We shook.
“We came to help,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem as if there’s much for us to do right at this moment. Please let us know if that changes. And good luck to the child. She’ll certainly need it.”
Madeleine’s directions were precise. I found the Tankard without any trouble.
Southwestern stretch of Cathcart Boulevard, just below the San Labrador city limits. Same mix of pricey shops and service establishments, lots of self-conscious mission architecture. The pistachio trees ended at the Pasadena border and were replaced by jacarandas in full bloom. The median was beautifully littered with purple blossoms.
I parked, spotting other non-Labradoran features: a cocktail lounge at the end of the block. Two liquor stores- one billing itself as a wine merchant, the other a PURVEYOR OF FINE SPIRITS. Window banners announcing premium French and California varietals on special.
The Tankard and Blade was a modest-looking establishment. Two stories, maybe a thousand square feet, set on a quarter-acre lot that was mostly parking space. Coarse-troweled white stucco, brown crossbeams, leaded windows, and mock-thatch roofing. A chain blocked the lot. Ramp’s Mercedes was on the other side, parked toward the rear, confirming my powers of deduction. (Where the hell was the deerstalker hat and calabash?) A couple of other cars sat farther back: twenty-year-old brown Chevrolet Monte Carlo with a white vinyl top peeling at the seams, and a red Toyota Celica.
The front door was panes of bubbly colored glass set into distressed oak. A hand-printed cardboard sign hanging from the knob said SUNDAY BRUNCH CANCELED. THANK YOU.
I knocked, got no answer. Pretended I had a right to intrude and rapped until my knuckles grew sore.
Finally the door opened and an irritated-looking woman stood there, keys in hand.
Mid-forties, five five, 135. Figure in the hourglass mode, made ostentatious by what she had on: Empire-waisted, bodice-topped, puffed long-sleeve maxi-dress with a square neckline low enough to display a swelling hand’s-breadth of freckled cleavage. Above the waist the dress was white cotton; below, wine-and-brown paisley print. Platinum hair drawn back and tied with a wine-colored ribbon. A black velvet choker centered with an imitation coral cameo encircled her neck.
Someone’s idea of Ye Olde Serving Wench.
Her features were good: high cheekbones, firm square chin, full crimson-glossed lips, small uptilted nose, wide brown eyes framed by too-dark, too-thick, too-long lashes. Hoops the size of drink coasters hung from her ears.
Protected by barroom light or booze-softened consciousness, she would have been a knockout. Morning assaulted her beauty, pouncing upon overly pancaked skin, worry seams, a loosening around the jowls, pouches of despair tugging her mouth into a frown.
She was regarding me as if I were the taxman.
“I’d like to see Mr. Ramp.”
She back-rapped the sign with crimson nails. “Can’t you read?” She flinched as if asserting herself hurt.
“I’m Dr. Delaware- Melissa’s doctor.”
“Oh…” The worry lines deepened. “Hold on a second- just wait here.”
The door closed and locked. A few minutes later she opened it. “Sorry, it’s just… You should have… I’m Bethel.” Shooting her hand forward. Before I could take it, she added, “Noel’s mom.”
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Drucker.”
Her expression said she wasn’t used to being called Mrs. She dropped my hand, looked up and down the boulevard. “C’mon in.”
Closing the door behind me and locking it with a hard twist.
The restaurant’s lights were off. The leaded windows were frosted and thinly spaced and a dishwater-colored haze struggled through them. My pupils labored to adjust. When they stopped aching, I saw a single long room lined with tuft-and-nailhead red-leather booths and floored with honey-brown carpet patterned in mock peg-and-groove. The tables were spread with white linen and set with pewter drink plates, blocky green glass goblets, and stout-looking flatware. The walls were vertical pine planks stained the color of roast beef. Bracketed shelves just below the ceiling line housed a collection of mugs and steins- easily a hundred of them, many of them featuring pink-cheeked Anglo-Saxon visages with dead porcelain eyes. Suits of armor that looked like studio props stood in strategic locations around the restaurant. Maces and broadswords hung on the walls, along with still lifes favoring dead birds and rabbits.
An open door at the rear offered a glimpse of stainless-steel kitchen. To its left was a horseshoe-shaped, leather-topped bar backed with a St. Pauli’s Girl mirror. A stainless-steel serving cart sat at the epicenter of the faux-wood carpet, bare except for a rotisserie spit and a carving set hefty enough to handle bison surgery.
Ramp was at the bar, facing the mirror, brow resting in one hand, one arm dangling. Near his elbow was a glass and a bottle of Wild Turkey.
Clatter came from the kitchen, then silence.
Unhealthy silence. Like most places designed for social intercourse, the restaurant was deathly without it.
I approached the bar. Bethel Drucker stayed with me. When we got there, she said, “Can I get you something, sir?” As if brunch had been restored.
“No, thanks.”
She went over to Ramp’s right side, leaned low, tried to catch his eye. He didn’t budge. The ice in his glass floated in an inch of bourbon. The bar top smelled of soap and booze.
Bethel said, “How ’bout some more water?”
He said, “Okay.”
She took the glass, went behind the bar, filled it from a plastic Evian bottle, and put it in front of him.
He said, “Thanks,” but didn’t touch it.
She looked at him for a moment, then went into the kitchen.
When we were alone, he said, “No problem finding me, huh?” Talking so low I had to move closer. I took the stool next to him. He didn’t move.
I said, “When you didn’t come home, I wondered. It was an educated guess.”
“Got no home. Not anymore.”
I said nothing. The St. Pauli girl grinned with Aryan joy.
“I’m a guest now,” he said. “Unwanted guest. Welcome mat worn clear the hell through… How’s Melissa?”
“Sleeping.”
“Yeah, she does that a lot. When she’s upset. Every time I used to try to talk to her she’d doze off.”
No resentment in his voice. Just resignation. “Lots to be upset about. I wouldn’t trade what she’s been through for twenty billion. She got dealt a lousy hand… If she’d’ve let me…”
He stopped, touched his water glass, made no attempt to lift it.
“Well, she’s got one less thing to be upset about,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Yours truly. No more evil stepdad. She once rented that from the video store-The Stepfather. Watched it over and over. Downstairs in the den. Never watched anything else down there- doesn’t even like movies. I sat down to watch it with her. Wanting to relate. Made popcorn for two. She fell asleep.”
He heaved his shoulders. “I’m gone, hit the dusty trail.”
“From San Labrador or just from the house?”
Shrug.
“When did you decide to leave?” I said.
“ ’Bout ten minutes ago. Or maybe it was right from the beginning, I don’t know. What the hell’s the diff?”
Neither of us talked for a while. The mirror shot back our reflections, sullied by dishwater light. Our faces were barely discernible, distorted by the imperfections in the silvered glass and the painted face of the grinning frÄulein. I made out just enough to know that he looked awful. I didn’t look much better.
He said, “I just can’t see why the hell she’d do it.”
“Do what?”
“Drive up there- break her appointment at the clinic. She never broke rules.”
“Never?”
He turned and faced me. Unshaven, pouch-eyed. Instant old man; the mirror had been kind. “She once told me that when she was a kid in school, she used to get straight A’s. Not because she especially liked to study, but because she was afraid of the teachers getting mad at her. Afraid of not doing well. She was straitlaced as they come- even back when we were at the studio and things got pretty loose, she never relaxed her standards.”