The Yacht Club, for all its space, was decently furnished and looked not only comfortable, but liva­ble. Several sets of living-­room groupings were scat­tered about the floor, complete with lamps, rugs, and homey atmosphere; a kitchen with three refrigerators and a serving bar separated the rest of the room from Cap’s personal living quarters, which I could see consisted of an unmade bed, a freestanding closet, and several cardboard boxes. A long bar ran the length of two walls, an eclectic assortment of bar stools waiting in front of it. All the exposed plumbing was nicely painted, and the result was the oddest interior I had ever seen, but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.

Cap came back with an unbuttoned plaid shirt on over his bulging T-­shirt, carrying a teacup on a saucer. He set it down on a coffee table where a mug of steaming coffee waited, and motioned me over.

“Here, here, come sit here. Heater’s right under this table. Makes this whole area nice and cozy. So. Now. What do you think of my club?”

“It’s most unusual,” I said.

“Hah. Hah. Ain’t it the truth. We call it a ‘loft.’ That gives it a little more class, don’t you think?”

“What exactly is this place?”

He sat heavily on the couch, both elbows winged out over the top. “Before there were tourists, we had a nice little town. A man could go into a neighborhood bar and have a quiet little drink, take his girlfriend along, you know, maybe get a sandwich or some­thing.”

I sipped my tea. Cinnamon.

“And then Seven Slopes was discovered. Ta-­da. Big news cover­age, write-­ups in all the ski magazines, condominiums went up and ski facilities, and now all the bars are full of cocaine and stupid people on vacation. So some of us got together and established the Yacht Club. It’s open all the time, except Mon­days, that’s my day off, and now and then when I sleep.” He grunted toward the coffee table and took a sip of his coffee. “So you are my first customer today.”

“And you’re the captain.”

“That’s right. Captain. Before they called me Cap, they called me Boss. I retired from the railroad line down in Denver.”

“Does this club have memberships?”

“Yes, indeedy. No tourists here. We’re all anti­-tourist, but not officially. Tourists are good for the economy, you know. They’re just not good for our social life. All our members are full-­time, bona fide residents.” He looked at me, and again I noticed the kind features, the humor in the eyes. “Are you a resident?”

“Yes, I live on Wharton Street. I work at the answering service.”

“You work for Gloria? Gloria Gardener?”

I nodded.