A decently long chapter to make up for my holiday absence, in which York continues to explore his rustic side.
CHAPTER 49: RICHARD
TIME AND LOCATION: 18:14, SWERY 65
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast
FORTUNE: "Here, peanut shells make a humble substitute for the red carpet."
Richard Dunn has a very interesting face, wouldn't you say so, Zach? Rugged yet sensitive, tough yet emotional, weary yet optimistic. A mass of contradictions that add up to a unified whole. Standing behind the bar, polishing a glass and listening patiently to the various trials and tribulations of the regulars, he seems like an island of calm amidst the rowdiness of the establishment he owns: The SWERY 65, darts and drinks being the house specialty. It's dimly lit and there aren't many people here at six in the evening, but it's already starting to fill up. Music, unfamiliar but appropriate, jangles from the old-fashioned jukebox near the pool table, permeating the smoky air...
Zach, this is one of those moments where the city mouse goes to visit his country cousin and says, "I could really get to love a place like this"...
Richard looks up as I make my way towards the bar, raises his hand in greeting. He seems a little tired, but reasonably happy to see us; a nice change from the furtiveness that's colored our interactions with some of the other townsfolk. Maybe people hiding things is what he's tired of, too.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Secret Agent!" he says, as soon as I'm in range. "Can't honestly say I expected you to show up in a place like this."
A patron sitting hunched over on his stool looks up at our approach, scowls, then moves down a few seats away from us. Richard laughs at my non-committal expression.
"Looks like I'm not the only one caught off guard. You guys always dress like that?"
I shrug, smiling a little. "It's Special Agent, not Secret. And I'll admit I don't often frequent bars with this sort of... rustic atmosphere, but when I'm on the job, yes. This is usually what I'm wearing. It varies from agent to agent, of course... Some of my colleagues are even cross-dressers."
"Rustic? Boy, you really are from the big city, ain'tcha?" he laughs. By themselves, the words could be misconstrued as an insult, but the way Richard says them, it simply sounds like pleasant conversation. He puts down the glass and towel and nods at my chest. "Right down to that tie of yours. I'll say one thing for you city folk, you've got open minds."
"How do you mean, Richard?"
His turn to shrug. "Just that a man wearing pink hearts on his tie is pretty much tantamount to cross-dressing around these parts, in case you didn't notice all the eyeballs swivelin' in your direction when you walked in."
I hadn't noticed, and my puzzled silence must seem like an indication. The skin around Richard's eyes creases as he chuckles quietly at our apparent ignorance.
"Personally, I'm a firm believer that a man's business is his business, and that goes for his pleasure, too, but I can't speak for everyone. This is an old-fashioned small town with old-fashioned values, and that sort of thing isn't exactly the norm around here... Not that anyone's gonna give you a hard time, especially when I'm running this joint, but it is pretty unusual for the 65."
"Really? I never thought of my sense of fashion as being so controversial," I say. "As for the old-fashioned values, that's exactly what I appreciate about this place. For the most part, I've been treated with nothing but the utmost respect since coming to Greenvale-"
"Oh, hell, Agent York," Richard says, breaking out into laughter again. He must be naturally jovial, although you'd never guess it to look at him, because I'm pretty sure there wasn't a joke in what I said. "I didn't mean it that way. Folks around here are as kind as can be; you've met Deputy Thomas MacLaine, I take it? Now, I'm not much of a traveler, but I'm sure you know better'n me that there are plenty of places in this world who'd chop that boy's head off for actin' the way he does. But Greenvale... It's different here. You might get a dirty look from 'ol Samson over there- and it helps that you're a newcomer- but that same man'd fight to the death anyone he heard mouthin' off about Deputy MacLaine. Because Thomas is a police officer, first and foremost, and it doesn't matter how he dresses or the way he talks... Because he belongs to us. And we take care of our own."
He nods in a satisfied, but completely unselfconscious way, and resumes polishing his glass. I take a seat at the bar, actually a little bit touched. Zach, I couldn't put it into words before, but I think that little speech convinced me: Richard Dunn is the genuine article. You'd never catch someone talking like that where we come from... Especially not in D.C., where every other man on the street is a politician or a politician's yes-man. Greenvale has its awful secrets, but it has its honest places too, and I never realized before coming here how rare a thing that is...
