AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The Bowlaroo turns out to be a restaurant where a tired-looking woman (masked, Holly’s glad to see) is serving burgers and beer to a couple of bowlers. The tile walls are decorated with more framed photos. A couple feature smiling men holding up score sheets showing Xs all the way across. Above these is a sign reading 300 CLUB! Most of the others are groups of bowlers wearing league shirts.
“Look at this place,” Althea laments, gesturing at the empty booths, tables, and counter stools. “This used to be a good business, Holly. If it goes on like this, I’ll be out of business. All because of some fake flu. If the fucking Democrats hadn’t stolen the election… okay, here he is. That’s Cary, right up front.”
She has stopped near a photo of seven older men—white hair on four, chrome-domes on three—and one young man with his long blond hair tied back. The young man and one of the older guys are holding up a trophy. Underneath it says GOLDEN OLDIES WINTER LEAGUE CHAMPS 2014–2015.
“Can I take a picture?” Holly asks, already raising her phone.
“Be my guest.”
Holly snaps it.
“He’s in a couple others, too. Check this one out.”
In the one she’s pointing at, Cary is standing with six smiling women, two of whom look like they could eat young Mr. Dressler with a spoon. According to their shirts, they are the Hot Witches, champs of the Ladies Division in 2014.
“They wanted to call themselves the Hot Bitches, but Alfie put his foot down on that. And here he is with one of the Beer League teams. They bowl for a case of Bud.”
Holly takes more pictures.
“Cary’d roll with any league team that showed up a man or woman short. If it was during his shift, that was. He worked from eleven in the morning, when we open, to seven at night. He was very popular, and a good bowler—200 average—but he’d pull back when he was subbing. He fit in with any team, but these guys were his favorites and they were the ones he rolled in with most often.” She has led Holly back to the Golden Oldies. “Because they played in the afternoons, when this place was pretty dead even before fucking Covid. The Oldies could do afternoons because they were retired, but I think Cary had something to do with it, too. Maybe a lot.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because after he stopped working here, the Oldies switched to Monday nights. We had a slot and they took it.”
“Is it possible that Cary might have talked to any of those guys about his plans for quitting and maybe leaving town?”
“I guess he might’ve. Anything’s possible.”
“Do they still play? I mean, the men in this picture?”
“Some do, but at least a couple are gone.” She taps a smiling white-haired man who’s holding a red marbled ball that looks custom. “Roddy Harris still comes most weeks, but these days he just watches. Bad hips, he says, and arthritis in his hands. This one is dead… this one I think had a stroke… but this guy still plays.” She taps the man holding up the trophy with Cary. “In fact, he’s the team captain. Was then, is now. Hugh Clippard’s his name. If you want to talk to him, I can give you his address. We’ve got the addresses of all the team members, in case they win something. Or if there’s a complaint.”
“Do you get a lot of those?”
“Girlfriend, you’d be surprised. Competition gets pretty hot, especially in the winter leagues. I remember a match between the Witches and the Alley Sallies that ended in a fight. Punching, scratching, hair-pulling, beer spilled everywhere, what a mess. All about a little bitty line foul. It was Cary who got them broken up. He was good at that, too. Gee, I miss him.”
“I would like Mr. Clippard’s address. And his phone number, if you have it.”
“I do.”
She follows Althea Haverty back to her office. Holly doesn’t for a minute believe Cary Dressler told any of the Oldies about his plans to leave, because she doesn’t think he had such plans. His plans were changed, perhaps permanently. But if an old woman cleaned out Ellen’s trailer, it’s possible that one of these old men knew her. Might even be related to her, either by blood or marriage. Because the Red Bank Avenue Predator isn’t picking his victims at random, or not entirely at random. He knew Ellen was on her own. He knew Cary was on his own. He might have known Pete Steinman’s mother had a booze problem. He knew Bonnie had recently broken up with her boyfriend, her father was out of the picture, and Bonnie’s relationship with her mother was strained. In other words, the Predator had information. Was picking his targets.
Holly is better than she used to be—more grounded, more emotionally stable, less prone to self-blame—but she still suffers from low self-esteem and insecurity. These are character flaws, but the irony is this: they make her a better detective. She’s perfectly aware that her suppositions about the case could be entirely wrong, but her gut tells her they’re right. She doesn’t want to know if Cary confided in one of the Golden Oldies about his plans to leave the city; she wants to know if any of them know or may even be married to a woman who suffers from sciatica. Unlikely, but as Muskie used to say to Deputy Dawg on the old cartoon show, “It’s possible, it’s possible.”
“Here you go,” Althea says, and hands Holly a sheet of notepaper. Holly folds it into one of the flap pockets of her cargo pants.
“Anything else you can tell me about Cary, Ms. Haverty?”
Althea has picked up the sheaf of bills again. Now she puts them down and sighs. “Just that I miss him. I bet the Oldies—those like Clippard, who were here when Cary was here—miss him, too. The Witches miss him, even the kids who came on buses for their once-a-month PE outings miss him, I bet. Especially the girls. He was a stoner, and I bet that wherever he is he believes in the fake flu just like you do, Holly—no, I’m not going to argue with you about it, this is America, you can believe whatever you want to believe—I’m just saying he was a good worker, and there are less and less of them around. That Darren, for instance. He’s just putting in time. Do you think he could make out a tourney sheet? Not if you put a gun to his head.”
“Thank you for your time,” Holly says, and offers an elbow.
Althea looks amused. “No offense, but I don’t do that.”
Holly thinks, my mother died of that fake flu, you gullible bitch.
What she says, and with a smile, is “None taken.”
