Blood Runs Cold

25

The Brockton Filly leaned left in pitch country blackness. The skeletal trees that ran around it were wrapped at their base in hard, dirty white snow. The bar was named after an Irish madam who was run out of Boston and came west in the mid-1800s for lonely miners and their gold.

Todd pulled into the oversized side lot that might have been packed with wagons a hundred years ago, but was scattered with few trucks tonight. Ren zipped her jacket to the chin and pulled on a fleece hat for the short walk. Todd started to get out.

‘Would you mind?’ Ren shrugged the request, looking toward his open door.

Todd paused. ‘What, waiting out here?’ His eyes flashed with the anticipation of diminishment.

Ren nodded. ‘It’s just, Jean came here alone. And I’m thinking there was a reason for that. Waites might just respond better to women. And maybe not to intimidating blond men.’ She smiled. Todd didn’t.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Whatever you think. I’ll be here. Intimidating the bears.’

‘Thanks, Todd. I appreciate it.’

Ren walked to the door, pushing on it three times, finally shouldering it open. Inside, the boxy hallway was peeling wallpaper, flaking paint, creaky floorboards and photos of long-dead alcoholics with their arms around other long-dead alcoholics. And a few recent ones of gummy regulars; a sparse bunch. The most prominent black-and-white photograph told Ren that the Brockton Filly was named more for her teeth than her spirit. The Brockton Beauty had a better ring to it, but could have had her driven out of Colorado for false representation.

Ren moved into the bar. She liked to tag people in two adjectives or less, not all of the words traceable to an FBI handbook or an English dictionary. Tonight she had pockmarked john, fat sleaze, married skank. She had seen Billy Waites’ mug shot – bearded, rough and stoned. She continued scanning the room. Porn freak. Meth face. Hairy biker. Hot, fit barman. She had gone over her adjective allowance and included the word hot. Not good. He caught her eye and nodded. Without the beard, with a short hair cut and clear eyes, Billy Waites was a completely different food group. Ren looked away.

In the corner by the men’s room, she saw a woman slumped on a stool with both hands wrapped around a dying pitcher. Ren knew the type – hand-jobs and blow-jobs for beer. When God was handing out good looks, this lady was in line at the bar. And the all-you-can-eat buffet. And the makeup counter. She was wearing the type of short skirt that you’d never want to see a woman like her uncross her legs in. A low-cut black top maxed-out on Lycra did its best for her breasts. But for backup, a pretty silver pendant pointed its way to the wide valley in between.

Somewhere you had a family, somewhere you lost people dear to you, and somewhere along the way, you gave up.

‘Hey,’ said Ren. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘I’m doing great,’ said the woman, cheerier than expected. ‘Just great. What’s an expensive lady like you doing in a dive like the Filly?’

Ren laughed. ‘Not expensive enough that I didn’t come here for the cheap beer.’

‘Have a seat, then. Jo’s my name.’ She pointed to the stool opposite.

‘Rachel’s mine,’ said Ren, sitting down. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

Jo shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’ It might keep your knees from the cold tiles in the men’s room.

Jo nodded. ‘Positive. But you can give me a few quarters for the jukebox.’

‘Sure,’ said Ren, opening her wallet.

Jo heaved herself up and walked over to the jukebox, her eyes struggling with the swimming print. ‘Any preferences, Billy boy?’ she called out.

‘Ladies’ choice,’ he said, taking a clean towel from under the bar.

Jo put her money in and the music cranked up. Nothing Ren knew started to play.

‘What can I get you?’ he said to Ren.

‘Let me see,’ she said, getting up and walking toward him. ‘Uh, bottle of Coors … Coke … Coors. Yeah, Coors. Thanks.’

‘I’m a friend of Jean’s. Jean –’

‘I guessed,’ said Billy. He turned his back to her and grabbed the beer from the fridge. He handed it to her and glanced over toward Jo. The last trace of her was a slight swing to the men’s room door.

‘Why don’t you take a seat over there,’ said Billy, pointing the opposite way.

Ren took her beer and a seat in a far corner of the bar. Billy showed up five minutes later and stood by the table.

‘Hi. I’m Ren Bryce. Not Rachel.’ She smiled.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Billy Waites.’

‘You heard about Jean?’

He nodded.

Ren waited for condolences or something to replace the indifference. Nothing.

‘I’m investigating her murder,’ said Ren.

Billy nodded. She could see his boredom gauge like a thermometer and the mercury was rising. A few more sentences and the bulb would blow.