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oom from the large table where Dunning was sitting with the all-male group he had joined. He
wouldn’t see me, but I could keep an eye on him in the mirror. Not that I was apt to see anything too
startling.
Besides, if I was going to be here for another six weeks, it was time to start belonging here. So I
turned around and entered the sounds of cheerful voices, slightly inebriated laughter, and Dean
Martin singing “That’s Amore.” Waitresses circulated with steins of beer and heaped platters of what
had to be Fried Lobster Pickin’s. And there were rising rafters of blue smoke, of course.
In 1958, there’s always smoke.
8
“See you glancin at that table back there,” a voice said at my elbow. I had been at The Lamplighter
long enough to have ordered my second beer and a “junior platter” of Lobster Pickin’s. I figured if I
didn’t at least try them, I’d always wonder.
I looked around and saw a small man with slicked-back hair, a round face, and lively black eyes. He
looked like a cheerful chipmunk. He grinned at me and stuck out a child-sized hand. On his forearm,
a bare-breasted mermaid flapped her flippy tail and winked one eye. “Charles Frati. But you can call
me Chaz. Everyone does.”
I shook. “George Amberson, but you can call me George. Everyone does that, too.”
He laughed. So did I. It’s considered bad form to laugh at your own jokes (especially when they’re
teensy ones), but some people are so engaging they never have to laugh alone. Chaz Frati was one of
those. The waitress brought him a beer, and he raised it. “Here’s to you, George.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and clicked the rim of my glass against his.
“Anybody you know?” he asked, looking at the big rear table in the backbar mirror.
“Nope.” I wiped foam from my upper lip. “They just seem to be having more fun than anybody
else in the place, that’s all.”
Chaz smiled. “That’s Tony Tracker’s table. Might as well have his name engraved on it. Tony and
his brother Phil own a freight-hauling company. They also own more acres in this town—and the
towns around it—than Carter has liver pills. Phil don’t show up here much, he’s mostly on the road,
but Tony don’t miss many Friday or Saturday nights. Has lots of friends, too. They always have a good
time, but nobody makes a party go like Frankie Dunning. He’s the guy tellin jokes. Everybody likes
old Tones, but they love Frankie.”
“You sound like you know them all.”
“For years. Know most of the people in Derry, but I don’t know you.”
“That’s because I just got here. I’m in real estate.”
“Business real estate, I take it.”
“You take it right.” The waitress deposited my Lobster Pickin’s and hustled away. The heap on the
platter looked like roadkill, but it smelled terrific and tasted better. Probably a billion grams of
cholesterol in every bite, but in 1958, nobody worries about that, which is restful. “Help me with
this,” I said.
“Nope, they’re all yours. You out of Boston? New York?”
I shrugged and he laughed.
“Playin it cagey, huh? Don’t blame you, cuz. Loose lips sink ships. But I have a pretty good idea
what you’re up to.”
I paused with a forkful of Lobster Pickin’s halfway to my mouth. It was warm in The Lamplighter,
but I felt suddenly chilly. “Is that so?”