump around here.”
The kid was like a pro. I huffed and peeled off another fifty. I resignedly threw the bill atop the other one. Jimmy quickly grabbed the money and stuffed it into the tip jar which—a few seconds ago—had held only coins. He fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the threadbare jeans that hung too loosely on his slender frame.
I tapped the heel of my boot impatiently against the leg of the bar stool, waiting while, with his lips, Jimmy pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He lit it, and drew in deeply. “OK, OK. Yeah, that guy used to come in here,” Jimmy said, exhaling.
“And…” I prompted.
He shot a glance around the bar, which was still quite empty, but he lowered his voice anyway and said, “The guy in your picture used to come in here with that girl who disappeared. Chelsea, uh, something.”
“Hannigan,” I whispered.
“She was a friend of yours?” he asked, eyes widening.
“Kind of,” I lied. “It’s a shame what happened to her. Gone missing, and all.”
“Hell, I’m surprised something didn’t happen sooner, to tell you the truth,” Jimmy chortled, cold and uncaring.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, a little sickened by his callousness.
“Well, for starters, that girl did some crazy-ass shit. Things that are bound to catch up to ya.”
“Drugs?” I ventured.
“What do you think?” Jimmy snorted, blowing smoke in my direction. “But that was just the tip of the ol’ iceberg with her. She’d pick up guys here and do ’em right in the backroom after we closed up.” He nodded to the room with the pool tables. “Bet you didn’t know that about your friend, huh?”
I shook my head. Holy hell, this was much more than I’d expected.
“She brought that guy in a bunch of times,” he said, pointing to the picture of J.T., still on the bar, with his cigarette. “People used to talk. Said that guy got married on the rebound after she dumped his ass to get engaged to some rich prick that was away at college. Boy, that dude had no fuckin’ clue what his girlfriend was up to back home.”
Or did he? I wondered. That might explain Adam’s supposed reluctance to marry Chelsea. Not to mention lend credence to the blackmail theory. Oh, Adam, how much did you know?
Jimmy stubbed his cigarette out on the floor, picked up the dishrag, looked at it like he didn’t remember why it was even there, and then threw it back down on the bar. “You wanna know somethin’ even funnier?”
I took another fortifying drink of beer. “What’s that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“She still brought that guy in here even after he got married, and she was engaged to that college dude. Guess a girl like that doesn’t give a shit ’bout things like marriage and engagements, huh?”
“Guess not,” I whispered, glancing down at the picture of J.T. He looked so young, so innocent. Not like a guy who’d end up doing drugs and cheating on his wife. Had I ever really known him? What else was he capable of?
“Hey, you OK?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I replied heavily as I crumpled the photo and stuffed it into my bag.
I drank the last of the beer, which had grown warm, and readied to leave. But as I pushed the empty bottle away, Jimmy said, “Oh, hey, there was someone else she used to bring in here once in a while.” I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Not a guy though.” Jimmy smirked.
“You remember a name?” I asked.
“Nah, but the chick sure
