Been There, Done That (7 page)

And there it was:
Need some excitement in your life? Let a hot college girl show you a good time. Call Chantal . . .

“Tim,” I said slowly, “I think I’ve got something.”

eight

I wore a denim mini skirt to the airport. Tim had on jeans, so I figured I’d made the right call. I sensed some ambivalence on his part, though; he’d paired the denim with a white office shirt and tie. He probably thought that made him look journalistic. Instead, it showed just how deep his problems with commitment ran. He couldn’t even commit to a look.

“You’re wearing contacts again,” I remarked when he climbed into my car.

“You made me self-conscious the other day,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, although I was pleased that I had.

On the drive out to Mercer, we didn’t talk about the investigation at all. We didn’t even talk about our jobs. Instead, we caught each other up on gossip: marriages, babies and divorces. It amazed me that so many of my contemporaries had seen marriages through to their ends. It made them seem older than me, somehow.

We brought each other up-to-date on our families. His parents were still in upstate New York, while mine had moved from Connecticut to Scottsdale, Arizona, a short plane ride away from my as-yet-childless but presumably fertile brother and sister-in-law in Colorado. Meanwhile, while they awaited grandparenthood, my parents entertained themselves with a succession of exotic tours. Last month it was the Great Wall of China. In the fall they were planning a barge trip down the Rhine.

We stopped for burgers on the road and arrived in the town of Mercer with an hour to kill before our appointment with Chantal. “College Drugs,” Tim read as I drove down the main drag. “Is it just me, or is that funny?”

“I like that it’s next door to College Liquors,” I said. “So how’s your dad? Still working at the deli?” Tim’s parents worked at the largest grocery store in Endicott.

“Yup. And Barb is still checking.” Barb was Tim’s mom. Since she wore a name tag, Tim’s friends had always called her by her first name, even as he had called his friends’ parents Mrs. This or Mr. That. It had always bugged him.

Tim suggested we check out a Mercer bar. We found one easily enough. The Snake Pit was situated on the main street. A banner in the front window read, rather prematurely, “Welcome Incoming Freshmen!” Underneath, in itsy bitsy decals, a notice on the window informed us that The Snake Pit would not serve alcohol to anyone under the age of twenty-one.

We perched ourselves on stools. The bar was slick but sticky. Decades of stale cigarette smoke clung to the air.

It was early afternoon, but so little daylight filtered through the heavy green curtains that it could have been any time at all. I ordered a soda. Tim ordered a beer. I considered changing my order but decided to just act confident, like I hadn’t even noticed the discrepancy. Besides, there wasn’t any fitting in to be done; aside from the bartender, we were the only ones there.

“So, what are we going to say to this girl?” In truth, I dreaded meeting Chantal.

Tim elbowed me in the ribs. I drew back and gawked at him. “What?” He held a finger up to his lips and tilted his head toward the bartender.

The bartender was about fifteen years past college age, with a thick body and frizzy brown hair. His mustache was bushy. Either he was growing a beard or he simply hadn’t bothered shaving for the past few days. He wore a kelly green polo shirt and stained khakis.

Tim sipped his beer. “Sure is quiet here when the college is out.”

The bartender glanced briefly away from the television, then back again. “Mmm.” One of those antagonistic talk shows was on the set, the sound turned off. A sullen girl with permed yellow hair, red lipstick, painful-looking acne and an extremely short skirt stared at the camera. Next to her, an obese woman with equally unnatural blond hair gestured wildly. The tag line at the bottom read, “I found my daughter in bed with my boyfriend.”

Tim sipped his beer, squinted at the television, and tried again. “Bet you see a lot of wild stuff around here.” The bartender glanced at Tim. He retrieved a remote control from under the bar and flicked around the stations, finally settling on a soap opera, still with the sound off. He stared at the set. On the show, a skinny, long-haired brunette sat on a bed and sobbed. Refusing to take a hint, Tim tried again. “It’s probably better than TV, the kind of stuff that goes on with those college kids.”

The bartender wheeled around. “Are you from the ABC?” His accent was pure Boston:
Ah you frawm the ABC?

Tim stared, open-mouthed. “Television?”

“This place is clean,” the bartender snapped. “I’m sick of you guys sniffin’ around like I’m runnin’ a crack house. Okay, sure, there’s no bouncer here today. It’s July, for Chrissake! The eighteen-year-olds aren’t here yet. I keep tellin’ you guys we check ID’s.” He gestured to me. “When Polly Purebred over here gets around to ordering her Cape Codder, I’ll ask for the license, okay? Then you can go away and write up a report saying we’re playing nice.”

“You think we’re what? From ABC News?” Tim shook his head. “I did meet Peter Jennings at a cocktail party once, but we’re not who you think we are.”

I elbowed him in the ribs. “Alcohol Beverage Control,” I muttered. “The ABC.”

He stared at me for a minute, then his eyes widened. He stopped shaking his head and began to nod instead. “Okay—right.” The head continued to bob. “No. No! We’re not from the ABC, and we’re not looking to make any trouble for you. You can serve sixteen-year-olds, for all we care.”

“Ten-year-olds!” I added, just to be helpful.

Tim looked at the bartender and held his gaze. I wondered what story he would concoct, how he would hide the truth. Would we be spies from a competing college? Authors of a university guide? “We’re reporters,” he said.

The bartender squinted. “Like from a newspaper?”

“Internet publication,” Tim corrected. “It’s much more forward-thinking. But the same basic idea.”

The bartender nodded and chewed his lip.

“We have a source says there’s something funny going on around here.” The bartender raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Sex,” Tim clarified. “For sale. You be willing to tell us what you know?”

The bartender’s eyes widened. “Hookers? Here? Get out. I don’t know nothing about no hookers.” He leaned over the bar, engrossed. Apparently, we were even better than the soaps.

