Ration of Lies by M. Ruth Myers

Author:M. Ruth Myers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical mysteries, 20th century historical mystery series, 1940s private investigator, strong female protagonist, WWII historical mystery
Publisher: M. Ruth Myers
Published: 2019-10-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Concern that Daisy might find the lure of the bar where her brother’s friends gathered impossible to resist in spite of my warnings was the main thing that drove me there that night. I was still half dazed at finding myself a homeowner.

The scene in the lawyer’s office, the shuffling of papers and signing, was all a blur. Almost six hours later, it seemed like something I’d seen on a movie screen, with people who looked like Seamus and me playing parts. When we’d stepped out onto the street, with two sets of keys and a deed, we’d walked for a block before one of us spoke.

“Well now,” said Seamus. “I guess we’d better sit down somewhere and make up some lists of what’s to be done. There’ll be gas and electric to get turned on, and I guess we’d best have a phone. And a ration card. One of us will have to sign up for that.”

In a vague way, I’d anticipated expenses, even factored them in somewhat in my calculations. Seamus’ practical mind was making them concrete. I hadn’t thought about a ration card — getting one, standing in line to use it. And furniture. Apart from the rug in the front room and the bedframe in the attic and my dad’s easy chair, which I’d somehow have to move from my room at Mrs. Z’s, we didn’t have a stick of furniture. I was in shell shock.

Compared with the cold reality of all that setting up housekeeping would entail, worming information out of a group of Nisei fellows inclined to not-quite-trust me wasn’t half as daunting. I pulled the DeSoto into a spot on the asphalt parking strip to one side of Pug’s Tavern and sat for a minute assessing the place.

The tavern itself was brick, square, embellished only by its neat appearance. The asphalt area at the side gave way to gravel in back. The lone car I saw parked there when I took a small detour before heading inside nuzzled up to the back door as if waiting for someone who worked there. The neon sign on top was dark, probably because of the war, but a shaded light glowed above the front door. To my relief, there was no sign of Daisy.

Inside was the cleanest watering hole I’d ever set foot in, Finn’s included. The wax on the linoleum floor held such a gloss I feared for my footing. The mirror of the back bar gleamed.

The place was half filled. Mostly men. Two middle-aged women with men too old for the draft at one table. And in one corner, a group of young Nisei men. My deliberately casual once-over was too brief to tell me whether I knew any of the Nisei, but when I’d taken a stool at the bar and ordered a beer, I looked again.

Yes, one of the young men was Zenzo, as I’d expected. I thought one of the others worked with him at Kirby Printing and had spoken with me, but I couldn’t be sure.

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