There was no need to follow him; he wasn’t going to commit any hammer murders on the nineteenth of September. But I was curious, and I had nothing better to do. He went into a bar and grill called The Lamplighter, not as upper-crust as the one at the Town House, but nowhere near as grotty as the ones on Canal. In every small city there are one or two borderland joints where bluecollar and whitecollar workers meet as equals, and this looked like that kind of place. Usually the menu features some local delicacy that makes outsiders scratch their head in puzzlement. The Lamplighter’s specialty seemed to be something called Fried Lobster Pickin’s.
I passed the wide front windows, lounging rather than walking, and saw Dunning greet his way across the room. He shook hands; he patted cheeks; he took one man’s hat and scaled it to a guy standing at the Bowl Mor machine, who caught it deftly and to general hilarity. A nice man. Always joking around. Laugh-and-the-whole-world-laughs-with-you type of thing.
I saw him sit down at a table close to the Bowl Mor and almost walked on. But I was thirsty. A beer would go down fine just about now, and The Lamplighter’s bar was all the way across a crowded room from the large table where Dunning was sitting with the all-male group he had joined. He wouldn’t see me, but I could keep an eye on him in the mirror. Not that I was apt to see anything too startling.
Besides, if I was going to be here for another six weeks, it was time to start belonging here. So I turned around and entered the sounds of cheerful voices, slightly inebriated laughter, and Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore.” Waitresses circulated with steins of beer and heaped platters of what had to be Fried Lobster Pickin’s. And there were rising rafters of blue smoke, of course.
In 1958, there’s always smoke.
“See you glancin at that table back there,” a voice said at my elbow. I had been at The Lamplighter long enough to have ordered my second beer and a “junior platter” of Lobster Pickin’s. I figured if I didn’t at least try them, I’d always wonder.
I looked around and saw a small man with slicked-back hair, a round face, and lively black eyes. He looked like a cheerful chipmunk. He grinned at me and stuck out a child-sized hand. On his forearm, a bare-breasted mermaid flapped her flippy tail and winked one eye. “Charles Frati. But you can call me Chaz. Everyone does.”
I shook. “George Amberson, but you can call me George. Everyone does that, too.”
He laughed. So did I. It’s considered bad form to laugh at your own jokes (especially when they’re teensy ones), but some people are so engaging they never have to laugh alone. Chaz Frati was one of those. The waitress brought him a beer, and he raised it. “Here’s to you, George.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and clicked the rim of my glass against his.
“Anybody you know?” he asked, looking at the big rear table in the backbar mirror.
“Nope.” I wiped foam from my upper lip. “They just seem to be having more fun than anybody else in the place, that’s all.”
Chaz smiled. “That’s Tony Tracker’s table. Might as well have his name engraved on it. Tony and his brother Phil own a freight-hauling company. They also own more acres in this town-and the towns around it-than Carter has liver pills. Phil don’t show up here much, he’s mostly on the road, but Tony don’t miss many Friday or Saturday nights. Has lots of friends, too. They always have a good time, but nobody makes a party go like Frankie Dunning. He’s the guy tellin jokes. Everybody likes old Tones, but they love Frankie.”
“You sound like you know them all.”
“For years. Know most of the people in Derry, but I don’t know you.”
“That’s because I just got here. I’m in real estate.”
“Business real estate, I take it.”
“You take it right.” The waitress deposited my Lobster Pickin’s and hustled away. The heap on the platter looked like roadkill, but it smelled terrific and tasted better. Probably a billion grams of cholesterol in every bite, but in 1958, nobody worries about that, which is restful. “Help me with this,” I said.
“Nope, they’re all yours. You out of Boston? New York?”
I shrugged and he laughed.
“Playin it cagey, huh? Don’t blame you, cuz. Loose lips sink ships. But I have a pretty good idea what you’re up to.”
I paused with a forkful of Lobster Pickin’s halfway to my mouth. It was warm in The Lamplighter, but I felt suddenly chilly. “Is that so?”
He leaned close. I could smell Vitalis on his slicked-back hair and Sen-Sen on his breath. “If I said ‘possible mall site,’ would that be a bingo?”
I felt a gust of relief. The idea that I was in Derry looking for a place to put a shopping mall had never crossed my mind, but it was a good one. I dropped Chaz Frati a wink. “Can’t say.”
