In hopes of engendering loyalty, Rosie had purchased a popcorn machine. Napkin-lined baskets of freshly popped corn were now stationed down the length of the bar with shakers of Parmesan cheese and garlic salt. The smell of hot oil and burnt kernels formed a pungent counterpoint to the scent of Hungarian spices that saturated the air.
It was early yet and neighborhood regulars would soon trickle in, augmented by off-duty police as the evening wore on. For the time being, the television screen was blank and all of the overhead lights were on, illuminating the dispirited collection of mix-and-match furnishings Rosie had assembled from garage sales over the years. The secondhand chairs had wood or chrome frames with padded vinyl plastic seats, and the Formica-topped tables were only made level through the tricky use of shims. The wooden booths that lined the right-hand wall were darkly varnished, with surfaces perpetually sticky to the touch.
William was behind the bar, polishing stemware. Rosie was perched on a bar stool, consulting a collection of cookbooks that were open in front of her. There was only one other customer, and he sat four stools away from her, his back turned while he read the newspaper and sipped a glass of beer.
As Henry and I took our seats, I glanced over and realized the lone man at the bar was Cheney Phillips, who worked in the homicide unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Cheney was roughly my age, with a dark mop of unruly curls as soft as a poodle’s coat. Brown-eyed, clean-shaven. Two years before, we’d had what I suppose could be called a “romance,” though I feel compelled to put the term in quotes. While the initial sparks had never taken hold, I didn’t think either of us had ruled out the possibility. Now even the most casual encounter sometimes triggered intimate images that made my cheeks color with embarrassment.
I pushed away from the table, saying to Henry, “I’ll be right back.”
“You want white wine, yes?” he asked.
“I do. Thanks.”
As usual, Cheney was nattily dressed: gray slacks, navy blazer, under which he wore a white dress shirt with an expensive-looking silk tie in shades of gray.
I crossed to the bar and tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a pleasant surprise. I don’t usually see you here at this hour. What’s up?”
He smiled. “I just finished my annual physical, for which I received a multitude of gold stars. I thought that warranted a beer.”
“Congratulations. Good health deserves celebration.”
He lifted his glass. “To yours.”
Cheney Phillips came from money. His father owned a number of private financial institutions in the area, while his mother sold high-end real estate. Both were perplexed when he forswore the banking business in favor of the police academy. Once onboard at the STPD, he’d worked his way up from traffic to his current position as a homicide detective, where the pay was adequate but no cause for rejoicing. Still, Cheney managed to live well, which should have come as no surprise. Wealth begets wealth. Some years before, his uncle had died and left him an inheritance that he’d used to purchase a rambling two-story Victorian home next door to my friend Vera, whose house was its mirror twin.
Rosie caught sight of me and her gaze flicked to Henry, alone at his table. She closed her cookbooks, stood, and reached for an apron she tied around her waist. Idly, I watched her move around behind the bar and pour a Black Jack over ice for him. William passed her a sparkling wineglass and she filled it with Chardonnay and placed it on the bar in front of me. The wine would be second-rate, but the service was superb. She delivered Henry’s whiskey, while Cheney pulled out the stool next to him and patted it. “Have a seat. How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
As I settled next to him, I caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the familiar associations set off a warning bell. I shifted into business mode.
“You’re actually just the man I was looking for,” I said. “You remember the name Christian Satterfield? Convicted of nineteen counts of bank robbery, according to the Dispatch.”
“Know him well,” he said. “His last two jobs, he targeted the Bank of X. Phillips.”
“Your father’s bank?”
He pointed at me to confirm. “The dummy hit the same branch twice. First time, he walked off with thirteen grand. Second time, my cousin Lucy Carson was at the teller’s window as a trainee, which was bad news for him. He couldn’t find the note he’d written, so he told her he had a gun and threatened to shoot her in the face if she didn’t empty her drawer and fork over the cash. He handed her a canvas tote, so she did as requested and then pressed the button for the silent alarm.”
“Good for her. Serves him right. The paper said a couple of tellers were so stressed out, they quit.”
“Not her. Just the opposite. She testified at his trial, but downplayed the shooting threat. She said he was a gentleman, soft-spoken and polite. She said she only went for the alarm because she could see he was hurting and wanted to be caught. Once he went to prison, they carried on a feverish correspondence, pouring out their hearts. Her more than him. He’s the kind of guy women think they can rehabilitate.”