Chapter Twenty-Two
The bar had seen better days. Hell, it had seen better decades.
The single-story building was covered in graffiti, and not the artistic kind.
The windows had wrought iron bars and the door looked like it had recently endured a boot being thrust through the lower portion.
THE brOKEN TAP was in illuminated letters on the roof.
The letter N was out and the T was spluttering, turning the bar into THE brOKE AP.
The parking lot was filled with beaten-up trucks, motorcycles, and one gleaming, black truck that looked like it had never seen a farm in its life, never mind a dirt track.
What stood out most was a very beautiful, shiny, black sports car, without a scratch on it.
As we pulled in, the two bearded bikers walking past gave the sports car a wide berth, even as they pushed and jostled each other on the way in.
Rock music thumped out of the bar in a steady beat, a loud blast sounding as a scruffy man in a biker jacket, blood streaming from his nose, staggered out and scurried to his car. He peeled out of the lot like the building was on fire.
I parked next to the sports car since it seemed no one else wanted to. Plus, it was only a short distance to the door.
“No sign of Solomon and Delgado,” I said, scanning the parking lot for their SUV. I had no idea where they were driving from. If it was the city, they could be a while. “I’ve never been here before. You?”
“It doesn’t look familiar but I’ve worked in so many bars, they all start to look the same.”
Just then, the letter T disconnected from its setting, slid down the roof, and fell to the sidewalk where it landed with a crunch of glass.
“Maybe it’s nicer inside,” Lily said, wincing.
A knock on my window made me jump. A man with closely shaven hair and a dark suit waited outside. “Yes?” I called and he motioned for me to unwind the window.
I cracked it open half an inch.
“Mr. O’Malley doesn’t like people parking next to his car,” he said in a surprisingly well-spoken voice. “Find another parking spot, ma’am.”
“Duncan O’Malley?” I asked, surprised… and yet, not.
I’d met the gangster a long time ago and he’d helped me out on a couple of occasions.
I knew he operated in the darkest spots of the city, amongst people I wouldn’t want to spend my time with, but the bar seemed like an anomaly.
It was far out of town and far too obviously shabby.
Although, now that I thought about it, I really didn’t know much about Duncan O’Malley at all except Solomon seemed to like and trust him.
“What’s it to you?”
“Is he inside?”
“Are you acquainted?”
“We are.” I reached for my purse and made to open it when Lily squeaked and ducked. I looked over and found the barrel of a gun pointed squarely at me. I stopped. “I’m reaching for my business card and license,” I said, my fingers hovering over my purse.
“Do it slowly.”
“Okay.” I maneuvered the purse so he had a better view, opened the flap, and pulled out the two cards, poking them through the gap in the window.
“Lexi Graves, PI,” he read. “What business do you have with the boss?”
“None,” I said. “We’re not here to see him, but if you could let him know we’re here as a courtesy, I’d appreciate it.”
The man popped my license back through the window and passed my business card off to another person waiting in my blind spot.
The second man jogged to the bar and slipped inside.
The man with the gun didn’t lower his weapon until the second man returned and whispered something in the first man’s ear.
He tucked the gun into his waistband and said, “Sorry about that, Ms. Graves. Can’t be too careful.
You can tell your friend she can sit up now.
It would be harder to shoot her if she remained upright anyway. ”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, my heart thumping as I nudged Lily. She cautiously straightened up, her back pressed firmly to the back of the seat, her hands securely on her thighs.
“Mr. O’Malley doesn’t recommend the bar and asks you to wait if you want to speak to him.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Happy to say hello another time. We do have someone we want to speak to in there.”
“Then Mr. O’Malley asks you to join him first. I’ll escort you.”
“Don’t you need to protect his car?”
The two men seemed to find that hysterically funny. Then the man with the gun sobered up. “No one is going to touch Mr. O’Malley’s car,” he said.
I popped the door lock and he opened the door for me.
The second man walked around to Lily, doing the same.
I couldn’t decide if they were being polite or reducing the opportunity for either of us getting one over on them.
Not that they should worry. Neither of us were armed, and the more that thought sank into my mind, the more I felt heading into the bar was a mistake.
The gunman jogged forwards a few steps to open the door, then held it for me, letting out a blast of cigarette smoke, stale beer, thumping music, and loud voices.
The voices stopped as we entered and two old men in leather vests and beer bellies leered at us.
One reached out to try and cup some part of my body I didn’t want to be certain of his aim for.
“No,” I said, smacking his hand decisively.
“Feisty,” he said, and coughed.
“Mr. O’Malley would appreciate you keeping your hands off his guests,” said the gunman, stepping between us.
“Or what?”
“Or lose your hand.”
The old man leaned back in his chair and spun away, promptly ignoring us.
“This way, please,” said the gunman, leading us through the quieting bar rather like parading lambs through a lion’s den.
We rounded the bar, past several tables of bikers, their eyes on us like we were fresh meat, and then towards a closed door.
The gunman rapped his knuckles against it, waited a moment, then entered, ushering us through.
“Ms. Graves and friend, sir,” he said.
Duncan O’Malley was seated at a round table overlaid with green felt and scattered with cards and poker chips.
Three other men sat with him, one in a suit with an open neck shirt, and the other two in jeans, T-shirts, and leather jackets.
The far side of the table was occupied by a male croupier in a white shirt and black pants.
