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“Girlfriend,” Lula said, “look at you! This is an excellent car. It isn’t red, but it’s excellent all the same.”
“I think it’s stolen.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Lula said, belting herself in. “Mostly Gaylord deals with insurance scamming. He takes a car off a lot and the insurance company pays.”
“That’s still stealing.”
“I guess, but it’s an insurance company, and everyone hates those people.”
“I don’t hate them.”
“Well, you’re weird,” Lula said. “Do you like the car?”
“I love the car.”
“There you go. And by the way, you might want to put a dab of concealer on your nose.”
Kranski’s Bar was on the corner of Mayberry Street and Ash. This was a neighborhood very similar to the Burg, but the houses were a little larger, the cars were newer, the kitchen appliances were probably stainless. I parked in the small lot beside the tavern, and Lula and I sashayed into the dim interior. Bertie was working behind the bar that stretched across the back of the room. A bunch of high-top tables were scattered around the front of the room. Two women sat at one of the tables, eating nachos and drinking martinis. At one end of the bar four men were drinking beer and watching the overhead television. I spotted Kenny Morris at the other end. He was alone, nursing what looked like whiskey.
Bertie caught my eye, tilted his head toward Kenny, and I nodded back.
“I guess that’s the guy you’re looking for,” Lula said. “You want to tag-team him?”
“No. I just want to talk to him. I’ll go it alone.”
Lula hoisted herself onto a barstool by the four men, and I approached Kenny.
“Anyone sitting here?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “No one ever sits there.”
“Why not?”
“The television is at the other end.”
“But you’re here.”
“Yeah, I’m not into the team television thing.”
He looked a lot like his yearbook photograph. His hair was a little longer. He was slim. Medium height. Pleasant looking. Wearing jeans and a blue dress shirt with the top button open and the sleeves rolled.
He was staring at my nose with an intensity usually displayed by dermatologists during a skin cancer exam. I couldn’t blame him. I’d smeared some makeup on it, but even in the dark bar it was emitting a red glow.
“It’s a condition,” I said. “It comes and goes. It’s not contagious or anything. Do you come in here often?”
“Couple times a week.”
I got Bertie’s attention and ordered a glass of wine.
“I was supposed to meet someone here, but I think she might be a no-show,” I said to Kenny.
He knocked back his drink. “Women. That’s the way they are. No show.”
Bertie brought my wine and another glass of whiskey for Kenny.
“It sounds like you’ve had women problems,” I said.
“Make that singular. One woman. No backbone. No mind of her own. Has to do what her asshole father wants her to do. I can’t believe I got mixed up with her and her stupid family.”
