I Got a Name by Eliza Robertson & Myles Dolphin

Author:Eliza Robertson & Myles Dolphin [Robertson, Eliza & Dolphin, Myles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Canada
Published: 2023-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

10.

WORM

The Stone Pony was a brick-walled pizza place with an alley-shaped bar at the back. Riley waved from the beer taps as we sat down. She wore metallic rose eyeshadow, which matched the sandy pink of her blouse, and her hair was meticulously woven into a fishtail braid.

As I review my notes from that evening, I remark how many times I described Riley as “careful.” Her movements behind the bar struck me as swift and efficient—but careful. Her makeup jazzy—yet careful. Her attention oriented to us as she filled her drink orders—the way your attention orients to someone across the room, or a table, without needing to exchange eye contact. A peripheral awareness, which extended to other patrons too, leading her to swivel away from our chat when it was time to refill a beer and pivot back just as smoothly. She appeared mindful and observant.

Riley delivered the sleeve she’d been pouring, then rotated to greet us. “I’m very curious,” she said.

Riley had lived in Rena Lara for only two years. By my calculation, the man with Bax’s (alleged) information card would have been long gone by then. Still, she had lived in the wider area a long time, and maybe she knew someone who knew someone. Maybe she knew Doug and could advise us on how to approach him.

When I told Riley we were researching a Canadian man who might have passed through Rena Lara a few years ago, she didn’t seem surprised.

“Do you mean Clinton?”

She registered my surprise.

“My husband’s best friend used to work with him cutting trees. I’ll text him now. He may not answer. I think he’s flying back from Hawaii today.”

“Did you ever meet Clinton?” I asked.

“I served him at the bar sometimes. He kept to himself.” She hesitated, as if trying to word something tactfully. “I’m pretty friendly. I can get most regulars to open up to me. But he was private.” She appeared pensive for a moment. “He always drank Miller Lite.”

“When did he first show up in town?”

“At least five or six years ago,” she said. “Maybe more. He was biking here from Alaska. I remember that. He’d gotten the ferry or something to Washington, and he was heading all the way to Florida.”

Florida had been marked for us as a location of interest, given the comment of his cousin, who’d said, “If anything, he’d be in Florida,” as well as the tip about the man at the Ontario campground “who had a place in Florida.”

“So he was on a motorbike,” I said, scribbling notes onto a napkin.

“No, no,” Riley said. “He was riding a bicycle. From Alaska to Florida. And he stopped over in Rena Lara.”

“He was riding a bicycle?”

“That’s what I’m saying. There was something strange about him.” She excused herself to fill a drink order.

I turned to Jasmine, both of us stunned. “It’s brilliant,” I said. “You don’t need a driver’s licence. You won’t get pulled over for a speeding ticket. No one gives a shit about cyclists. He could travel completely under the radar.

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