Looking For An Honest Man Chapters 11 & 12

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Chapter 11

Expecting a much younger bartender Samantha realized that Johnny had to be at least fifty. A skintight black tee emphasized his hardened abs. Always Available in large orange letters was printed on the front. He’d cut the sleeves off the tee shirt, and seemed to perpetually flex his muscles. Beads of sweat covered his shaved head but couldn’t hide the dark outline of a receding hairline as he tended to people shouting bar orders. Wally got in line and patiently waited for their turn to order.

“How am I going to ask him with all of these people around?” she asked.

The line inched forward.

“Let me do the talking. I know this guy from another bar. He likes bars that have a lot of young girls.” Wally chuckled. “He thinks he might get lucky.”

Samantha grimaced and stuck out her tongue.

“I doubt that!”

Wally laughed.

Johnny’s flashy smile left Samantha cold. He would stop mixing a drink to light a customer’s cigarette, his hand almost caressing the woman’s cheek as if protecting the flame of the lighter from a nonexistent breeze. Some of the women actually cringed as his hand touched them. The women’s responses to his flirting told Samantha that he struck out a lot.

As the line moved, Samantha drew closer to Wally. If he noticed that she was nervous, Wally didn’t say anything. Samantha screened the mostly young, causally dressed crowd, and she recognized many from around the neighborhood. Standing with one hand clutching Wally’s shirt, Samantha pressed her face against his back. There was a constant buzz of meaningless conversation and laughter. The deck had a small eight by four-foot square sheet of plywood in the middle that was packed with ten young women waving their arms above their heads, bodies grinding to the music. A small group of men quietly stood around the dance floor with drinks in their hands watching the women with lecherous eyes.

“Samantha, it’s our turn. You okay?”

She nodded.

“Wally, my man. How are you?”

Wally bumped fists with Johnny.

“Give me a Sam Adams. The lady wants a Marguerita.”

Johnny face broke into a large grin as he peered around Wally to find Samantha.

“You’re coming up in the world, my man. Good for you.”

Samantha cringed.

“I need to talk to you, Johnny. When can you give me five minutes?”

“Well, I don’t know, Wally. This place is buzzing tonight.”

“We’re going to find a table out here. Bring us our drinks and we’ll call it even between us,” Wally said quietly in a firm voice.

Dumbstruck, Johnny’s eyes darted from Wally to Samantha. He chewed his lower lip as he picked up a towel and wiped his hands.

“Even?” he asked.

“Even,” Wally replied.

Johnny nodded his head to an empty table next to the bar and the brick wall of the building.

“I’ll get your drinks and be there in less than two minutes.”

Wally dragged a shocked Samantha to the empty table, pulled out a chair for her to sit down and sat down next to her.

“You didn’t tell me you knew him,” she said.

“Didn’t know it was this Johnny. I know about three or four bartenders in town with that name.”

Samantha leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“What are you calling even?”

Wally leaned over until their noses touched.

“None of your business,” he said and abruptly pulled away and laughed.

“Wally!”

“Here’s your drinks,” Johnny said, sliding into the chair beside Samantha, and giving her what he liked to think of as the look.

“That was fast,” Wally said.

“We make big pitchers of Marguerites and keep the pitcher in a small refrigerator. Now, I have to get back to the bar, so what can I do for you Wally?”

“It’s her,” Wally said, refraining from telling Johnny Samantha’s name.

Johnny reached out and cupped Samantha’s hand.

“What can I do for you?” he crooned.

Samantha immediately withdrew her hand.

 “I’m looking for a guy with short blonde hair, always wears a suit, and a little overweight. Pale skin, freckles all over a slightly bent nose, and a scar on his left cheek that runs from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth.”

She ran a finger down her left cheek to emphasize the scar.

“Brent Mitchell,” Johnny replied, his hand softly slapping the table.

“How did you get that so fast?” Samantha asked.

“The scar, baby. Everything else was our typical customer. The scar gave him away.”

“Do you know where he lives?” Wally asked folding his hands on the table.

“Haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks. We think he was slipping girls something in their drinks, so the manager told him not to come back.”