...That's true, Zach. You called it first, telling me he was a trustworthy guy when we met him at the Community Center. Sometimes, not often enough, things are exactly as they appear to be.
"Look at me, flapping my mouth off," Richard says, shaking his head and grinning. "And I haven't even offered you anything to drink yet. What's your poison, Agent York? Or has my jawing already pulled more time from the investigation than you can spare?"
"I have an important appointment at nine, but until then, I'm free to conduct myself how I please."
He seems to hesitate. "You... You do drink, don't you, Agent York?"
'Ol Samson, still glowering at the other end of the bar, leans forward in order to catch my response. I get the feeling that if I say I'm a teetotaler, he'll demand that I be put out in the parking lot.
"Of course I drink, Richard!" I say, loudly for Samson's benefit. "I may be an FBI agent, but I'm no stranger to alcohol. It's just... not my first beverage of choice when it comes to effecting the clarity I need while on assignment. No offense."
Richard stops in the middle of grabbing something from under the counter and stares at me. After a moment, he straightens up and takes off his hat, looking as if one of his regulars had suddenly sprouted wings and flew through the ceiling.
"Uh... That's a relief, I guess. No offense to you, but of all the suits I've known in my time, not one of 'em knew how to relax."
"Well, relaxation is relative. I feel downright lazy compared to the idea of being an around-the-clock surgeon, for example."
"Fair enough." He leans forward. "So I'm guessing you'd be interested in hearing the selection? Unless, of course, you already had something in mind..."
Yes, all right, Zach, I'll tell him. I didn't want to spoil the mood, but it does seem unfair to lead a man like Richard on under false pretenses.
"To tell you the truth, Richard, I didn't come here strictly for drinks," I say. Richard frowns a little and crosses his arms. His eyes, so friendly before, are now cooler, drawn more into himself.
"Shoulda known that was the case when you said you were dressed for the job," he says. "So what's the problem?"
"I'd like to speak to your son. Is he around?"
Richard shakes his head. "Quint took off 'bout fifteen minutes ago, didn't say where he was headed. I usually don't drag him in here until around eight or so, but I heard his car peelin' out and knew he was gone. Usually he's in his trailer tinkering with that bike of his... Why, is something the matter?"
"I don't want to be too hasty with the specifics, Richard, so you'll have to settle for generalities," I say. "I spoke to his girlfriend, Becky Ames, a while ago and she asked me to talk to him. How much of it has to do with the investigation remains to be seen, but a lead is a lead, and I've got to follow it. It's nothing serious, as far as I can tell..."
"But it might be."
"It might."
Richard leans on the counter, one hand covering his mouth as he stares intently in the direction of the darts games going on against the opposite wall. He rubs his chin, sighs as heavy a sigh as we've heard in years.
"Well, I figured you comin' in here could only mean bad news... I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I suppose there's only one reason an FBI agent would walk into a joint like this. Don't get me wrong, though, Agent York... I really 'preciate the work you've been doing since you got into town. You and the police."
"That's very interesting, Richard," I say evenly. "Because when I first spoke to him at the community meeting, Quint didn't seem very keen on the local law enforcement. Has he had any... problems with them recently?"
Richard shoots me a sharp look. "First you butter me up with small talk, then you break out the probe? I'd have appreciated it if you had just gotten right to the point soon as you got in."
"So what you're saying is, instead of circling around and complicating things, I should have made my shot directly," I say. "Like that game you play here. Bullseye!"
I mimic throwing an imaginary dart between his eyes. He flinches slightly; maybe I shouldn't have been imaginary aiming at him. He looks slightly embarrassed at being so easily spooked.
"Wha- Uh, yeah. I guess that's a fair comparison." He shakes his head in a bewildered sort of way. "What were we talking about again?"
Zach, it's amazing how often we get that question, even from our peers back at the Bureau whom we've worked with for ages. Is it just me, or have people's attention spans gotten shorter and shorter as the years go by? I thought it might be the result of fast-paced city life, but it seems this conversational disease has spread even to the countryside. A pity.
"We were discussing your son, Quint, and why he's got such a beef with the Sheriff's department."
Richard's eyes go back to being cool, but now there's a spark of doubt inside them.
