started working on a plan. Like most plans, it depended on a dollop of luck, a smidge of skill, and the smile of the gods. But then, that was pretty much the MO of the boardwalk, any given night.
My shadow, apparently, had never been down the Shore.
“Wow.” Ellen had a strange look on her face, like she wanted to grin, but was afraid it would be impolite. “It really is…. It really is .”
I looked around, trying to see it through her eyes. “Yeah, it really is.” The boardwalk was transitioning between day and night, some sunbathers still sprawled out on the sand even as the workers in the game booths began their calls, to win a prize and impress your girl. I could remember coming here as a teenager, and it had seemed exactly the same, back then. Even the people seemed the same: the teenagers in packs, the families with a small child wide-eyed and babbling with excitement, the occasional senior citizens walking slowly, and every now and again the bright “beep beep beep” of an electric cart bringing people from one end of the boardwalk to the other, almost but never quite running someone over. The booths were garish and overly-bright, the darkness hanging over the ocean somehow comforting and threatening all at once, the sound of the cold Atlantic surf a scarce murmur under the many voices.
I’d worked one of those booths as a teenager, lived in a house off the beach with seven other guys, worked all night, slept most of the day, not worried about anything except saving enough of my paycheck that my mother didn’t kill me at the end of the summer. Hadn’t been back, since.
This wasn’t a vacation. The clock was ticking, a metronome in the back of my head, driving me on. Lives at risk, and I was the only one looking.
“How are we going to find anyone, or anything here?” Ellen asked. “It’s a zoo.”
“Ask a zookeeper,” I said.
Ellen had to show I.D. at the bar, which was a difference from when I’d been down here, but the inside of Doblosky’s was what I’d been expecting: bare wood walls and benches, a long bar that would be three-deep by midnight, and bartenders who already looked tired. We moved up to the bar, and I leaned against it, removing the baseball cap and ruffling the sweat-damp hair so that my horns didn’t show through. Ellen leaned in at my side, not too close but clearly with me.
The bartender took a professional look, the kind that didn’t see anything but remembered everything in case it was needed later. “What can I get you folks?”
“Yuengling, draft.”
“Two,” Ellen said. I was pretty sure she wasn’t a drinker, but Yuengling was a good basic lager: decent enough to not get you sneered at, common enough that nobody would think you were trying too hard. And if she left it half-drunk it wasn’t going to break the budget.
The bartender nodded once. “PI?”
I spread my hands, fair-caught. “After a while, it starts to show.” Actually, it didn’t, not on my face. The bartender was good, and experienced – he might even have been here twenty years ago when I did my time. “I bet you get a lot of that down here.”
The guy shrugged. He had hands like baseball gloves, and a torso to match, but his face was more like a college professor’s: narrow, with dark hair slicked back, and thoughtful eyes.
“Missing kids, mostly. Sometimes a missing spouse.”
“Kids. Late teens. Two girls and a boy.”
“Runaways?”
“Maybe. Probably not.”
The bartender finished pulling our beers and set them down in front of us, hearing what I wasn’t saying. “This ain’t back when. Not much like that going down here.”
“Not much isn’t none.”
Ellen stirred next to me, but only reached out to pick up her beer, and take a sip. I wondered what she’d been about to say, and why she’d stopped herself.
The bartender went down the line, dealing with other customers, and Ellen let out a little sigh.
“What?”
“How do you know what to say? How do you
My shadow, apparently, had never been down the Shore.
“Wow.” Ellen had a strange look on her face, like she wanted to grin, but was afraid it would be impolite. “It really is…. It really is .”
I looked around, trying to see it through her eyes. “Yeah, it really is.” The boardwalk was transitioning between day and night, some sunbathers still sprawled out on the sand even as the workers in the game booths began their calls, to win a prize and impress your girl. I could remember coming here as a teenager, and it had seemed exactly the same, back then. Even the people seemed the same: the teenagers in packs, the families with a small child wide-eyed and babbling with excitement, the occasional senior citizens walking slowly, and every now and again the bright “beep beep beep” of an electric cart bringing people from one end of the boardwalk to the other, almost but never quite running someone over. The booths were garish and overly-bright, the darkness hanging over the ocean somehow comforting and threatening all at once, the sound of the cold Atlantic surf a scarce murmur under the many voices.
I’d worked one of those booths as a teenager, lived in a house off the beach with seven other guys, worked all night, slept most of the day, not worried about anything except saving enough of my paycheck that my mother didn’t kill me at the end of the summer. Hadn’t been back, since.
This wasn’t a vacation. The clock was ticking, a metronome in the back of my head, driving me on. Lives at risk, and I was the only one looking.
“How are we going to find anyone, or anything here?” Ellen asked. “It’s a zoo.”
“Ask a zookeeper,” I said.
Ellen had to show I.D. at the bar, which was a difference from when I’d been down here, but the inside of Doblosky’s was what I’d been expecting: bare wood walls and benches, a long bar that would be three-deep by midnight, and bartenders who already looked tired. We moved up to the bar, and I leaned against it, removing the baseball cap and ruffling the sweat-damp hair so that my horns didn’t show through. Ellen leaned in at my side, not too close but clearly with me.
The bartender took a professional look, the kind that didn’t see anything but remembered everything in case it was needed later. “What can I get you folks?”
“Yuengling, draft.”
“Two,” Ellen said. I was pretty sure she wasn’t a drinker, but Yuengling was a good basic lager: decent enough to not get you sneered at, common enough that nobody would think you were trying too hard. And if she left it half-drunk it wasn’t going to break the budget.
The bartender nodded once. “PI?”
I spread my hands, fair-caught. “After a while, it starts to show.” Actually, it didn’t, not on my face. The bartender was good, and experienced – he might even have been here twenty years ago when I did my time. “I bet you get a lot of that down here.”
The guy shrugged. He had hands like baseball gloves, and a torso to match, but his face was more like a college professor’s: narrow, with dark hair slicked back, and thoughtful eyes.
“Missing kids, mostly. Sometimes a missing spouse.”
“Kids. Late teens. Two girls and a boy.”
“Runaways?”
“Maybe. Probably not.”
The bartender finished pulling our beers and set them down in front of us, hearing what I wasn’t saying. “This ain’t back when. Not much like that going down here.”
“Not much isn’t none.”
Ellen stirred next to me, but only reached out to pick up her beer, and take a sip. I wondered what she’d been about to say, and why she’d stopped herself.
The bartender went down the line, dealing with other customers, and Ellen let out a little sigh.
“What?”
“How do you know what to say? How do you
Similar Books
