Recipe for Homicide by Lawrence G. Blochman

Author:Lawrence G. Blochman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2023-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

XVI

Gilmore approached the Anchor Bar in a state of strange excitement. Dinner with Barbara had left him both dismayed and elated, and he was not sure which emotion was false. Rationally, he knew he should dismally regret having admitted that his love for Barbara was a hardy perennial, only to find that her ego would never let it bloom. He knew, too, that he should be unhappy about Bart Remington. Yet he could not get rid of the feeling of triumph generated by her own admissions, and by her invitation to return.

He was making little progress in dispelling his confusion, possibly because of the last brandy, probably because of his imminent rendezvous with Frances Froley. At any rate, his meeting with Frankie promised a much simpler form of excitement. Frankie was certainly not the complicated personality that Barbara was. He knew exactly what he wanted from Frankie: the whereabouts of George Bayliss. And he thought he knew what she wanted from him in return. He was pretty sure he could bring off a successful exchange, even if he wasn’t going to like it much.

As he left his parked car and walked toward the sickly-blue neon anchor flashing on and off through the warm river mists, he seemed to see an anchor fast on the bottom, its flukes deep in ooze, its shank leaning wearily against the murky current, surrounded by silent, crawling things. Below the winking sign, the dim windows of the Anchor Bar glared dully at the waterfront, impervious to the rubies and emeralds of the night river traffic, even to the diamond clusters gleaming from the mastheads of vessels towing. The hoot of tugs that provided a raucous obligato to the clink of glasses was no more raucous than the hoots of bargemen, stevedores and river roustabouts who squinted across their lifeless beers at the wrestlers flickering on the Anchor’s television screen.

Gilmore had scarcely passed the swinging doors of the Anchor when he was seized with still another feeling—the feeling that he was walking into a trap. A sudden silence settled over the place as he walked in. Conversation stopped in midsentence as men turned to stare at the newcomer who was not only a stranger to the bar, but a stranger to the milieu, a man not of their breed. Men stood with glasses poised, not drinking, not looking at Gilmore but very much aware of his presence. Only the one-eyed bartender looked at him, but he, too, seemed to be waiting, waiting.…

Gilmore didn’t like the smell of the place—the rich, warm blend of animal odors and the stale scent of dead tobacco smoke and spilled beer. The effluvia of men who work with their hands, the strong male smell of August sweat and work clothes, was an honest reek, but it was tainted by the malignant breath of some vague evil.

A single overhead ceiling fan spun feebly without stirring up the slightest eddy in the hot, rank, blue air. Peering through the acrid haze, Gilmore spotted Frankie Froley in a booth far in the rear of the barroom.

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