"He's a good kid, Agent York. And if personal testimony from his father isn't official enough, his criminal record is spotless. You can try to dig up any dirt you like with one of your fancy background checks, but I guarantee-"
My turn to shake my head and laugh. "Richard! If this were a chess game, you'd be at least five moves ahead! It's not his past I'm concerned about, it's his present. Which means that if he is in any sort of trouble, there's more than enough time to get him out of it before it's too late."
Richard smiles painfully. "That supposed to be comforting? 'Sides, I'm way better at darts than chess..."
"And I'm uncannily lucky when it comes Crazy Eights, but that's beside the point." I raise a finger between us. "Now, I'm afraid we've got to get going soon, but don't worry about what I've said. I just want Quint to confirm a few facts, that's all. I'm sure we'll be out of your hat in no time."
Richard nods, but doesn't say anything, and he's no longer meeting my eyes. I lean on the counter, feeling the grain of real wood under my fingertips, and take a quick glance around at how the locals are taking our presence. We might have provoked a momentary interest coming in, but things seem to have settled down almost immediately, the music and darkness serving to cover our conversation like an ocean washing away footprints left on the beach. Raucous laughter from the pool table bursts out before drifting amicably to the floor, which, as Emily had mentioned, is indeed covered in peanut shells.
Richard notices me noticing the mess and seems to rouse himself, a thin line appearing between his eyebrows. "Damn kid's supposed to come in an' sweep the floor every coupla hours. Usually he's pretty good about it, but he seems to have been neglectin' his duties recently... I pin it down to Anna's death. Quint took it pretty hard, y'know. We all did."
Before I can respond, he tilts his head down and looks hard at me from under the brim of his hat. "And in case you think that me pointin' out this behavior is some indication that I think he's up to something, it isn't. Anna and Becky were practically best friends, and since Quint was dating Becky, the three of 'em used to hang out a lot together. Anna was very important to Quint, so even though I don't think grief is any excuse for laziness, I'm willing to cut him a little more slack than usual. No idea why Becks would think Quint knows anything, but I guess that's what you're gonna find out, right?"
Zach, even from the short period of time we've spoken to him, it's clear that Richard is as solid and honest as the earth itself. The only problem with that sort of temperament is that if he's not telling the whole truth, it's because he's convinced himself that's all of it. One objective reality, rigid and dependable, just like himself. And like George Woodman and General Lysander, once he's built his life on that foundation, it'll take massive reconstructing to shift his point of view.
Quite a dilemma they pose, these solid, dependable men of Greenvale... Like a boulder dam blocking a free-flowing river. You can't blame them for not wanting their quiet little town flooded more than it already is, but with the amount of rain they get around here, it's only a matter of time. Anna's murder was just the first small breach, and the cracks are starting to spread...
"Agent York?" Richard waves a callused hand in front of my face. "I asked you a question. Several, actually, and you haven't really answered any of 'em."
"It's just the nature of my job to always be on the asking side of the fence, rarely the other way around. Sorry, Richard," I say.
"No need," he sighs, handing some unseen patron to our right a bottle of beer. "I've chewed your ear longer than anyone who's ever sat at this bar... Probably talked more to you in fifteen minutes than to my ex-wife in the last ten months of our marriage. I'm not usually this chatty, but I dunno. Special circumstances, I guess."
"You've probably been under a lot of stress," I tell him. "You ought to take a vacation. Close up the bar for a little while, spend some time with your son. Things like this always have an upward tendency to get better, you know."
"Yet another glaring piece of evidence that you're not from around here, Agent York. What's with the sunny optimism? Between that and... Well... The way you talk in general, I am truly having a hard time pinning you down." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "And I always thought of myself as a great judge of character!"
"You must not be that great," I say, expression neutral. "After all, when I came in, you thought I was an uptight Secret Agent with interesting things to say about fashion and sobriety..."
After that comment, which results in a prime example of Richard's tendency to laugh at perfectly reasonable statements, I end up buying a drink from him after all. Add to that a plate of nachos and more dirty looks from 'Ol Samson, and before you know it, I've succeeded in making him forget that I was after his son about anything. I do believe him when he says he has no idea where Quint might have gone; the obvious answer is to Becky's, but when I call her house from the pay phone near the door half an hour later, I'm surprised to hear Emily pick up on the other end.
