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“As to your question, Ms. Gibney, I can’t remember Cary ever talking to me about plans to leave town or change jobs. I may have forgotten something he said about those things, this goes back six, seven, even nine years I guess, but that young man seemed perfectly happy to me. Crazy about the movies and always riding that noisy little moped of his. You say someone found it in Deerfield Park?”
“Yes.”
“Crazy! Hard to believe he’d leave it behind! That was his trademark!”
“May I show you a picture? You’ll have seen it before—it’s hanging in the Bowlaroo.” She calls it up on her iPad. Clippard bends over it.
“Winter Championship, right,” he says. “Those were the days! Haven’t won it since, but last year we came close.”
“Can you identify the men in the picture? And do you by any chance have their addresses? And phone numbers?”
“Memory challenge!” Clippard cries. “Let’s see if I’m up to it!”
“May I record on my phone?”
“Knock yourself out! This is me, of course, and this is Roddy Harris, also known as Small Ball and Mr. Meat. He and his wife live on Victorian Row. Ridge Road, you know. Roddy was Life Sciences, and his wife, don’t recall her name, was in the English Department.” He moves his finger to the next man. “Ben Richardson is dead, heart attack two years ago.”
“Was he married? Wife still in town?”
He gives her an odd look. “Ben was divorced when he started rolling with us. Long divorced. Ms. Gibney, do you think one of our guys had anything to do with Cary’s disappearance?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Holly assures him. “I’m just hoping one of them might be able to tell me where Cary went.”
“Got it, got it! Moving right along! This baldy with the big shoulders is Avram Welch. He’s in one of those Lakeside condos. Wife died some years back, if you’re wondering. Still bowls.” He moves to another baldy. “Jim Hicks. We called him Hot Licks! Ha! He and his wife moved to Racine. How’m I doing?”
“Terrific!” Holly exclaims. It seems to be catching.
Midge wanders in. “Having fun, kids?”
“You betchum bobcats!” Clippard cries, either not catching the faint note of sarcasm in his wife’s voice or choosing to ignore it. She pours herself a glass of iced tea, then stands on tiptoe to get a bottle of brown liquor from a cabinet where other bottles stand shoulder to shoulder. She pours a dollop into her glass, then holds the bottle out to them, one eyebrow raised.
“Why not?” Clippard nearly shouts. “God hates a coward!”
She pours a shot into his glass. It goes swirling down.
“What about you, Ms. Gibley? A little Wild Turkey will get that iced tea right up on its feet.”
“No thank you,” Holly says. “I’m driving.”
“Very law-abiding of you,” Midge says. “Ta-ta, kids.”
Out she goes. Clippard gives her a look that might or might not be mild distaste, then returns his attention to Holly. “Do you bowl yourself, Ms. Gibney?” He gives her name a slight emphasis, as if to correct his wife in absentia.
“I don’t,” Holly admits.
“Well, league teams are usually just four players, and that’s how we play it in the tourney finals, but during the regular season we sometimes bowled with five or even six guys, assuming the other team rolled with the same number. Because in the Over Sixty-Fives, someone is almost always on the DL. Sometimes two or three. By DL I mean—”
“The Disabled List,” Holly says, and doesn’t bother telling him it’s now called the Injured List. She’s all at once wanting to get out of here. There’s something almost frantic about Hugh Clippard. She doesn’t think he’s coked up, but it’s like that. The sixpack… the tight little buns in the red swimsuit… the tan… and the encroaching wrinkles…
“Who’s this one?”
“Ernie Coggins. Lives in Upriver with his wife. He still bowls with us on Monday nights, if her caregiver can come in. Advanced degenerative disc disease, poor woman. Wheelchair-bound. But Ernie’s in great shape. Takes care of himself.”
Now Holly understands what’s bothering her, because it’s bothering him. Most of the men in the photo are falling apart, and if eighty is their median age, why would they not be? The equipment wears out, which seems to be something Hugh Clippard doesn’t want to admit. He is, as they say, sitting in the denial aisle.
“Desmond Clark isn’t in the picture—guess he wasn’t there when it was taken. Des and his wife are dead, too. They were in a light plane crash down in Florida. Boca Raton. Des was piloting. Damn fool tried to land in heavy fog. Missed the runway.” Nothing exclamatory about this; Clippard speaks in what’s almost a monotone. He takes a big slug of his spiked iced tea and says, “I’m thinking of quitting.”
For a moment she believes he’s talking about booze, then decides that’s not it. “Quitting the Golden Oldies?”
