The Fantasy Club was removed from all the respectable businesses, a small, sturdily built structure with a gravel parking lot and a blinking sign that promised ADULT ENTERTAINMENT-COUPLES WELCOME.
The lot was almost empty when I parked, my tires crunching over the gravel and kicking up a puff of white dust. The lack of windows made the place look a little like a fortress, a distant entertainment outpost. When I walked in, my eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom; no one tended the door or asked me to pay a cover charge. The stage was empty, the music off. The lone bartender and his only customer stood watch over a newspaper and a TV playing a daytime talk show. The bartender managed to pry his eyes away from the paper.
“Help you?”
My head was still buzzing a little from the beer I’d drunk with Buster, so I ordered a club soda. The corner of the bartender’s mouth curled a little.
“You want a lime with that? I’m all out of limes.”
“No lime.”
He sprayed the soda into a plastic cup and placed it on the bar. “We’re between shows,” he said, “so I won’t charge you for the drink.”
“That’s fine.” I dug around in my pocket and found a dollar bill, which I placed on the counter as a tip and a peace offering.
The bartender raised his eyebrows but didn’t pick it up. “Thanks,” he said.
I took a seat at the end of the bar. I drummed my fingers on the bar top and swallowed the club soda in less than a minute. I jabbed at the ice with my little red cocktail straw, tried to focus on the argument raging on the TV, then asked for a refill. The bartender provided it without looking up from his paper.
“Tonight we’re having a lingerie show,” he said. “You ought to stick around.”
“I have to face my wife at some point today.”
The bartender looked up and winked at me. “Hell, bring her. Didn’t you see the sign? Couples welcome.”
“You haven’t met my wife.”
The bartender and his customer both laughed at my joke, and for a moment I entered their masculine circle.
“Can I ask you guys a question?” I asked.
Their laughter broke off. The sound of the TV filled the space, the tinny voice of an acne-faced kid who stood accused of fathering two children by two different high school girls. He was protesting to the host, his voice rising like a siren.
I reached into my wallet and brought out the picture of Caitlin I always carried with me. Her last school portrait, the one the police circulated to the media in the wake of her disappearance. I held it up in the space between me and the two men. I tried to make my voice casual.
“Have you ever seen this girl in here?” I asked.
The customer, an older man with a deeply lined, sagging face, looked away, deferring responsibility for dealing with me to the bartender.
“You a cop?” he asked.
“No.”
“Private investigator?”
“I’m her father.”
A hint of sympathy flickered across the bartender’s eyes. He leaned in a couple of inches and looked at the photo, his brow furrowing.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her,” he said. He flipped the newspaper closed and tapped his index finger against the front page. It was the New Cambridge Herald. “Right here.” It wasn’t above-the-fold news, but it had made the front near the bottom, tucked next to the weather forecast. A picture of Caitlin along with the story-the same photo I held in my hand. “But I haven’t seen her in here. We don’t allow underage kids in. No, sir.”
“Did you really take a look at the picture?” I asked.
He sighed a little, then looked again. He studied the picture longer than before, even going so far as to tilt his head back and to the side to get a better angle.
“No,” he said. “She’s just a little girl. I’ve never seen her.”
“She’d be sixteen now.”
“Sixteen? How old is she in the picture?”
“Twelve.”
“Do you know how much a kid changes between twelve and sixteen?”
I put the photo back in my wallet.
“I wish I did,” I said. “I really wish I did.”