The Carpenter

niece, but I heard she had a friend who worked here.

— Well, there’s nobody here now. Just me. We had two or three guys on seasonal but I let them go when we shut down after Thanksgiving. What was his name?

— I believe it’s Colin Gilmore, said Stan.

— Right, Ballin’ Colin. Last time I seen him was a week ago when I had a couple hours’ work in the hydro-cut. I don’t know if he’s still around or not, but up the highway there’s a truck stop where they got this roadhouse. The North Star. You know it? Colin was drinking there when he was around.

Stan thanked her and started to head back to his truck. He got on the highway and drove to the North Star. He knew of it but he’d never had reason to visit it before. He parked at the back of the lot and got out. A cool breeze was carrying small sharp granules of dirt across the asphalt. Stan went up to the front door of the roadhouse and went in. Past the entry, the interior was garishly lit by overhead lights. On the riser at the back, a man was plugging an electric guitar into an amplifier. The drone of the amplifier filled the whole room. Closer to the front door a man with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows was unstacking chairs at a table. The bar was shuttered. The man looked at Stan.

— Bar opens at seven. The band goes on at eight.

— Okay, said Stan.

— Which is to say we’ll see you then.

Stan went back into town and had supper at the Owl Cafe. He took his time reading the newspaper. The minutes were a long time passing. After seven o’clock he got up from the booth and went over to the counter to pay. The big-haired waitress was distracted, involved in some conversation with an angular man, wearing jeans and a Carhartt jacket, down at the end of the counter. The man she was talking to, there was something familiar about him. Stan had seen him before, but he couldn’t think where or when. The man noticed Stan looking at him and he said something to the waitress. She nodded and came over to collect Stan’s bill.

There was a pay phone at the back of the diner. Stan dialed Dick’s house and Fran answered. She said she was happy to hear from him, said how they would have him over for supper anytime.

— Dick’s not home, is he?

— I’m sorry, Stan. Dick’s down at the drill hall with Richard Junior. Brian’s getting sworn in to the Air Cadets tonight. Dick’s wearing his Europe medals for it. Do you want me to tell him you called?

— No, that’s fine, Fran. So long.

It was close to eight by the time Stan was back at the truck stop. There were some rigs pulled into the lot for the night and a dozen or so cars and pickups parked in front of the North Star. Inside, it was cigarette smoke and music from the jukebox. Thirty or thirty-five patrons. The band was clustered in discussion at the back of the riser. They were talking to the man with the rolled-back cuffs Stan had seen when he’d come in earlier.

For the first time it occurred to Stan that he had no idea what he’d say if he actually made Gilmore’s acquaintance. Maybe it was just a matter of knowing the face attached to the name. Stan took a stool at the bar. The sheer weirdness of this situation overcame his thoughts. A drunk barfly two stools down gave him a big friendly nod and offered a hand to shake.

— These boys put on a good show, said the barfly. Just you wait.

The bartender came down to Stan. She was young and had a streetwise comeliness to her. Stan could see how she lifted her eyebrows a little when she took him in.

— What will you have?

He ordered Coors in a bottle. Draft didn’t agree with him any more. She came back with a bottle and set it on a coaster in front of him. The barfly two stools down pushed a bowl of pretzels in Stan’s direction.

— Say, said Stan to the bartender. Does a fellow named Colin Gilmore hang around here?

She didn’t have to say anything. Her face gave it away.

— Maybe, said the bartender.

— I’m over from EZ Acres, just wanted to pass a message on to him from the manager.

— I don’t know if he’s here tonight.

— If he is, said Stan.

She nodded. She coasted back down to the other end of the bar.

A few minutes later, the front man of the band took his guitar and stood to the microphone. The jukebox cut out. The barfly leaned over and patted Stan on the arm and gave him a thumbs-up. The band launched into some rock ‘n’ roll piece. Stan nursed the beer he’d ordered. Speculating. The roadhouse was all possibility. But what was he really going to say?

The band had played through their first song when Stan became aware of a man who’d sat on the stool immediately to his right. The man was leaning back against the bar, one arm stretched along the bevelled edge. He had a slim build and a thick head of hair, jeans, engineer boots, a dark T-shirt, but otherwise he was as they’d said. He was anyone.

— If I happened to see one older gent like yourself in a bar or if I saw a hundred it would never look quite right to me. But maybe that’s my own kind of prejudice.

— You’d be Mr. Gilmore?

The man laughed a little: I’ll go with that. Mr. Gilmore.

He took his arm off the edge of the bar to shake Stan’s hand.

— I’m Bill, said Stan.

— How do you do, Bill. Are you enjoying the music?

— It’s a year or two after my time.

They shared a thin chuckle at that. Stan had put himself in a corner and he knew it. The last of his beer had gotten warm and he didn’t have much taste for it. He quarter-turned on the stool to better converse.

— Mr. Gilmore, I’m a friend of a family you might know.

— Okay. So you’re not from the trailer park.

— No. I’m friends with the Lacroixes. Would you have a word with me about Judy?

Stan wasn’t sure what effect forthrightness would bring, but Gilmore remained good-natured. He said: Wasn’t that a goddamn shock.

— Yes, said Stan. Nobody thought Judy would do that. But we guessed you might of been the last person to see her alive and we just wanted to know if you had any thoughts on it. On how she was acting.

— I’m sorry to say, Bill, but I didn’t see her for a couple of weeks. We kind of parted ways. I didn’t know about it till I heard around town. So sad.

— Yes.

— I have to use the men’s room. You think up some more questions if you want.

Gilmore patted Stan on the shoulder and got down from the stool. He went to a rear corridor past the riser. Ten minutes later he hadn’t come back. Stan looked around. He saw the girl behind the bar making a telephone call. She was looking right at him. When she was finished, she came to ask Stan if he wanted another beer. He told her no thanks and asked what he owed.

— A dollar-fifty, said the girl.

— You wouldn’t be related to Alec Reynolds by any chance, said Stan.

— He’s my uncle. Do you know him?

— Not well. I hear he’s in the hospital.

— Yes, said the girl. A long time now.

Stan nodded. He put some money on the bartop.

He went into the rear corridor and looked in the men’s washroom. There was a fat townie at one of the urinals. Stan went back into the corridor and went down to the door at the end with Offi e lettered on it. There was no knob on this side of the door and it didn’t move when he tried to push it.

— There’s a reason we keep the office locked.

The man with the rolled-back cuffs was in the corridor behind Stan. Stan apologized, said he was lost. He went past the man and back into the bar but the man followed him out and took his sleeve.

— How about I just show you out of here. Come on.

— How about you take your hand off my arm.

— Come on. Nobody wants any trouble.