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Chapters (28)
  1. "Q" is for QUARRY
  2. Chapter 1
  3. Chapter 2
  4. Chapter 3
  5. Chapter 4
  6. Chapter 5
  7. Chapter 6
  8. Chapter 7
  9. Chapter 8
  10. Chapter 9
  11. Chapter 10
  12. Chapter 11
  13. Chapter 12
  14. Chapter 13
  15. Chapter 14
  16. Chapter 15
  17. Chapter 16
  18. Chapter 17
  19. Chapter 18
  20. Chapter 19
  21. Chapter 20
  22. Chapter 21
  23. Chapter 22
  24. Chapter 23
  25. Chapter 24
  26. Chapter 25
  27. Chapter 26
  28. Epilogue

"I'll do that. Just please have Iona call me if you hear from her. You don't know where she's staying?"

"Of course not. I'd have said if I did."

"Great. I thought I better check in case I missed that part."

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

We cruised Vine, which was the main street of Creosote and all of ten blocks long. There was only the one tavern, done up in the ubiquitous Western theme. We parked and went in, pausing to get our bearings: low ceilings supported by heavy beams, a wooden floor dense with sawdust, rough-hewn log walls chunked with stucco or its equivalent. There was a long, polished mahogany bar with the requisite brass foot railing, eight tables with captain's chairs, and a Foosball table. The place was deserted, so it didn't take long to figure out that Pudgie wasn't there. At one end of the bar, there was an old Orange Julius machine with a perpetual fountain of juice laving the square, glass tank. Behind the bar, there was a rotisserie where old-fashioned hot-dogs on skewers circled past a heat source, throwing off an irresistible cheap scent.

Stacey and I made a beeline for the bartender, ordering and consuming two hot dogs each, decorated with a squiggle of mustard, and piled high with a nasty sweet pickle relish and onions minced so fine our eyes were watering. Neither of us said a word until the last bite of bun had been munched and swallowed. I was gratified to hear Stacey making the same low whimpering sounds that accompanied most of my meals.

He chased his lunch down with a Coke and then used a paper napkin to scrub his mouth and fingers. "I'll be burping weenies for the rest of the day, but it's worth it. Don't know how I worked up such an appetite."

"Well Stacey, we haven't eaten since noon and it's after three o'clock."

"Can I get you anything else?" The bartender was a man in his late fifties, with an egg-shaped face, balding head, and a gap between his two front teeth.

Stacey said, "We're looking for Pudgie Clifton. His sister, Felicia, thought he might be here."

"Haven't seen him today. He usually shows up at eleven when we open the place. He'll be in later. Happy Hour for sure. He never misses a chance to get his two for one."

"When he comes in, would you have him get in touch with us?

We're out running around, but he can reach us later at the Ocean View Motel in Quorum." Stacey made a note on a paper napkin, which the bartender set on the ledge of liquor bottles behind him. I waited while Stacey paid for lunch (my second, his third) and then we returned to the car.

Heading north again on Highway 78, I pointed out the hazy outlines of the Tuley-Belle in the distance, off to the left. "You want to do the tour now or come back?"

"No time like the present."