front wheel lay on its side under a juniper bush. No vehicles out front or in the driveway. As I went up the walk to the concrete stoop, I heard nothing.
I knocked on the door, waited. Knocked again, called out to Mrs. Perez and Ramon. No response.
The windows to either side of the door had their blinds drawn. I went along the driveway, noting that the windows there were too high to see through without a ladder. The backyard was the same as the front: browned grass, dead plants, more litter. A decrepit swing set sat near the rear fence.
The windows here were also covered by blinds. Another concrete stoop led to a back door. I climbed it, looked through the single pane. Straight ahead were an old refrigerator and a counter, to the right an archway.
I reached for the doorknob, pulled my hand away.
Don’t do it, McCone.
But Ramon and Miri have gone missing, and Sara asked me—
Don’t do it!
Holding fast to my new resolve, I didn’t.
It was noon, time for the watering holes to open their doors. I decided to stop in at the bar on whose answering machine Sara had left a message. Hobo’s was your typical tavern, the kind I’d visited over and over in the course of my investigations. At night it would be dimly lighted and its scars wouldn’t show; by day the shabby booths and chairs and tables and banged-up walls were more obvious. Three old men hunched at the long bar, staring up at a TV that was broadcasting a replay of last weekend’s Forty-Niners game. The bartender—white-haired, with a thick beard and a large gut—was setting out bowls of popcorn.
As I took a stool at the bar, I thought of all the hours I’d wasted seeking information in such establishments.
“Help you, ma’am?”
“Maybe. Sara Perez sent me.”
“Oh, yeah, I haven’t got around to returning her call.” The man picked up a rag and began wiping the surface in front of me.
He added, “Reason I’ve been putting it off is that I had an ugly scene with Miri Perez in here last night, and then this morning I heard the news about Hayley from one of my delivery drivers.”
“Did you know her?”
“Hayley? Not really. She was just one of the kids who would come in to drag their drunken parents home. She ran away before she even finished high school.”
“What kind of ugly scene did you have with Miri?”
He frowned at me. “You a friend of the Perez family?”
“Ramon’s the manager on my husband’s and my ranch.”
“You’re Hy Ripinsky’s wife.”
“Right.”
“Well, then.” He leaned forward on the bar, lowering his voice and glancing at the patrons. They were absorbed in watching a ’Niners pass completion. “Miri came in last night about nine-thirty. I’d permanently eighty-sixed her a year ago, on account of she’s a problem drunk. But she was sober and behaving herself so I let her stay. My mistake.”
“What happened?”
“She was alone when she came in, but Miri’s never alone for long. Not because she’s particularly attractive—not any more, anyway—but because she has this reputation.” He stopped, probably abashed at having said that much to a friend of Ramon and Sara.
“I know about Miri’s problems,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well, there was a bunch of guys down from Bridgeport. Not bad guys, but they get kinda rowdy when the wives aren’t around. One of them started buying Miri shots and she got rowdy too. Started making nasty remarks to the people at the next table, lobbed some popcorn at them, then threw a drink in one woman’s face. Was cussing me out and swinging at me when I cut her off. I had to escort her out. The guy went with her.”
“What time was this?”
“After eleven, but not much. Ramon came in looking for Miri around midnight.”
“You know the name of the guy she left with?”
“His friends called him Dino. Like Dean Martin, the singer.”
“What about his friends? You have a full name for any of them?”
“Only Cullen Bradley. Owns a hardware store in
I knocked on the door, waited. Knocked again, called out to Mrs. Perez and Ramon. No response.
The windows to either side of the door had their blinds drawn. I went along the driveway, noting that the windows there were too high to see through without a ladder. The backyard was the same as the front: browned grass, dead plants, more litter. A decrepit swing set sat near the rear fence.
The windows here were also covered by blinds. Another concrete stoop led to a back door. I climbed it, looked through the single pane. Straight ahead were an old refrigerator and a counter, to the right an archway.
I reached for the doorknob, pulled my hand away.
Don’t do it, McCone.
But Ramon and Miri have gone missing, and Sara asked me—
Don’t do it!
Holding fast to my new resolve, I didn’t.
It was noon, time for the watering holes to open their doors. I decided to stop in at the bar on whose answering machine Sara had left a message. Hobo’s was your typical tavern, the kind I’d visited over and over in the course of my investigations. At night it would be dimly lighted and its scars wouldn’t show; by day the shabby booths and chairs and tables and banged-up walls were more obvious. Three old men hunched at the long bar, staring up at a TV that was broadcasting a replay of last weekend’s Forty-Niners game. The bartender—white-haired, with a thick beard and a large gut—was setting out bowls of popcorn.
As I took a stool at the bar, I thought of all the hours I’d wasted seeking information in such establishments.
“Help you, ma’am?”
“Maybe. Sara Perez sent me.”
“Oh, yeah, I haven’t got around to returning her call.” The man picked up a rag and began wiping the surface in front of me.
He added, “Reason I’ve been putting it off is that I had an ugly scene with Miri Perez in here last night, and then this morning I heard the news about Hayley from one of my delivery drivers.”
“Did you know her?”
“Hayley? Not really. She was just one of the kids who would come in to drag their drunken parents home. She ran away before she even finished high school.”
“What kind of ugly scene did you have with Miri?”
He frowned at me. “You a friend of the Perez family?”
“Ramon’s the manager on my husband’s and my ranch.”
“You’re Hy Ripinsky’s wife.”
“Right.”
“Well, then.” He leaned forward on the bar, lowering his voice and glancing at the patrons. They were absorbed in watching a ’Niners pass completion. “Miri came in last night about nine-thirty. I’d permanently eighty-sixed her a year ago, on account of she’s a problem drunk. But she was sober and behaving herself so I let her stay. My mistake.”
“What happened?”
“She was alone when she came in, but Miri’s never alone for long. Not because she’s particularly attractive—not any more, anyway—but because she has this reputation.” He stopped, probably abashed at having said that much to a friend of Ramon and Sara.
“I know about Miri’s problems,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well, there was a bunch of guys down from Bridgeport. Not bad guys, but they get kinda rowdy when the wives aren’t around. One of them started buying Miri shots and she got rowdy too. Started making nasty remarks to the people at the next table, lobbed some popcorn at them, then threw a drink in one woman’s face. Was cussing me out and swinging at me when I cut her off. I had to escort her out. The guy went with her.”
“What time was this?”
“After eleven, but not much. Ramon came in looking for Miri around midnight.”
“You know the name of the guy she left with?”
“His friends called him Dino. Like Dean Martin, the singer.”
“What about his friends? You have a full name for any of them?”
“Only Cullen Bradley. Owns a hardware store in
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