Damaged Goods

Chapter Thirty-Six

I hurried back to my apartment to grab a few essentials—night shirt, toothbrush, and toothpaste. If I had to stay overnight, the bare essentials would do.

After hastily stuffing these items into a backpack, I added a change of underwear. That was really all the clothes I would need.

I decided against throwing in the Sig. I had no permit to carry and was already on thin ice legally by simply doing a private investigator's job without a state-sanctioned license. Besides, where I was headed, I had no reason to think I was in danger.

I grabbed my luggage, such as it was, locked up my apartment, and hurried to the car. I headed south toward the Beltway, and made my way to Route 50. From there, it was a straight shot east to Ocean City.

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Traffic was relatively light. No doubt a few of my fellow travelers were taking advantage of the good weather and the relative lack of crowds at the beach resort during the off-season. You could go to Ocean City as late as October and still enjoy warm weather without the irritating crush of great hordes of tourists.

Endless fields rolled by and the pungent odor of manure tinged the fragrance of soybean fields, corn stalks, and summer wheat. Driving through air perfumed by fertilizer was a small price to pay for the warm late-summer breeze.

Easton, Cambridge, Salisbury ... it seemed to take forever to get there. Even though it was only a two-hour drive.

I finally reached Berlin, and from there, it was only a short distance to the water and the Route 50 bridge into the resort town. I wanted to find a parking place near the Boardwalk, and mercifully, there were plenty to choose from, lots more than during the height of tourist season. I nabbed a good one and hustled up the walkway toward the bar where Terry used to share an upstairs apartment with one of the ride operators.

The place, which had been a popular dive before my time, was as seedy as I remembered it. Mismatched wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the horseshoe-shaped bar. I perched on the cracked upholstery of a teetering stool and waved to the barkeep. The man aimed his dark button-like eyes, surrounded by wrinkles from too much sun, my way and approached with the speed of a sedated sloth.

"Does Dell still live upstairs?" I asked.

"No one lives upstairs." He grabbed a rag and wiped an invisible spot on the counter.

I pasted on a smile. "Any idea where Dell lives now?"

"You buying a drink or what?"

"Sure," I said. "You got root beer?"

The bartender pulled a sour expression. "No."

"Any kind of cola then. Not too much ice."

The man shuffled off to fill my order. By the time he returned with my drink, I had laid a $20 bill on the counter in front of me.

"You can keep the change, if I find the service up to par." I smiled wider.

The bartender looked me over. "This your idea of a bribe?"

"No, but this is." I added another twenty and dangled a third over it.

He nodded, humming what sounded like an assent.

"Suppose you could dig up an address for Dell?" I asked.

The old man rubbed his chin. "I suppose."