Free Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories by Bill Pronzini Page B

throat was parched and my head felt as if it were full of drums.
    I asked the sandy guy, "Are you on here regularly?"
    "Aye. I'm the owner."
    "Then you probably know a young fellow named Dale Frost. An American, rents a villa up on Calle Lluch."
    "Sure, I know Dale. He used to come in most every night. One of my best customers."
    "Used to come in?"
    "Well, I haven't seen much of him lately."
    "Why is that?"
    He shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. They come and they go."
    "How long ago did Dale stop being a regular?"
    "About three weeks ago." He gave me a quizzical look.
    "Why would you be asking?"
    "I represent his father," I said. "There's been a small misunderstanding—or maybe I should say a lack of communication."
    "Oh, I see."
    He didn't see at all, but I was not going to enlighten him. I said, "Do you have any idea where Dale has been keeping himself these past few weeks?"
    "Sorry, no, I don't."
    "Do you know any of his friends?"
    "Dale has a lot of friends, mister," the sandy guy said. "Popular chap, good-looking, plenty of money."
    "Anyone in particular?"
    "Male or female?"
    "Anyone who might be close to him."
    He smiled and winked at me. "Dale has been close to several ladies, if you know what I mean."
    I took the snapshot of the young, tanned blond girl out of my pocket and let him see it. "Is she one of them?"
    "Aye," he said. "That's Brita. Quite a bird, that one. Dale brought her in here a couple of times."
    "Where can I find her?"
    "She works in a Swedish bar in Magalluf. The Little John."
    "Where would Magalluf be?"
    "Just up the road. Half a kilometer."
    "How do I find the Little John?"
    "It's on the main street. You can't miss it."
    I paid him for my beer, got him to give me a few other names of people Dale knew and went out into the heat again. I had noticed a line of taxis in the village center; I walked back there and got into the nearest one and had the driver take me to Magalluf, which looked to be an extension of Palma Nova. He let me off before a small restaurant-bar set into a line of shops on an esplanade well back from the street.
    A young, dark-haired guy with a thick mustache that formed three sides of a frame for thin lips was behind the bar inside. I asked him if Brita was there.
    "Yes, she's here," he said in Swedish-accented English.
    "Could I talk to her?"
    He shrugged and went away through a door. I walked over to a row of booths against the right-hand wall, sat down in one of them. I lit a cigarette and rubbed sweat from my forehead with a napkin and wished it wasn't so damned hot. I was not used to this kind of heat in October.
    After a couple of minutes the door behind the bar opened and the dark-haired guy came out and held it for the girl just behind him. She was taller than I expected from the photograph, a little fuller in the hips; she wore a miniskirt and a frilly blouse and gold-loop Gypsy earrings. I tried not to stare at her legs as she came from behind the bar and slipped into the booth opposite, but they were very good legs. And a man never stops looking.
    "I am Brita," she said. She brushed a heat-dampened wisp of blond hair away from her eyes. "Lars said you wish to talk to me?"
    "Yes. About Dale Frost."
    Her smile turned sad. "Dale?"
    "Do you mind?"
    "No, I guess I don't."
    I told her my name and where I was from and that I represented Dale's father. Then I said, "I understand you know Dale pretty well, Brita."
    "Well," she said, "I was going to bed with him."
    It was such a matter-of-fact statement that it made me think about generation gaps and wonder how I would feel about today's sexual freedom if I had ever gotten married and raised a daughter. I lit another cigarette to have something to do with my hands.
    "You're not . . . seeing Dale anymore?" I asked her.
    "No."
    "How long has it been since you've talked to him?"
    "About two weeks, I think."
    "Why did the two of you break up?"
    "It was because of this boy he became friends with."
    "What boy is that?"
    "An American