It took us just under thirty minutes to crawl into Mendosa. We passed Ferguson’s Icehouse on the right and about two miles from Mendosa we drove out of the fog as suddenly as we had driven into it.
“We got an address on Shuler’s place?” I asked Ski.
“Yeah. End of Bellamy Street on the north end of town. Take a left at the second light, which is Main Street, and then right when the street forks.”
I pulled into the first filling station I saw. The sign out front told us it was warthog miller’s fill-up. The attendant was a short, mean-looking guy with a gimpy leg, oily hair, bad teeth, and the breath to go with it. I told him to fill it up and got out as he was pumping the gas. There was a lot of background noise. People, music, horns blowing. Friday night noises.
“You Warthog Miller?” I asked pleasantly.
“I suppose so,” he snarled.
His eyes wandered to our license plate, the whip aerial on the back bumper, and the spotlight mounted beside the door on the driver’s side.
“Lookin’ for anybody in particular?” he said, too casually.
“Nope. Just gonna grab a bite to eat.”
He finished pumping and asked if we needed oil.
“No thanks,” I said, paid him two bucks for the gas, and got back in the car.
“Sounds like they’re having a riot,” Ski said.
“Friday night in a crooked mill town,” I ventured.
“Ain’t we the lucky ones.”
As we pulled out, I watched Warthog in the rearview mirror. He scurried into the office and dropped a nickel in a pay phone on the wall.
“I think we got made,” I said.
“What a surprise.”
When we got to Main Street I sat for a minute, waiting for the light to change, then took a right.
“I said left at the light,” Ski mumbled.
To our left, Main Street was as dark as a mole hole.
“I gotta make a phone call.”
Main Street wasn’t as bad as I expected. A small town with a tree-lined main drag. We drove six or seven blocks and saw three bars, a nightclub that advertised “dancing ladies” in neon, another that had a sign telling us it featured genuine New Orleans jazz, a gaming parlor with its windows painted black, a billiard parlor, a pawnshop, and a restaurant that bragged “We never close.” Otherwise, there was the usual collection of hardware stores, grocers, meat markets, an ice cream parlor, and a movie theater. But it was a noisy town, with music spilling from the joints and streets filled with people looking in the doors and milling about. A lot of activity for a little town, even for a Friday night.
I drove another block and came to a restaurant called Ma’s Home Cooking.
I parked and we went in and grabbed a table.
A waitress with henna-colored hair piled on top of her head and lipstick the color of blood sashayed over to the table and popped her gum for us.
“Hi, boys, what’ll it be,” she said. “The meat loaf’s the specialty. It’s so good the cook keeps the recipe in a safe.”
“Just two coffees,” I said.
“What kind of pie do you have?” Ski asked.
“What kind would you like, Shorty?” she said with a half-assed grin.
Ski’s laugh rattled the place.
“How about banana cream?”
“You got it,” she said. And to me, “Pie for you, too?”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Two javas, one B.C., coming up.”
I went to the phone booth in the back of the place near the rest rooms and looked up the Shuler Institute in the phone book, dropped a nickel, and dialed the number. A man answered the phone and I asked for Mrs. Fisher. She was on the phone within seconds.
“This is Superintendent Fisher.”
“Mrs. Fisher? My name is Tyler Marchand the Third, from Santa Maria. I’m sure you’ve heard of Marchand Estates.”
“Uh… yes, of course,” she said. Took the bait.
“You’ve been highly recommended by several people in my club-I won’t mention names, I’m sure you respect their confidentiality-and I’m sure you’ll understand when you hear my predicament.”
“Which is, Mr. Marchand?”
“My brother has become a real problem. He’s a drinker and we have tried everything. He’s very tight right now and I wondered if I might bring him by there.”
“You mean now?!”
“I really need your help. I’ve been told you are a truly concerned establishment. I’ve driven over forty miles.”
“Mr. Marchand, we require a letter of sponsorship and a substantial deposit prior to an examination. This late at night…”
“This is an emergency, Mrs. Fisher. He’s been drinking for days. What better time to evaluate him? I can be there in ten minutes. I’ll be glad to give you whatever deposit is required.”
She hesitated for a few seconds and finally she said, “Alright, Mr. Marchand, but I’ll have to talk to you before we admit him. There are a lot of details…”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said, and hung up.
The waitress was back by the time I returned to the table, carrying coffee in each hand and the pie perched on one of the cups.
“There you go,” she said. “Shorty, you look like a man who’d just love an order of that meat loaf.”
“And so I would,” Ski said. “But we’re running a little late for an appointment.”
“Well, ain’t that a boot in the ass,” she chirped, and retreated to the back.
Ski took a long swig of coffee and glanced casually over the lip of the cup through the front window as he was drinking. He set the cup down, smiled, and said casually, “We got company.”
“What kind?”
“Two guys. Dark blue Buick, spotlight on the side, tall aerial on the back bumper. Trying hard not to look at us.”
“Sounds like my first trip to San Pietro.”
“Maybe you just naturally irritate people, Zeke.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s giving me a complex.”
The front window of the place was behind me so I couldn’t see our company.
“Somebody just lit a cigarette,” Ski said. “They’re still trying hard not to look over here. Think we can ditch ’em?”
“We’ll give it a try.”
He gulped down his pie and we left. I drove to the next intersection.
“Hang on,” I said.
I grabbed a left, slammed down the gas, turned at the first left, and pulled in an alley behind the row of buildings facing Main Street. I killed the lights and waited. A minute later the Buick roared by. I pulled out of the other end of the alley, turned back onto Main, and drove toward Bellamy.
We had no trouble finding the Institute. It commanded several acres at the end of the street, a few blocks off Main, and was surrounded by an eight-foot stone wall with broken glass on the top. I wondered whether it was to keep the patients in or keep unwanted people out.
The main building was an enormous white Victorian gingerbread structure with a porch that surrounded it. It looked quite elegant. Three stories high with four spired towers topping it off. There were several outbuildings on both sides. The manicured lawn boasted trees and a small fish pond. Wooden porch swings hung from the heavy
