I put my check on the bar along with a ten-dollar bill. My meal was $7.65, including the bad wine. “Keep the change,” I said.
William swooped up both. “Thanks. You want anything else? Rosie made an apple strudel that will knock your socks off.”
“I better not, but I’d love a glass of soda water.”
“Certainly. Would you care for ice?”
“Nope.”
“A slice of lemon or lime?”
“Just plain.”
I watched as he filled a Tom Collins glass with soda from an eight-button dispenser gun. “You have an extra bar towel I could borrow? A dirty one will do.”
He reached under the bar and removed a damp towel he must have stowed earlier. William’s a stickler for sanitation. He sees the world as one big petri dish fermenting god knows what microbes and death-dealing bacteria.
I perched on a bar stool where the light was good and cleaned the grunge off the tag. On one side there was a phone number; on the other, the dog’s name, which was Ulf. I lifted the limp leather collar to my nose, noting that it still carried the faint scent of rot. I put the tag back in my jacket pocket, returned the bar towel, and gave William a quick wave.
Outside, the night air felt chilly and the street was deserted. It was only a little after seven, but the neighbors were home and buttoned up for the night. After twenty-one years, it probably wasn’t possible to determine whether Ulf had died of old age or if he’d been put down because of illness or injury. The “pirates” probably had a good laugh at Sutton’s expense, spinning the yarn about a treasure map. I was guessing Sutton would have been just as enthralled by a doggie funeral with a bit of pomp and ceremony thrown in.
I wasn’t sure what had generated my musings except a lingering defensiveness about Sutton’s ending up with egg on his face. How his sister must have loved that, seeing him make a public fool of himself. Ah, well. Once I reached my apartment and closed the door behind me, I secured the locks, turned on a couple of lamps, and adjusted the louvered shutters. Then I changed into my comfies, grabbed a quilt, and settled on the couch to read. Happily, I had a weekend coming up and I intended to goof off for the whole of it, which is exactly what I did.
Monday morning was a wash—busy, but otherwise forgettable. The afternoon was taken up with a due-diligence request for an Arizona mortgage company interested in hiring a high-level executive. According to his résumé, he’d lived and worked in Santa Teresa from June of 1969 until February of 1977. There was nothing to suggest he was hiding information, but the Human Resources director had been in touch, asking me to do a sweep of public records. If irregularities came to light, they’d send one of their investigators to do a follow-up. I was looking at half a day’s work at best, but it wouldn’t be strenuous. A paycheck is a paycheck, and I was happy to oblige.
At 10:00, I walked over to the courthouse, and spent the next two hours trolling the index of civil and criminal suits, property liens, tax assessments, judgments, bankruptcy filings, marriage licenses, and divorce decrees. There was no evidence of wrongdoing and no suggestion the fellow had ever crossed swords with the law. The problem was that there was no evidence of the guy at all.
I’d been given an address on the upper east side. On his application, the guy claimed he’d bought the house in 1970 and lived there until he sold it in 1977, but the owner of record was someone else entirely. Since the public library was just across the street, I left the courthouse and jaywalked, approaching the entrance with a suitable sense of anticipation. I love shit like this, catching liars in the act. His fabrications had been so specific and detailed, he must have felt safe, assuming no one would ever bother to check.
I returned to the reference department, where I’d spent such a satisfactory hour the week before. I shed my windbreaker and hung it across the back of a chair while I pulled the Santa Teresa city directories for the years in question. Again, a fingertip search turned up no trace of the guy. I cross-checked the address in the Haines and Polk and came up with nothing. Well, wasn’t that a kick in the pants?
I was on my way out of the building when I remembered the dog tag. I took it out again and studied it, tempted by the phone number on one side. It wouldn’t take five minutes to look it up in the Haines. Maybe I’d never know the whole story, but I might glean the odd bit of information. The issue wasn’t pressing. My curiosity was idle and wouldn’t have warranted a separate trip to the library. However, I was already on the premises and the effort required would be minimal.
I returned to the reference department, which I was beginning to regard as my adjunct office. I took out both the 1966 and 1967 Polk and Haines directories and sat down at what I was beginning to think of as my personal table. I put the tag down beside me and leafed through the Haines until I found the same three-digit prefix. I worked my way down the sequence of numbers until I found a match. In both directories, the number was assigned to a P. F. Sanchez. By flipping back and forth between the Haines and the Polk, I found an address for him, though it wasn’t a street name I recognized. His occupation was contractor; no indication of a wife.