In a vastly unhappy voice, Danny says: "Oh boy."
In Dale Gilbertson's office there is a bulletin board dominated by enlarged photographs of Amy St. Pierre and Johnny Irkenham. A third photo will be added soon, he fears — that of Irma Freneau. Beneath the two current photos, Dale sits at his desk, smoking a Marlboro 100. He's got the fan on. It will, he hopes, blow the smoke away. Sarah would just about kill him if she knew he was smoking again, but dear Jesus Christ, he needs something.
His interview with Tansy Freneau had been short and nothing short of purgatorial. Tansy is a juicer, a regular patron of the Sand Bar, and during their interview the smell of coffee brandy was so strong it almost seemed to be coming out of her pores (another excuse for the fan). Half drunk, she had been, and Dale was glad. It kept her calm, at least. It didn't put any sparkle in her dead eyes, coffee brandy was no good for that, but she had been calm. Hideously, she had even said "Thank you for helping me, sir" before leaving.
Tansy's ex — Irma's father — lives across the state in Green Bay ("Green Bay is the devil's town," Dale's father used to say, God knows why), where he works in a garage and, according to Tansy, supports several bars with names like the End Zone and the Fifty-Yard Line. Until today, there has been some reason to believe — at least to hope — that Richard "Cubby" Freneau snatched his daughter. An e-mail from the Green Bay Police Department has put paid to that little idea. Cubby Freneau is living with a woman who has two kids of her own, and he was in jail — D & D — the day Irma disappeared. There is still no body, and Tansy hasn't received a letter from the Fisherman, but —
The door opens. Bobby Dulac sticks his head in. Dale mashes his cigarette out on the inside lip of the wastebasket, burning the back of his hand with sparks in the process.
"Gosh 'n' fishes, Bobby, do you know how to knock?"
"Sorry, Chief." Bobby looks at the smoke ribboning up from the wastebasket with neither surprise nor interest. "Danny Tcheda's on the phone. I think you better take it."
"What's it about?" But he knows. Why else would it be the phone?
Bobby only repeats, not without sympathy, "I think you better take it."
The car sent by Rebecca Vilas delivers Henry to Maxton Elder Care at three-thirty, ninety minutes before the Strawberry Fest! dance is scheduled to begin. The idea is for the old folks to work up an appetite on the floor, then troop down to the caff — suitably decorated for the occasion — for a glamorously late (seven-thirty is quite late for Maxton's) dinner. With wine, for those who drink it.
A resentful Pete Wexler has been drafted by Rebecca Vilas to bring in the deejay's shit (Pete thinks of Henry as "the blind record-hopper"). Said shit consists of two speakers (very large), one turntable (light, but awkward as a motherfucker to carry), one preamp (very heavy), assorted wires (all tangled up, but that's the blind record-hopper's problem), and four boxes of actual records, which went out of style about a hundred years ago. Pete guesses that the blind record-hopper never heard a CD in his whole life.
The last item is a suit bag on a hanger. Pete has peeked in and ascertained that the suit is white.
"Hang it in there, please," Henry says, pointing with unerring accuracy toward the supply closet that has been designated his dressing room.
"Okay," Pete says. "What exactly is it, if you don't mind me asking?"
Henry smiles. He knows perfectly well that Pete has already had a peep. He heard the plastic bag rattling and the zipper chinking in a duet that only occurs when someone pulls the bag away from the hanger at the neck. "Inside that bag, my friend, Symphonic Stan, the Big-Band Man, is just waiting for me to put him on and bring him to life."
"Oh, uh-huh," Pete says, not knowing if he has been answered or not. All he's really sure of is that those records were almost as heavy as the preamp. Someone should really give the blind record-hopper some information about CDs, the next great leap forward.
"You asked me one; may I ask you one?"
"Be my guest," Pete says.
"There appears to have been a police presence at Maxton Elder Care this afternoon," the blind record-hopper says. "They're gone now, but they were here when I arrived. What's that about? There hasn't been a robbery or an assault among the geriatrics, I hope?"
Pete stops in his tracks beneath a large cardboard strawberry, holding the suit bag and looking at the blind record-hopper with an amazement Henry can almost touch. "How'd you know the cops were here?"
Henry puts a finger to the side of his nose and tips his head to one side. He replies in a hoarse, conspiratorial whisper. "Smelled something blue."
Pete looks puzzled, debates whether or not to inquire further, and decides not to. Resuming his march toward the supply closet–dressing room, he says: "They're playing it cagey, but I think they're looking for another lost kid."