Don't Touch Me! - 29

Entering the bar Cody had visited a year ago, Brent looked for an empty table. None were available so he took the only vacant stool at the bar. When the bartender came over, Brent ordered a beer then said, "I don't suppose there's a chance in hell you were working here a year ago."

The man chuckled. "Actually, I was. Not every night, of course. Why?"

Brent showed him Cody's picture. "Do you remember this guy?"

"Nope. Why are you asking?"

"My name's Brent. I'm a private investigator, Mr.…" Brent looked at him in question.

"Tom."

"Okay, Tom. This man was in here on the twenty-fifth of May last year." He had gotten the date from Cody. "I need to find someone who remembers him being here and leaving that evening."

"That's pretty damned specific." Tom glanced down the bar at a customer who was trying to get his attention. "There's a couple of regulars who might. Let me talk to them when I get a free second and send them over. Mind if I hang on to this"—he waved the photo—"to show them?"

"Be my guest." He waited for Tom to deliver his beer then turned with his back to the bar, drinking while he surveyed the people at the tables. They were the usual types one found in a local bar—men, women, couples, all out for few drinks before heading home for the night. There were a few older men seated at the far end of the bar. Brent wasn't too surprised to see Tom approach them with the photo. Three of them shook their heads. Another one said something and Tom pointed at Brent.

A moment later, the old man wandered down to join Brent. "I remember this kid." He gave back the photo. "Mainly 'cause I'd never seen him in here and he sort of stood out. Like he was sort of…well, look at him. If he's not a fag, I don't know who is."

"Don't like fags, huh?" Brent replied, keeping his voice calm.

The man shrugged. "Got nothing against them, but this isn't the kind of bar they hang out in, if you get my meaning."

"Yep. Did he talk to anyone while he was here?"

Rather than answering, the man eyed Brent's beer. Brent got the message and ordered one for him, asking his name as he did. When it arrived, Norm—as he'd told Brent—took a deep swig, then said, "The kid just sat there"—he pointed to a seat at the end of the bar—"drinking and watching. I figured either he felt out of place or he was shy."

"Did anyone seem to pay special attention to him?"

Norm obviously pondered the question while taking another drink. "Yeah, now that you mention it, there was two guys sitting at a back table who kept eyeing him. Like they didn't like the cut of his jib."