Shear Murder

Chapter 2-2

It was nearly five thirty when Rocky Wilson pulled his blue pickup into the empty parking stall in front of the Whaler Bar and Grill off 38th Street in Fairview next door to Rob's Books. He planned to meet Sharon here.

He shivered with s****l excitement as he thought about her soft, voluptuous young body in his arms. They had been lovers three times in the last month, and each time seemed like the first. It was almost as if the past twenty years had disappeared. He was a stud again. A s****l dynamo. Her flowing blonde hair and moans of ecstasy rang in his ears as he remembered their last meeting.

He didn’t see her car anywhere, but it was only 5:25, so she still had five minutes.

He turned off the engine and stepped out of his truck. The door squealed on its hinges in protest. Pushing it shut, he paused to look in the side view mirror at his neatly trimmed beard. After flashing his best, twisted smile, he strode toward the double oak doors leading into the smoke-filled bar. His brown leather ankle boots were polished to a high shine, the first time he’d bothered to make the effort in years.

His checkered sport coat hung open over his neatly pressed blue jeans, held up by a black belt, which strained to hold his pants up as his potbelly spilled over the waistband.

At the doors to the bar, he gripped the large, ornately carved brass handle of the right door, swung it open, then entered.

His vision quickly adjusted to the dim interior as he strode toward the bar. The low-slung, black metal lampshades cast spotlights over the booths along the outer edge, and the solid, dark wood tables, each with four matching captain’s chairs, sat in the center of the room. On each table was a lit candle inside a pale orange glass vase. The tables were covered with sheets of glass to make cleaning spills easier.

Against the wall farthest from the doors was the thirty-foot-long teak bar. It was polished to a high shine, reflecting the light from the low-wattage bulbs in the metal lamps over the tables. Kelly, the red-haired New York escapee bartender, stood behind the bar in his white, open-necked shirt, his navy vest unbuttoned as usual. He was having an animated conversation with Harold Schultz, one of the many regular barfly’s that frequented the place.

Rocky walked straight to the bar. Kelly’s freckled face broke into a wide grin when he noticed him.

“Rock, how you doin’?” Marks had dropped into silence when Rocky appeared, but didn’t look at him, preferring to stare into his glass of whiskey as if studying its smoky aroma.

“Good. Thanks, Kelly. You seen Sharon?”

“Nope. She meetin’ you here again?” Kelly winked at him.

“Uh... yeah.” Rocky’s eyes shifted to the bar top as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Pulling out a single, he slapped it on the bar. “You got change for a one? I gotta make a call.”

“Sure,” said Kelly. Picking up the one-dollar bill, he turned to the register underneath the large mirror that reflected the row of liquor bottles on shelves in front of the mirror. The register bell chimed brightly as the cash drawer opened.

Kelly flipped up the bill holder; after placing the single in the slot, he extracted four quarters, then pushed the drawer closed with his right hip in an oft-practiced move.

He placed the four twenty-five cent pieces on the bar. “There you go,” he said, a knowing smile on his face.

Picking up the quarters, Rocky nodded at Kelly, then headed for the front doors. He could have used one of the pay phones in the corridor leading to the washrooms, but he decided to go outside to use the phone booth at the corner store next door for maximum privacy. He wanted to use his cell phone, but Trudy might see the bill and the numbers he called.

I may be a drunk, but I’m not stupid.

* * * *

After the door closed behind Rocky, Marks shared his opinion about what they’d just seen. “That stupid son of a b***h is really gonna git himself in deep s**t one of these days. The way I hear it, that little w***e eats guys like him for breakfast.”

Kelly nodded grimly, then the two men continued with their earlier conversation. The pending baseball trades were a far more interesting topic than Rocky Wilson’s love life.