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Lemkes, some of them siblings, most of them first, second, or third cousins. They intermarried and
made more.
Before leaving for the past I should have taken time to call Harry Dunning and ask him his father’s
first name—it would have been so simple. I surely would have, if I hadn’t been so utterly and
completely gobsmacked by what Al had shown me, and what he was asking me to do. But, I thought,
how hard can it be? It shouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to find a family with kids named Troy, Arthur
(alias Tugga), Ellen, and Harry.
With this thought to cheer me, I went down to the hotel restaurant and ordered a shore dinner,
which came with clams and a lobster roughly the size of an outboard motor. I skipped dessert in favor
of a beer in the bar. In the detective novels I read, bartenders were often excellent sources of
information. Of course, if the one working the Town House stick was like the other people I’d met so
far in this grim little burg, I wouldn’t get far.
He wasn’t. The man who left off his glass-polishing duties to serve me was young and stocky, with
a cheery full moon of a face below his flattop haircut. “What can I get you, friend?”
The f-word sounded good to me, and I returned his smile with enthusiasm. “Miller Lite?”
He looked puzzled. “Never heard of that one, but I’ve got High Life.”
Of course he hadn’t heard of Miller Lite; it hadn’t been invented yet. “That would be fine. Guess I
forgot I was on the East Coast there for a second.”
“Where you from?” He used a church key to whisk the top off a bottle, and set a frosted glass in
front of me.
“Wisconsin, but I’ll be here for awhile.” Although we were alone, I lowered my voice. It seemed to
inspire confidence. “Real estate stuff. Got to look around a little.”
He nodded respectfully and poured for me before I could. “Good luck to you. God knows there’s
plenty for sale in these parts, and most of it going cheap. I’m getting out, myself. End of the month.
Heading for a place with a little less edge to it.”
“It doesn’t seem all that welcoming,” I said, “but I thought that was just a Yankee thing. We’re
friendlier in Wisconsin, and just to prove it, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Never drink alcohol on the job, but I might have a Coke.”
“Go for it.”
“Thanks very much. It’s nice to have a gent on a slow night.” I watched as he made the Coke by
pumping syrup into a glass, adding soda water, and then stirring. He took a sip and smacked his lips.
“I like em sweet.”
Judging by the belly he was getting, I wasn’t surprised.
“That stuff about Yankees being stand-offy is bullshit, anyway,” he said. “I grew up in Fork Kent,
and it’s the friendliest little town you’d ever want to visit. Why, when tourists get off the Boston and
Maine up there, we just about kiss em hello. Went to bartending school there, then headed south to
seek my fortune. This looked like a good place to start, and the pay’s not bad, but—” He looked
around, saw no one, but still lowered his own voice. “You want the truth, Jackson? This town stinks.”
“I know what you mean. All those mills.”
“It’s a lot more than that. Look around. What do you see?”
I did as he asked. There was a fellow who looked like a salesman in the corner, drinking a whiskey
sour, but that was it.
“Not much,” I said.
“That’s the way it is all through the week. The pay’s good because there’s no tips. The beerjoints
downtown do a booming business, and we get some folks in on Friday and Saturday nights, but
otherwise, that’s just about it. The carriage trade does its drinking at home, I guess.” He lowered his
voice further. Soon he’d be whispering. “We had a bad summer here, my friend. Local folks keep it as