The next morning I packed my nine-millimeter Browning and a full clip into the trunk of my Dart and drove south on 301 in the direction of Cobb Island. The temperature was in the teens, but there was no wind and my Dart cruised effortlessly down the highway beneath a steel sheet of clouds. At Waldorf I cracked a window and huffed a Camel, and in La Plata I stopped for a burger and a Coke. A half hour later I was on the Island and sitting on a brown Leatherette stool in a nearly empty Formica-floored room that doubled as the dining area and bar of Polanski’s.
The bartender’s name was Andy. Andy had a brush cut and wore a green V-necked sweater over a white T-shirt that was exposed both at the neck and at the base of his great belly. His double-knit pants were chocolate brown and cinched with a wide black belt. Black work boots covered his long feet.
Andy shook my hand and said, “Now we’ve been introduced. What can I get you?”
“A draught beer,” I said.
Andy plunged his thick knotted hand into the cooler and withdrew two glass mugs. He gripped the handles of both with one hand as he tapped out the beer and put a head on it without wasting more than a few drops. I looked at the two beers and then around the empty Polanski’s. Andy placed both beers in front of me.
“There you go.” He leaned a scabbed elbow on the bar and studied the crescent-shaped bruise on my jaw.
“Maybe I have that look,” I said with a crooked smile. “But one beer’ll do it for me today. Thanks.”
Andy frowned and looked a bit hurt. “It’s Tuesday, man!” He pointed behind him to a glitter-drawn sign that itemized the daily specials. “Two-for-one beers every Tuesday-best damn day of the week around here, ’cept for the weekends.”
“Just one for me today, Andy, thanks.” I pushed one of the mugs and slid it in front of his arm. “You have it.”
He shook his head. “Too early for me, pardner.” Andy took the mug by the handle and poured it out into the last of three sinks behind the bar. He walked down to the service end and began building a pyramid of shot glasses that he stacked as hk the mug on a piece of green bar netting.
I nursed the draught through a cigarette and stared into the bar mirror. Andy played a Tammy Wynette Christmas tape and stayed on his end of the bar. When my mug was empty I walked across the room to a pay phone near the men’s room. In a worn directory I found the number to the Pony Point. I dropped a quarter in the slot and punched in the number and when Wanda picked up I asked to speak to Russel. She put the receiver down. I listened to Tammy Wynette on my end and Randy Travis on theirs until Russel picked up.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Russel, it’s Nick Stefanos.” There was a silence. “The detective from D.C., looking for April Goodrich.”
“I remember you,” he said. “What you want?”
“You know how to get in touch with Hendricks?”
“Sure,” he said. “Same way you would-dial nine-one-one.”
“Come on, man,” I said impatiently. “You know how to get him direct, don’t you?”
Russel said, “What’s up with you, man? You don’t sound too cool.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Listen, Russel. Cal l Hendricks-this isn’t for me, it’s for April-and tell him to get over to Tommy Crane’s place”-I looked at my watch-“in about a half hour.”
“I can get him,” Russel said carefully.
“You going to do it?”
Russel paused. “Sure, Stefanos. I’ll do it.”
“Thanks.” I hung up the phone.
I walked back to the bar and dropped a five on it and thanked Andy as I put on my overcoat and slipped my smokes into the side pocket. Then I left Polanski’s and stepped across the asphalt lot. The air was colder now and there was a wind, and the steel clouds had deepened to slate. I climbed into my Dart and fired the ignition.