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“Fifteen minutes,” he says.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. And Holly… so sorry about your mom. She was a character.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Holly says. She’s sitting here with her bottom on hot concrete, leaning against a tire, stupid red galoshes splayed out in front of her, feet sweating, and getting ready to cry. Again. It’s absurd, really absurd.
“Your eulogy was great.”
“Thanks, Jerome. Are you really s—”
“You asked that already, and I am. Red Bank Ave, across from the Thickets, real estate sign out front. Be there in fifteen.”
She stows her phone in her little shoulder bag and wipes away her latest tears. Why does it hurt so much? Why, when she didn’t even like her mother and she’s so angry about the stupid way her mother died? Was it the J. Geils Band that said love stinks? Since she has time (and five bars), she looks it up on her phone. Then she decides to explore.
4
The arched entrance to Deerfield Park nearest the big rock is flanked by signs: PLEASE DISPOSE OF PET FECES and RESPECT YOUR PARK! DO NOT LITTER! Holly takes the shady, upward-tending walk slowly, pushing aside a few overhanging branches, always looking to her left. Near the top, she sees a beaten path leading into the undergrowth. She follows it and eventually comes out at the big rock. The area around it is littered with cigarette butts and beer cans. Also nests of broken glass that were probably once wine bottles. So much for do not litter, Holly thinks.
She sits down on the sun-warmed rock. As she expected, she has an excellent view of Red Bank Ave: the deserted gas station, the deserted convenience store, the U-Store-It, the Jet Mart further up, and—the star of our show—a repair garage now presumably owned by Marvin Brown. She can see something else as well: the white rectangle of a drive-in movie screen. Holly thinks that anyone sitting up here after dark could watch the show for free, albeit soundlessly.
She’s still sitting there when Jerome’s used black Mustang pulls in next to her Prius. He gets out and looks around. Holly stands on the rock, cups her hands around her mouth, and calls, “Jerome! I’m up here!”
He spots her and waves.
“I’ll be right down!”
She hurries. Jerome is waiting for her outside the gate and gives her a strong hug. To her he looks taller and handsomer than ever.
“That’s Drive-In Rock where you were standing,” he says. “It’s famous, at least on this side of town. When I was in high school, kids used to go up there on Friday and Saturday nights, drink beer, smoke dope, and watch whatever was playing at Magic City.”
“From the amount of litter up there,” Holly says disapprovingly, “they still do. What about on weeknights?” Bonnie disappeared on a Thursday.
“I’m not sure there are shows on weeknights. You could check, but the indoor theaters are weekends only since Covid.”
There’s another problem, too, Holly realizes. Bonnie exited the Jet Mart with her soda at 8:07, and it would have been mere minutes before she reached the auto repair shop where her bike was found. On July first it wouldn’t have been dark enough to start a drive-in movie until at least nine PM, and why would kids gather at Drive-In Rock to watch a blank screen?
“You look bummed,” Jerome says.
“Minor bump in the road. Let’s go talk to those kids. If they’re still there, that is.”
5
Most of the skateboarders are gone, but four diehards are sitting around one of the picnic tables at the far end of the Dairy Whip parking lot, chowing down on burgers and fries. Holly tries to hang back, but Jerome isn’t having that. He takes her elbow and keeps her right beside him.
“I wanted you to take the lead!”
“Happy to help out, but you start. It’ll be good for you. Show them your ID card.”
The boys—Holly guesses their average age is somewhere around twelve or fourteen—are looking at them. Not with suspicion, exactly, just sizing them up. One of them, the clown of the group, has a couple of French fries protruding from his nose.
“Hello,” Holly says. “My name is Holly Gibney. I’m a private detective.”
“Truth or bullshit?” one of them asks, looking at Jerome.
“True, Boo,” Jerome says.
Holly fumbles for her wallet, almost knocking her portable ashtray onto the ground in the process, and shows them her laminated private investigator’s card. They all lean forward to look at her awful photograph. The clown takes the French fries from his nose and, to Holly’s dismay (oough), eats them.