"Oh, hello, Agent York! Where are you?"
"At the SWERY 65," I reply. "Talking to Richard Dunn. Is Quint there?"
"No, why?"
"Just wondering. We'll catch up to him later. I'm assuming you and George found out that locker 4011 belonged to Becky Ames..."
Stunned silence.
"...Yeah, we did! How did you know?"
Good guess, Zach, though given where Emily is right now, it's pretty obvious.
"Years of training," I reply. "So you're following up? Has Becky said anything?"
"No, I just got here. George and Todd Thorne, the deputy in charge of watching her, they're waiting for me out in the lobby. I'm about to go into her room... Was there anything you wanted me to ask her?"
What do you think, Zach? Does it sound like George forced her hand or what? If I tell her that I was hoping to get a crack at bed-ridden Miss Ames before the police mussed everything up, she'll just think I have it in for George again. Additionally, I'd be surprised if Becky told them anything. If she was ready to talk, she would have asked for us personally.
"Emily, it feels like you're rushing things a bit. You sure Becky is okay with this? Did George put you up to it?"
There's a slight pause, and the voice, when it returns, sounds slightly strained.
"Agent York, George did not put me up to anything. And I'm a little surprised that you would even say that. It's not as if I can't think for myself when you're not around, you know..."
"So you're saying this was all your idea."
"It might have been. Why does it matter? The point is that I'm here now, and if you have any suggestions on what to ask Becky, now would be a great time to give them." Another pause. "Unless you're already on your way over... Maybe to check to make sure we're doing our job properly?"
"No, go ahead. I'm a little busy." Zach, she seemed perfectly happy with us when we parted ways at the junkyard. Something must have happened to make her act this way, but what? I've heard of "that time of the month", but never of it happening so abruptly in the middle of the day.
"Of course you are," Emily sighs. Another long, fretful pause follows, during which I drop more quarters into the phone. "Well, if there's nothing you want me to say in there, I guess I should get going. Oh, and fair warning, York... When you get back to the Department, you might have a little explaining to do."
I light up a cigarette, holding the phone between my head and shoulder. "And how's that?"
"George has been grilling me on your intentions within this case, and as usual I wasn't nearly as well-equipped to describe them as you are. To tell the truth, I've gotten a little fuzzy on some of the details myself... Maybe you could draw up a diagram or something in the briefing room tomorrow."
"Diagrams tend to diminish my sense of the case as a holistic entity, Emily," I say, my exhaled smoke mingling with that of a roomful of strangers. "It's like ruining a piece of art by over-analyzing every paint stroke. Think of those works of classic literature they made you read in high school. Weren't their meanings and symbols clearer, more relevant, when the teacher wasn't trying to shove them down your throat?"
"I never saw it that way," Emily says. "Mr. Frawley, my English prof, always came up with metaphors I hadn't even noticed before."
You're right again, Zach. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. Clearly, this is one of those times when you meet someone whose sphere of experience doesn't intersect cleanly with your own. At any rate, it doesn't matter, because this is also one of those times when you wish you carried more loose change. I've completely exhausted my supply of quarters, and our call ends prematurely and without satisfaction... Not to mention, as you so kindly pointed out, I'm down to my last cigarette. Not good, Zach.
I glance back towards Richard, who is looking at us and silently pointing at our half-eaten plate of nachos, mouthing "Are you done with these?" I nod, wishing I could properly say goodbye, but this is an emergency. Because we haven't just run out of quarters, or cigarettes... We've also run out of time. Not to say that we were wasting time by talking to Richard, no; in order to see connections, you need a frame of reference, and that means building a solid observational foundation of your surroundings. In other words, getting to know the locals. Ordering a beer and chatting up the owner of the bar is all part of the investigation, even if someone like George thinks it's lollygagging.
What I mean, Zach, is that our instincts are sounding the alarm. Every case has a clock, and you have to learn how to listen to it if you want to get anything done. Richard told us the Milk Barn closes later on some weekdays; lucky for us, today happens to be one of those days.
Let's take advantage of that discount we were offered, Zach. Maybe they'll even have a special on case-relevant clues in aisle 5... If our luck doesn't run out as well.
Want to hang out with the locals yourself? Check out the Sinner's Sandwich RP; character applications accepted any time!