Tim nodded at the bartender. “Maybe you could keep your eyes open for us, then.”

The bartender tightened his lips and shook his head. “I think it’s terrible what you people did to Princess Di.”

“Those weren’t reporters,” I said. “It was the paparazzi. You know—photographers who chase celebrities.”

He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “I know what paparazzi are,” he said.

“Of course you do. I just—”

“I went to college. Just ’cause I tend bar doesn’t mean I didn’t go to college. Three semesters at U Mass Boston. Then one here at Mercer. Course that was a long time ago.”

“There’s money in it,” Tim interrupted.

That got him. “What do you want me to do?”

His name was Gerry. He’d been working at The Snake Pit since his college years, first as a bouncer, now as bartender and manager. “We do check ID’s.” But, he confided, “Some of ’em are fake and you know they’re fake, but what the hell you gonna do? A kid shows you some laminated thing, says it’s a license from, oh, hell, Nebraska or something, and you’re going to say, what? We got closed down four, five years ago—some asshole served a fourteen-year-old. Me, I don’t serve anyone looks under seventeen.”

Tim began spouting. Twenty-one’s too old for the drinking age. If kids want to drink, they’re going to drink, and it’s best if they do it in a bar, where the management can make sure things don’t get out of hand. Why are we wasting our tax dollars on liquor agents when the public schools stink and there are criminals roaming the street?

Next thing you know, we have our first source. “I’ll be in touch, man.” Tim gave him a high five.

“How do you know he won’t tell people we’ve been snooping around?”

He smiled at me. “Easy. He’s outside the system. Resents the system. He’d love to help expose some spoiled rich kids.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions. Just because he’s a bartender, you assume he resents college kids. Besides, he even went here for a while.”

“Not that simple. His beef about the ABC? That’s the system.”

I stared at him for a minute. Suddenly, his tie didn’t seem at all stupid with the jeans. He seemed hip and savvy, and terribly, terribly smart. “You’re right. I didn’t even make the connection.”

He put his hand behind my neck and gave it a brief, electrifying rub. “You’ll learn,” he said.

“Thanks for helping, Professor Higgins,” I scowled.

 
What did I expect? Red velvet and mirrors? False eyelashes and a bustier?

Her smile froze when she saw me standing there with Tim. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her tight, faded jeans and stuck out a plump hip. She was trying to look casual and provocative, but I sensed anxiety. Her tank top, purple with spaghetti straps, was clingy. It outlined her generous breasts and revealed just a hint of cleavage. She had wide brown eyes and streaky blond hair that fell halfway down her back. She could almost pass for a college student. Almost. Her neck looked old—well, too old for college, anyway—and her red high-heeled pumps looked like they had come from Payless, and none too recently. I tried to picture her with a backpack slung over her shoulder, but the image didn’t fit.

“Do you go to Mercer?” I asked, wondering if she’d lie.

She looked at me for a moment, then flicked her eyes back to Tim. “You didn’t tell me there would be two of you,” she said.

Okay, I couldn’t pull up the backpack image, but without warning I pictured Tim and me and Chantal . . . “Eew!” I said. “I’m not, we’re not—”

Tim stuck out his hand. “I’m Tim McAllister. And this is Kathy Hopkins. We spoke on the phone.”

She eyed his hand. Ignored it. He let it drop. She hadn’t moved from the doorway, so we were stuck outside her ground-floor apartment. The balcony from the unit above provided some shade, but heat radiated from the parking lot behind us.

“We’re not here for, um, the usual,” Tim said, with forced laughter. “We just wanted to talk. We’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Who said anything about money?”

“Can we come in?” Tim asked.

She hesitated, then stepped out of the way.

It was a small studio, dark and narrow, simply furnished with a double bed, love seat and coffee table. At the far end was a kitchenette and a small stocked bar. No kitchen table, but I doubt she threw a lot of dinner parties. It looked like a room in a residential motel.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s just a place for . . . meeting friends.”

I nodded and held in everything I wanted to say about the restorative power of paint, matted art, candlesticks and some oversized throw pillows.

“May we sit?” Tim asked. She shrugged with something that approached a nod, and he settled himself on the chocolate brown love seat. Dark colors were a practical choice, given how well they hide stains.

“I’ll stand,” I said.

“You want anything to drink?”

“Diet Coke,” Tim said. Sure, he’d already had a beer. I could feel my nerves sizzling under my skin.

“Do you have a chard—um, a glass of white wine would be nice, thanks.”

She strolled over to the minifridge in her kitchenette. “There’s chardonnay and pinot grigio chilled,” she said. “I’ve got some sauvignon blanc, but you’d have to drink it warm or stick ice cubes in it.”

“You know, I think I’ll try the pinot grigio,” I said, perking up. “It always tastes so good on a hot day.”

“It does.” She smiled at me, holding my gaze for a moment, clearly perplexed by my presence.

“So.” Tim cleared his throat. “How long have you been, uh, doing this?”

“Doing what?” Her brown eyes were wide. She handed us our drinks (she’d poured herself a glass of wine, too) and settled onto the brown love seat, though none too close to Tim.

“We saw your ad,” I said. “In the newspaper.” When she didn’t respond, I added, “We got the impression you went to Mercer. Do you?”

She paused. “Does it matter?”

“It does, actually,” Tim said.

She sipped her wine. “I don’t go to Mercer,” she said, crossing her legs. Her face looked calm, but the red shoe on her upper foot jiggled relentlessly.

Tim let out a disappointed sigh. “Well, do you know anyone who does go to Mercer? Prostitutes, I mean.”

She uncrossed her legs and put both feet on the ground for balance. “What makes you think I know any prostitutes?” she asked evenly.