“Tell me about it!” Samantha said.

Johnny suddenly became serious.

“You may be lucky.”

“Why?” Wally asked.

“One of the girls he met up with ended up missing.”

Samantha became excited.

“Vickie Taylor?”

“Naw, this was a couple of weeks ago. Her name was Pat Wilson. Older woman. Probably in her fifties. Good looking chick, if I say so myself.” He turned to Samantha and displayed a sly smile. “Too old for my tastes.”

Johnny stood up and pushed his chair back under the table.

“Why do you connect Brent Mitchell to this Pat Wilson?” Wally asked.

“He was all over her one night. She turns up missing, and Brent hasn’t been seen since that night. Looks funny to me.”

Johnny pointed a finger at Wally before returning to the bar. Samantha turned to Wally.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Johnny does not exude confidence. He tells a good story, but it may not be the truth. We did get a name for your guy, and that’s a start.”

Samantha nervously fingered the rim of her glass for salt. She sucked on her finger and sighed.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Where else? We see whether this guy is on Facebook.”

Chapter 12

“Facebook?”

“Sam, a guy like this is going to tell all on Facebook. He wants everyone to know him. Let’s see whether he has friends we know, or look at his pictures to learn more about this guy.”

“You think it’s that easy, huh?”

“Sam, it is going to be that easy. Your place or mine? Or would you rather call it a night and I’ll take you home?”

The gears ground as Wally shoved the gearshift into reverse to back out of the parking space.

Samantha made a face.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“I know,” Wally replied. “I’ve got to take it into the shop, but I haven’t had time.”

Wally stopped in front of Café Al Dente to wait for Samantha to make up her mind. Her eyes wandered inside the restaurant at a small gathering seated by the window, their glasses raised in toast. Not a care in the world, she thought.

“What?” she yelped when Wally jabbed her in the side.

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” she said sullenly.

Wally turned left on Fifth Street and headed east.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Samantha folded her arms across her chest defiantly.

“Why do you think something’s always wrong?”

“Sam, I know you—and I’m not your mother. You don’t have to play the defensive game with me,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean you’re not my mother?”

Wally cast his eyes toward the darkened stalls of the City Market as he passed. The River Market area was vacant at night until around three o’clock in the morning when it began to come alive again. The low rumble of the Jeep bounced off the darkened buildings in the quiet night.

“When you get upset, you generally take it out on your mother—or me. I’m used to it, but it still affects your mother.”

Samantha unfolded her arms and leaned against the door to fully look at Wally.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said huffily.

“Forget it,” he replied with a sigh. “Let’s get back on track. Just for my information, what are we going to do once we find Mr. Mitchell?”

Samantha sat up in her seat, the seat belt snapped to restrain her.

“I’m going to tell that son-of-a-bitch what I think of him,” she snarled.

Wally’s nonchalant expression did little to appease her.

“And after that?” he asked.

Samantha stared daggers at him, which Wally returned with arched eyebrows and a slight smile. Samantha plopped back in her seat and stared straight ahead with her hands folded in her lap.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “It is so unfair.”

“Unfair or not, don’t you think we have to have a plan—or something?”

They were quiet until they reached Wally’s loft. He pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Samantha didn’t move. Wally could see her eyes glisten with tears. Her fingers played with the string on her windbreaker. Stuffing his car keys in his pocket, Wally leaned back and waited for Samantha to say something. The one thing Wally’s experience had taught him about Samantha was she wouldn’t divulge anything until she was ready. The streetlights reflected off the car roofs in the parking lot, and he could hear the hum of traffic from the freeway.

Finally, she spoke in that quiet, childlike voice she used when she was undecided.

“Wally, what would you do?”

“I think you need to decide what you want to do. You say you were raped. Do you want to beat the bastard up? Get the police involved? It's a little late to do anything except beat the son-of-a-bitch up,” Wally growled.

She raised her head and gazed at him mournfully. The edges of her mouth sagged downward causing her chin to wrinkle. The sorrowful, tear filled eyes tugged at his heart. Wally reached over and gently cradled Samantha in his arms.