Several more men lounged around the room and a tall, dark-haired woman counted a stack of money at a separate table.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked O’Malley without rising.
“I wish it were a social call but I’m looking for someone,” I said.
“How ‘bout me, darlin?” said the man in the suit, the nearest of the men to me. He grinned and raised his eyebrows.
“Gentleman, this is the best PI in town,” said O’Malley. “You’d be wise not to get on her wrong side. She’ll outsmart you before breakfast.”
I waited for a chorus of sarcastic “oooohs” but they never came. Instead, the suit shrugged and turned away. Some of the crowd shot mildly interested glances in our direction. One man didn’t even look up from his phone.
“And Ms. Shuler-Graves,” he said, giving Lily a nod. “A pleasure.”
“Thanks. You too,” said Lily, nudging me and giving me a look that asked how he knew her.
I figured O’Malley probably either knew everything about everyone he might cross paths with, or Solomon or I must have mentioned her at some point during our interactions.
Since I wanted to think Solomon and I were more sensible than that, I figured O’Malley had simply done his research.
“We’re looking for Jerry Fitch,” I said, figuring O’Malley would appreciate me getting to the point.
No one reacted or ran for the door, which was disappointing. Clearly, I didn’t look menacing enough, although the horsey scent wafting from me was probably enough for most people to clear the area.
“What for?” asked O’Malley with mild interest.
“We’re not looking to bring any trouble to his door,” I said. “We think he might be able to help us with a case.”
“What kind of a case?”
“One where a woman died recently and her husband might have been up to no good.”
“Did he kill her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Jerry Fitch a witness?”
“He’s not,” I confirmed, “but he did have an interaction with her husband that we’d like to know more about.”
“And that man’s name?” O’Malley prompted.
“Joel Casey.”
Silence stretched in front of us, then O’Malley waved to the croupier to start clearing the table of cards. The man in the leather jacket seated on the far side of O’Malley cast a long look over me and said, “I’m Jerry Fitch.”
“May we have a moment of your time?”
“Come with me,” he said and rose, revealing a gun snugly tucked in his waistband. He headed to the back of room, and towards another door, leaving our only choices to flee or follow.
When O’Malley didn’t say anything, I followed, Lily on my heels.
“We should have waited for Solomon,” hissed Lily on the way. “What if he kills us?”
“He won’t kill us.”
“Did you see his gun?”
“He has no reason to kill us, plus, O’Malley likes me.
I doubt he’d let us be shot in the backroom of the bar he frequents.
” Additionally, my biggest reason was that there were thousands of dollars of chips on the poker table and I figured no one wanted their card game interrupted by murdering two unarmed women before having to dispose of their bodies.
The best way to get rid of us was to answer my questions.
We stepped through the swinging door into what had once been a functioning kitchen, clearly unused in years.
Dust covered the stainless steel surfaces.
Pans were abandoned on the stove, knives and spatulas littered the surfaces, and empty baskets were missing fresh produce.
A large, walk-in refrigerator had two suspiciously large bags hanging from meat hooks.
Lily widened her eyes and shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
“What do you want to know about Joel Casey?” asked Fitch, turning to face us and crossing his arms. His temples were graying and his hands suggested he’d undertaken hard labor. The leather jacket looked expensive and nicely worn in.
“We understand you had some business with him.”
Fitch harrumphed and motioned for me to continue.
Since straight talking seemed like it would get us out of here fast, I asked, “What was the nature of that business?”
“He borrowed money from me.”
“How much?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if he didn’t repay you and you killed his wife in retaliation.”
Fitch’s expression soured. “I wouldn’t kill a nice lady like that. I was very sorry to hear of her passing.”
It was my turn to be puzzled. “You knew Jessica Casey?”
“Only a little. My niece used to horseback ride at Ashgrove Farms. I used to go and watch sometimes. Thought I might buy her a pony one day but she’s moved on to other interests.
Mrs. Casey spoke to me here and there and I found her pleasant.
Pretty, too. Like I said, I was sorry to hear she passed.
So, no, I wouldn’t kill her… or anyone,” he added with a stony expression that dared me to challenge that.
Lily relaxed beside me, apparently convinced. “Is that how you got to know Joel?” I asked.
He nodded. “That chump approached me a year ago at the farm, asking about a loan. I figure my reputation preceded me. I told him I don’t conduct business on family time. He said he was desperate so I gave him my number and told him to call me. He called me a day later and I met him here.”
“Did he say why he was desperate?”
“No, and I didn’t care to ask. I told him my terms. He agreed and took the cash.”
“What was his collateral?”
“I’m not a bank or a pawn shop. I don’t always take collateral. Plus, I knew where the farm was. I knew where he lived.”
“How much cash?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Did he repay it?”
“At first, yes, then he started stumbling. Eight months ago, he said he needed another loan.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I did.” He stared at me, contemplating something, leaving me waiting patiently to see if he wanted to impart it naturally, or if I needed to prompt him.
“We were told you beat him up six weeks ago,” I said. “Had he stopped paying?”
“No.” Fitch shook his head. “I’d found out he had no stake in the farm, not that I would have jeopardized Mrs. Casey’s position if it came to that. It was an embarrassing lack of due diligence on my part. But no, it wasn’t about the money. The beat down was a warning not to upset Mrs. Casey again.”