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As was Verne Chandler.
Half an hour to go, and there was still no sign of life in the old saloon. On his way to the back door, Blake dialed Cole’s number. Left a message when the line switched over to voice mail. Cole had been Jake’s best friend, back in the days of the original Wild Bunch, and had known Verne forever. His friend would be there soon.
In the meantime, Blake was going to try to make certain that the old man was just asleep—or some-place else, forgetting the time. Not that Blake held out much hope for the latter.
The elder Chandler was too eager for his money to miss unlocking the Wild Card’s doors on Wednesday nights.
“Verne?” He knocked on the door leading into the back. “Verne!” he called again, after several knocks brought no response.
Looking for any sign of life on the upper level of the rickety old saloon, Blake made his way around to the front of the place, hoping to find Verne passed out on the broken-down veranda that, in its day, so he’d been told, had been one of River Bluff’s most popular hangouts.
Verne wasn’t there. Nor did he answer any of the other doors leading into the saloon.
Cole would be along any minute. As would Luke and Brady. And whoever else Brady, who was this week’s host, had asked to fill the seats at the table that evening. Blake could wait for them.
Or he could go check the riverbank. Just in case.
He made his way down to the water in the dark. He’d taken the trip several times when he’d first started playing these weekly games. Back then, more than an hour in an enclosed place had had him jumping out of his skin.
None of the guys had ever said anything about his frequent absences, and as time went by, the need for them disappeared.
“Verne?” There was no sign of the old man along the edge of the river. “Verne!” No sign that anyone had fallen in, either, no broken brush. Or even freshly trampled weeds. But how would the man have managed to make it down here in a wheelchair? “Verne?”
Blake turned. Surveyed the area as best he could without a flashlight.
He’d once seen Cole grab a key to the back door from a crack in the old wooden windowsill by the kitchen. He could get inside.
At the least, maybe he’d find a flashlight stashed someplace.
Jake Chandler, a man who, from what Blake had heard from his friends, had been a rebel more because it had been expected of the bastard son of a town barkeep than because he’d been a bad kid, hadn’t been home since he disappeared at eighteen. Hadn’t been heard from since that time. Blake wondered what the man would think if he could see the place now.
Wondered what would happen to the Wild Card Saloon when something eventually happened to Verne Chandler, considering that his nephew, the actual proprietor, was nowhere to be found.
The key was right where he’d seen Cole find it. Feeling a little odd, Blake entered the darkened bar, turning on what lights he knew worked as he made his way farther inside.
“Verne?”
The card room looked as if no one had been in it since
the game had ended the week before. There was still a bag of chips on a side table. And empty cans in the trash bin.
“Verne! You in there?” he called at the door to the apartment.
Flipping on a light, he made his way slowly, not wanting to startle the old man if alcohol had just made him hard of hearing.
The place was filthy. So much so that Blake raised a sleeve to cover his nose and mouth as the stench hit him. He found the source of at least one putrid smell all over the kitchen counter. Sour milk. And a tipped-over carton beside it.
“Verne?”
Still no answer. But yesterday’s newspaper was open on the table.
“Verne!” He could see the entire apartment with a glance down the one long room. The only place left to check was the bathroom.
Moving quickly to the bathroom door, and growing more concerned by the second, Blake rapped.
What person who lived alone ever closed the bathroom door? Especially when one used a wheelchair most of the time?
“Verne?” After the second knock, Blake gave up all pretense of giving a damn about any possible invasion of privacy.
