Page 39 of Forgotten Path
Lack of imagination, he finally decided. Not everyone had the mind of a writer.
He strained to eavesdrop on the hushed conversation between Tony, the fresh-faced bartender, and the hostess.
“…Bodhi King … forensic expert … Pittsburgh.”
The hostess scurried toward her station as the door at the top of the stairs opened. Fred leaned across the bar and caught the bartender’s eye.
“You need another, Mr. Glazier?”
He eyed his mostly full bourbon glass. “Jeez, no. A glass of water would be good.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Tony filled a glass with ice and water, Fred said, “Did I hear that they brought in a forensics guy from Pennsylvania to investigate Doc’s death?”
Tony pursed his lips and jutted his chin toward the hostess station. “Allegedly. She usually knows what’s going on in town. Her uncle’s a cook at St. Lou’s. He hears everything.”
“Wonder why?” he mused.
“Why what?”
“Why they’d bring in some big shot all the way from Pittsburgh?”
Tony shrugged and turned his attention back to the hostess station. Fred followed his gaze. She was trying to deter a guy in his late twenties or early thirties from entering the restaurant. Fred eyed him. Backward baseball cap, t-shirt with a faded logo emblazoned across the chest, jeans that could stand to be washed, and sneakers. He looked more like a Duke’s Brews guy than someone who’d hang out in this place.
“…Just want to get a drink,” the guy protested.
Tony frowned. So did Fred, although he expected they had different reasons. He had an allergic reaction to snootiness.
He raised his voice and called over to the hostess, “What’s the problem, honey? My friend’s meeting me for a glass of Pappy.”
She grimaced and threw Tony a desperate glance.
“Sorry, Mr. Glazier. We didn’t realize he was with you,” Tony said in a hurry. He raised his shoulders and gave the hostess a look that clearly said ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
She pasted on a fake smile and led the guy over to the bar. As he took the stool next to Fred’s, she said, “I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir. For future reference, the Oak Barrel does have a dress code.”
The guy scoffed, “Don’t worry. I won’t be back.”
Tony placed a glass of the pricey liquor in front of him.
He turned toward Fred and raised it in a salute before putting it to his lips, “Thanks, Mr. Glazier.”
Fred watched him grimace and shudder as the liquid hit his throat. “My pleasure, kid,” he said through his laughter.
He returned the glasses to the bar, wiped his hand on his dirty jeans, and stuck it out, “Craig Lowell.”
Fred gave it a quick shake. “Lowell? You related to Judy?”
“Yeah, she’s my grandmother.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Matter of fact, I was driving her home from the diner when I spotted your Mustang in the lot. I did come in to see you.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“I heard you sometimes hire, uh, consultants.”
“You’re a consultant?” He eyed Lowell.
Lowell stammered, “Um, not exactly a consultant. An independent contractor. I don’t know. Somebody to do special projects.”
