Inside was a lightless corridor with a stairwell running up along the right wall to a closed door at the top. In front of the stairway to the right was an archway that had probably led into the living room. It had been closed off with a couple of pieces of plywood. Whoever had done it was an inexpert carpenter. Several of the nails were bent over, and instead of butting in the middle, one sheet of plywood lapped over the other. To the left was a similar archway, this one still open, and in what must once have been a dining room was a bar. There was a brown linoleum floor, three unmatched tables and some kitchen chairs, and a bar which had been worked up out of two long folding tables, the kind they use in church halls, with some red-checkered oilcloth tacked over it. Behind the bar was a tall dirty old refrigerator and some shelves with bottles on them. One shelf contained a row of unmatched glasses sitting mouth down on a folded dish towel. There was an old railroad wood stove set in a sandbox in the far corner opposite the bar, and on the wall to the left of the bar was a big florid picture of Custer’s Last Stand, with a very Errol Flynnesque Custer standing, the last man upright, in the center of his fallen troop, his blond hair blowing in the wind of battle, firing a long pistol at the circling Indians.

There were two overweight guys in overalls and down vests sitting together near the stove drinking highballs and smoking cigarettes. The stove was putting out enough heat to bake bread, but both men seemed not to notice. They had on woolen shirts under the vests, and the sleeves of long underwear showed where they had turned their cuffs back. One of them had on a red woolen watch cap and the other a ”Day-Glo“ orange hunting cap with imitation fur inside the earflaps. He had pushed it back a little on his head, but otherwise made no accommodation to the heat. The woman behind the bar was smoking a cigarette on which nearly an inch of ash had accumulated. As I came in, she got rid of the ash by leaning forward in the direction of an ashtray on the bar and flicking the cigarette with her forefinger. The ash missed the ashtray by maybe three feet, and she absently brushed it off the bar and onto the floor.

I assumed she was a woman, because she wore a dress. But that was the only clue. Her graying hair looked as if it had been cut with a hatchet. She had a lipless slash of a mouth that went straight across her wide square face. Her eyebrows were thick and grew together over her nose, and her skin was gray and harsh. She stood with her massive forearms folded over her shapeless chest and raised her chin maybe an eighth of an inch in my direction. I glanced at my watch. It was quarter of ten in the morning.

”You got any coffee?“ I said. She shook her head.

One of the guys at the table said, ”Hey, Gert, couple more.“

She went around the bar and got their glasses. She took a couple of ice cubes out of a bag in the freezer top of the refrigerator, plunked one cube in each glass, poured some bourbon over it, and added ginger-ale from a screw-top bottle. She walked back around, put the drinks down and said, ”Two bucks.“

Each of the drinkers gave her a dollar bill. She came back around the bar, put the two bills into a small, square, green metal box on the shelf. Then she looked at me again.

”Beer or hard stuff,“ she said. Her voice had a thick wheezy sound to it.

”Anything to eat?“ I said.

”Got a Slim Jim,“ she said.

I shook my head. ”I’m looking for a guy named Wilfred Pomeroy,“ I said.

She had no reaction. She didn’t care if I was looking for Wilfred Pomeroy or not.

”Know him?“ I said.

”Yuh.“

”Know where I can find him?“

”Yuh.“

”Where?“

She simply shook her head.

”Owe him money,“ I said. ”I’m looking to pay him.“

She looked across at the two fat guys drinking bourbon and ginger ale. Both of them wore highlaced leather boots. The steel toe of one showed through where the pale leather had worn away.

”Guy here says he owes Wilfred Pomeroy money,“ she said. The wheeze rattled in her chest. Her cigarette had burned down close to her lips. She spat it on the floor and let it smolder there while she got another one out of the pocket of her shapeless cotton dress. She lit it.

The guy in the ”Day-Glo“ cap said, ”Shit.“ Nobody else said anything.

”You’re not buying that?“ I said.

The other guy at the table said, ”Wilfred never done nothing that anyone would owe him money for, mister.“

The guy in the ”Day-Glo“ cap spat against the stove. It sizzled for a minute and then everything was quiet again.

”You from Boston or New York?“ the other guy said.

”Boston,“ I said.

”How much that fancy jacket cost you?“

”DayGlo“ said. At 9:50 in the morning he was already a little glassy-eyed. I was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and in Tunnys Grill I felt like Little Lord Fauntleroy.

”Free,“ I said. ”I took it away from a loudmouth in a barroom.“

”Day-Glo’s“ brow furrowed for a minute while he thought about that.

”You think you’re funny?“ he said.

”No,“ I said, ”I think you’re funny. You know where I can find Wilfred Pomeroy, or not?“

”Maybe you want to get your wise city-boy ass stomped.“

”Don’t be a dope,“ I said. ”You’re half gassed already and you’re fifty pounds out of shape.“

”Day-Glo“ looked at his pal.

”You want to show this city mister something?“ His pal was looking at me thoughtfully, or what passed for thoughtfully in Waymark. Then he made a dismissive gesture with his left hand.

”Fuck him, Francis.“

The woman at the bar said, ”You gonna buy something or not? If you ain’t I don’t want you loitering around my bar.“

I looked around at the three of them, slowly. ”Have a nice day,“ I said, and departed haughtily. Mr. Charm, smooth-talking the bumpkins.

Chapter 17

THE Waymark Town Hall was one of those Greek Revival buildings with white-pillared fronts that abound in the Berkshires. It stood at the end of a small wedge-shaped town common in its elegant white simplicity, like a fashion model at a rescue mission. Around back the land dropped off a level and the police and fire departments were housed there in the basement. The fire department was probably all volunteer. There were two engines and no people in the firehouse. Next to it was a single door in the concrete foundation wall, with a blue light beside it. I parked next to one of the gaudiest police cruisers ever customized. It had a light rack with two blue lights and a chrome siren mounted on the roof. There were chrome spotlights on both front window columns, running lights mounted on the fenders, and mud flaps and three antennas, and a giant shield painted on each door and on the hood in gold. Each one carried the legend WAYMARK POLICE. There was a shotgun locked upright at the dashboard, and a long black five-cell flashlight clipped beside it. The cruiser was painted light blue and white.

Inside the station was a square cinder-block room painted light green with a single large desk in front and a barred cell with wash basin, toilet and steel cot, in back. The cell door was ajar. There was a stuffed bobcat mounted on a slab of pine, sitting on top of a single file cabinet, there was a calendar on the wall with a picture of a stag at bay on it, and behind the desk sat a guy in a pale blue uniform shirt with white epaulets. A Sam Brown belt crossed over his chest, and a Western-style campaign hat sat on the desk in front of him next to the phone. A sign on the desk said BUFORD F. PHILLIPS, CHIEF. He had a big gold shield pinned to his chest. It too said CHIEF on it.

I took out my wallet and showed the chief my I.D. I said, ”I’m investigating a murder in Boston.“ Phillips leaned back in his swivel chair and I could see the big pearl-handled .44 revolver he carried on the Sam Brown belt. He propped one foot up on an open drawer and held my wallet out a little to read it. He was wearing tooled leather cowboy boots.