“I know the feeling,” I told him.
Chapter 22
The Joker’s Wild was located on a back road in a rural area of Penn Hills, a Pittsburgh suburb. Back in the fifties and early sixties, not that many people lived in Penn Hills, but over the years, it experienced an almost explosive growth, to the point that its population now exceeds that of many cities in the state. I think I read recently that the township owns and operates more of those yellow school buses than any other district in Pennsylvania.
When I walked into the place at about nine o’clock that night, I observed, as I have before, that, due to the proliferation of non-smoking areas, bars often don’t have the same look and smell as they used to. As a non-smoker, this all works for me, but I have to admit that the ambience isn’t quite the same as the days when you were almost guaranteed a smoke-filled atmosphere, like in the classic movies from the thirties and forties. That’s not to say that the bar was devoid of any character at all. The lighting was low, and a country-western song played softly in the background. One couple was on a small dance floor in the corner, swaying more to their own music, I thought, than whatever Tammy Wynette was singing.
Thanks to the clear air, I had no trouble locating the bar, which was an L-shaped affair that began directly to my left. There were a few tables scattered around the floor in front of the bar, and I assumed that there would be at least one larger room somewhere in the back for receptions and private parties. I walked over to the bar and sat on one of several stools still available. Judging from the number of people in the joint, I decided that owning a tavern wasn’t necessarily the road to riches. Within a minute, the bartender, a beefy-looking guy with a slight limp, wandered my way.
“Evening,” he said. “I’m Jake, the owner.”
I put my hand out and said, “Jeremy Barnes, Jake,”
“What’ll ya have, Jeremy?”
Figuring he would have offered a wine list if the place had one, I said, “Just a Coke, please.”
He shrugged and said, “Sure,” and left to get it for me.
The only times I wished I liked beer are when I’m in bars. It seems somehow inappropriate to order a soft drink at a place called The Joker’s Wild. I could have asked for a whiskey sour, which I happen to like, but I was there on business, not pleasure. Besides, Simon told me once that whiskey sours are not manly drinks.
Jake returned with my Coke.
“That’ll be three bucks.”
I put a ten on the bar and asked him if Dee-Dee was around.
“You a friend?” he asked.
Sometimes I avoid telling people my occupation, sometimes I don’t. In this instance, Jake looked like an all-right guy, plus I was pretty sure he’d picked up on the shoulder holster under my sports coat. So I took a shot with honesty.
“No,” I told him. “Actually, I’m a private cop. I’d just like to ask her a couple questions about a case I’m working. I don’t think she’s involved in the case. I just need her to confirm some information for me.”
“You got any ID?”
I showed him my license, and he nodded and said, “Okay, thanks. Can’t be too sure, ya know. Somebody comes in packin’, I get a little suspicious. Dee-Dee’s in the back, working a party. I’ll ask her to step out when she gets a chance.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Just out of curiosity, how’d you make the gun so fast?”
“I was a cop out here for ten years,” he said. “Got shot a few years back, nothing too bad, but enough for a disability retirement. Opened this place, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Getting rich, are you, Jake?”
He smiled and said, “Oh, yeah. Every day. Lemme get Dee-Dee for ya.”
As he went towards a doorway at the back of the room, I adjusted the shoulder holster. Ordinarily, I don’t like the idea of carrying a gun, but I like the idea of being dead even less, so I was taking Denny’s advice, at least for the time being.
A few minutes later, a woman who fit Cameron’s description of leggy and blonde walked through a door in the back and came toward me. In her early thirties, she was wearing a black miniskirt that had apparently been sprayed on, a long-sleeved, white, low-cut blouse, and black spiked heels. The heels accentuated what I guessed was already a very sexy walk. She slid onto the stool next to mine and held out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Deirdra Wilson, but everyone calls me Dee-Dee. Jake said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Jeremy Barnes, Dee-Dee. I’m a private investigator looking into the death of Terry Pendleton. You knew Terry, I believe.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “But I thought the police said he was killed by a mugger. What’re you investigating?”
“There’s still some doubt about exactly why Terry was killed,” I said.
Before I could say anything else, a guy who could have been the poster child for steroids came over and stood beside us, too close. He was about my height, but he had me by at least fifty pounds, all of it muscle. He wore a T-shirt with “Jake’s” written on the front and M. Stevenson stenciled on the flap of the pocket.
“Need any help?” he asked
