14

Braking to five miles an hour, Tate surveyed the crowded parking lot. He found a space between a chopped Harley-Davidson and a pickup bumper-stickered with the Reb stars ‘n’ bars. He navigated the glistening Lexus into this narrow spot.

He and Bett surveyed the cycles, the tough young men and women, all in denim, defiantly holding open bottles, the tattoos, the boots. At the other end of the parking lot was a very different crowd, younger- boys with long hair, girls with crew cuts, layers of baggy clothes, plenty of body piercing. Bleary eyes.

Welcome to the Coffee Shop.

“Here?” Bett asked. “She came here?”

Starbucks? Tate thought. I don’t think so.

She glanced at the notes she’d jotted. “Off fifty near Walney. This’s it. Oh my.”

Tate glanced at his ex-wife. Her horrified expression didn’t diminish his anger. How could she have let Megan come to a place like this? Didn’t she check up on her?

Her own daughter, for Christ’s sake…

Tate pushed the door open and started to get out. Bett popped her seat belt but he said abruptly, “Wait here.”

He walked up to the closest cluster-the bikers; they seemed less comatose than the slacker gang at the other end of the lot.

But no one he queried had heard of Megan. He was vastly relieved. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe her friend meant a generic coffee shop someplace.

At the far end of the lot he waded into a grungy sea of plaid shirts, Doe Marten boots, JNCO jeans and bell-bottom Levi’s. The girls wore tight tank tops over bras in contrasting colors. Their hair was long, parted in the middle, like Megan’s. Peace symbols bounced on breasts and there was a lot of tie-dyed couture. The images reminded Tate of his own coming-of-age era, the early seventies.

“Megan? Sure, like I know her,” said a slim girl, smoking a cigarette she was too young to buy.

“Have you seen her lately?”

“She’s here a lotta nights. But not in the last week, you know. Like, who’re you?”

“I’m her father. She’s missing.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

“How’d she get in? She was seventeen.”

“Uhm. I don’t know.”

Meaning: a fake ID.

He asked, “Do you know if anybody’s been asking about her? Or been following her?”

“I dunno. But her and me, we weren’t, like, real close. Hey, ask him. Sammy! Hey, Sammy.” To Tate she added, “They’d hang out some.”

A large boy glanced their way, eyed Tate uneasily. He set a paper cup behind a garbage can and walked up to him. He was about the lawyer’s height, with a pimply face, and wore a baseball cap backward. He wore a pager and a cell phone.

“I’m looking for Megan McCall. You know her?”

“Sure.”

“Have you seen her lately?” “She was here this week.” “She comes here a lot?” Tate asked.

“Yeah, she, like, hangs here. Her and Donna and Amy. You know.”

“How about her boyfriend?”

“That black dude from Mason?” Sammy asked. “The one she broke up with? Naw, this wasn’t his scene. I only saw ‘em together once, I think.”

“Was somebody-some man in a gray car-asking about her, following her around?”

Sammy gave a faint laugh. “Yeah, there was. Last week, Megan and me, we were here and she was like, ‘What’s he want? Him again.’ And I’m like, ‘You want me to go fuck him up?’ And she goes, ‘Sure.’ I go up to the car but the asshole takes off.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Not too close. White guy. Your age, maybe a little older.”

“You get the plate number?”

“No. Didn’t even see what state. But it was a Mercedes. I don’t know what model. All those fucking numbers. American cars have names. But German cars, just fucking numbers.”

“And you don’t have any idea who he was?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I knew who he was. But Megan doesn’t like to talk about it. So I let it go.”

Tate shook his head. “Talk about what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Tate said. “What?”

“Well, just…“ Sammy lifted his hands. “What she used to do. I figured he was looking for some more action and had tracked her down here.”

“Action? I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I figured him and Megan had… get it? And he wanted some more.”

“What are you talking about?” Tate persisted.

“What d’you think I’m talking about?” The kid was confused. “He fucked Megan and liked what he got.”

“Are you saying she had a boyfriend in his forties?”

“Boyfriend?” Sammy laughed. “No, man. I’m saying she had a customer.”

‘What?”

“Sure, she-”

The boy probably had twenty’ or thirty pounds on Tate but farm work keeps you strong and in two seconds Sammy was flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Both hands were raised, protecting his face from Tate’s lifted fist.

“What the fuck’re you saying?” the lawyer raged.

Sammy shouting back, “No, man, no! I didn’t do anything. Hey…

“Are you saying she had sex for money?”

“No, I’m not saying nothing! I’m not saying a fucking thing!”

The girl’s voice was close to his ear, the blonde he’d first spoken to. “It’s, like, not a big deal. It was a couple years ago.”

“Couple years ago? She’s only seventeen now, for Christ’s sake.” Tate lowered his hand. He stood up, brushed the dust off. He looked at the people in front of the bar, staring at him. The huge, bearded bouncer was amused. Bett was half out of the car, looking at her ex-husband with alarm. He motioned her to stay where she was.

Sammy said, “Fuck, man, what’d you do that for? I didn’t fuck her. She gave it up a while ago. You asked me what I thought and I told you. I figured the guy liked what he had and wanted more. Jesus.”

The girl said, “Sorry; mister. She had a thing for older men. They were willing to pay. But it was okay, you know.”

“Okay?” Tate asked, numb.

“Sure. She always used rubbers.”

Tate stared at her for a moment then walked back to the car.

Sammy stood up, picked up his beeper, which had fallen off his belt in the struggle. “Fuck you, man. Fuck you! Who’re you anyway?”

Turning back, Tate snapped, “I’m her father.”

“Father?” the boy asked, frowning.

“Yeah. Her father,”

Sammy looked at the girl, who shrugged. The boy said, “Megan said she didn’t have a father.”

Tate frowned and Sammy continued, “She said he was a lawyer or something but he ran off and left her when she was six. She hasn’t heard from him since.”

In the car Tate asked angrily, “You didn’t know she went there?”

“I told you I didn’t. You think I’d let her go to a place like that?”

“I just think you might want to know where she was hanging out. From time to time.”

“You ‘just think.’ You know when people say that?”

‘What are you-?” he began.

“They say that when they mean, you damn well ought to know where she was.”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” Tate snapped.

Though, of course, he had.

He sped out onto the highway, tires squealing, gravel flying from beneath the tires. Putting the Coffee Shop far behind them.

She finally asked, ‘What was that all about?”

He didn’t answer.

“Tate? What were you fighting with that boy about?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said darkly.

“Tell me!”

He hesitated but then he had to say it. “He said he thought the guy in the gray car might’ve been a customer.”

“Customer?”

“Of Megan’s.”

“What?… Oh, God. You don’t mean…

“That’s exactly what I mean. That’s what the boy said. And that girl too.”

“Vile. You’re disgusting…

“Me? I’m just telling you what he said.”

Tears coming down her face. “She wouldn’t! There’s no way. It’s impossible.”

“They didn’t seem to think it was impossible. They seemed to think she did it pretty often.”