station with a roof over the pumps, but the main structure had been considerably enlarged; the pumps were antiques- Socony before it became Mobil Oil-and lighted beer signs hung in the front windows. I parked in the gravel lot and went inside.
In spite of being far from any town, the place was doing a good business: most of the tables and booths were taken. I found one of the last empty seats at the bar. The air was heavy with the smell of frying; my stomach rumbled in response. The best fried chicken in the county, huh? I hadn’t had really good fried chicken in ages.
The bartender was working hard; I waited, looking around at the decor: old automobile license plates from various states; signed celebrity photos from the forties and fifties; mildly amusing signs such as IN GOD WE TRUST. ALL OTHERS MUST PAY CASH; mounted animal heads wearing party hats. I’d been in other supposedly vintage places and knew decorations of this kind could be purchased new as a package from restaurant-equipment firms, but the Outhouse’s seemed to be the real thing.
When the bartender finally got to me, I ordered a Sierra Nevada and a basket of chicken and fries. The beer came quickly, the chicken much later. “Sorry about the wait,” he said as he set it down.
“No problem. You’re busy.”
“Swamped and shorthanded.” Someone down the bar called out to him, and he hurried away.
I ate slowly. The chicken was some of the best I’d ever tasted. The seats around me gradually emptied, as did the booths and tables. I was toying with a french fry when the last customer left.
The bartender-a youngish guy with long hair pulled back in a ponytail-went to the door and turned the sign to CLOSED. Came back around the bar to me and said, “Anything else, ma’am?” Clearly he hoped I’d say no.
“Some information, if you don’t mind. You hear about Hayley Perez being killed last night?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Tough break, but Hayley always lived dangerously. One wild child.”
“You knew her well?”
“No. We went to high school together, but she was older and we didn’t run with the same crowd.”
“Who did she run with?”
“The wrong people. Druggies, dropouts, you know.”
“Any names?”
“Why the interest?”
“I’m a friend of the family. I’m helping them get a list together for the memorial service.”
That satisfied him. “Well, let’s see. She was tight with a girl named Loni… something, but I haven’t seen her around in a long time. Her boyfriend was Tom Mathers; he’s married now, runs a wilderness supply and guide service. And then there was Rich Three Wings; they had a thing going too, was what broke Hayley and Tom up. You can forget about him, he’d never come to a service.”
“Why not?”
“Because him and Hayley left town together and he came back alone three years later. Wouldn’t ever talk about what happened. Now he lives alone in a cabin on Elk Lake. I hear he’s got a girlfriend who lives in Vernon, spends weekends at the lake with him.”
“You know her name?”
He shook his head.
“I take it Three Wings is Indian.”
“Paiute.” He studied my features. “You’re…?”
“Shoshone.”
“Well then, maybe you can get through to Rich. You people have a way of communicating, even if you’re from different tribes.”
I’d been hearing that all my life, even back before I found out I was adopted, when I’d thought I was seven- eighths Scotch-Irish and my looks a throwback to my Shoshone great-grandmother. I counted to ten-well, seven, actually-and said, “I understand Hayley’s mother may have come in here last night. Were you working then?”
“Yeah. I’m doing a triple shift. Like I said, we’re shorthanded.”
“And Miri…?”
“She didn’t come in. I’d’ve noticed, because she’s on our watch list. Terrible, mean drunk.”
“What about her brother-in-law, Ramon?”
“He was here. Asked me about her.”
“When was this?”
“Around one. I told him I’d call if she turned up, and then he left.”
“He say where he was going?”
“Nope. He seemed kind of… I don’t know. Angry, but keeping a lid on it. Now I understand. If my niece had been murdered, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I paid for my lunch, including a substantial tip, and left.
Bridgeport, the county seat and the town where the man who had left Hobo’s with Miri lived, was some thirty miles northwest on Highway 395. I knew of a cutoff that would take me there from this road. It was early yet, and I didn’t feel like going back to the ranch-there would surely be a call from Ted pleading for me to open up to him-so I decided to drive up north and see if I could find the hardware store owner, Cullen Bradley.
Bridgeport is a charming town, with its stately eighteen-eighties courthouse, old homes, and steepled churches. Once known as Big Meadows because of the vast grazing land around it, it’s also an outdoor person’s paradise, surrounded by pristine lakes and streams for fishing or boating. Its greatest claim to fame is that it was used as the location for many of the scenes in the classic 1947 film noir
I found Bradley’s Hardware on a side street two blocks from the courthouse. It had a graveled parking lot in back; I pulled in, left the Land Rover there, and entered through the rear door. I love hardware stores and this smelled like a good one: not the sanitized, filtered odor of a Home Depot, but a mixture of wood and metal and paint and other unidentifiable but appropriate items. The bare floors were warped, the shelves sagging under their wares. I had to weave my way through a warren of aisles to get to the front. Immediately a friendly young clerk appeared and asked if he could help me find anything.
“Is Mr. Bradley in?”
“He’s in his office, but… If you’re selling something, I wouldn’t bother him today.”
“How come?”
He leaned forward and said in a whisper, “Bad night. He had me bring him some of what he calls ‘hair of the dog’ a while ago.”
“Well, this is a personal matter. I’ll take my chances.”
“Back that way.” He jerked his thumb toward a door behind the sales counter. “Good luck.”
The door was slightly ajar. I knocked and called out to Bradley.
“What?” A shade irritable, but not too bad. The dog’s hair must have been working.
“May I come in?”
“If you must.” As I moved through the door, he added, “Who the hell are you?” He was a red-faced, fortyish man with a shock of gray-blond hair, and his skin had that flaccid look that a night of hard drinking will produce.
I introduced myself, said I was looking for a friend of his who had been with him at Hobo’s in Vernon the night before. “The bartender said you called him Dino.”
“Dino Martin. His parents named him for the singer. Funny thing is, he can’t hold a note. Sounds like my old hound dog when he tries.”
“Where can I reach him?”
“Why do you want to?”
“A friend of mine left the bar with him. She hasn’t come home, and I’m worried.”
“You must mean Miri Perez.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she’s probably shacked up with him someplace. It’s kind of what she does.”
