Free Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) by T.J. Purcell Page A

it is hard to believe,” said Clive. “At first, I could hardly believe it. You must remember that John was a very slight man. But what makes a man has more to do with his internal fortitude and his quest for truth. I've come to think that John had a lot of that. He was doing battle with his own world view, and that is always refreshing.”
    “Did he give you any insights into his personal life? In an email you sent to him, you mentioned a young woman who sounds very much like a woman I’m trying to locate. Her name is Erin Miller.”
    “I’m not clear on the woman’s last name, but I do remember an Erin he was rather taken by. He met her in an unusual manner.”
    “Go on.”
    “Well, occasionally, we charter a bus to take us back to town for a tour of some of Pittsburgh's finer, and not so fine, exotic-dancing establishments. At one of these clubs, I believe it was the Tinny Town Lounge on Rt. 88 just outside Pittsburgh, he was really taken by one of the girls. She wasn't a dancer, though. She waited tables — probably made more money than the dancers, though. She was lovely.”
    “Did he tell you anything more about her?”
    “Well, this was some three years ago, and, as I recall, he did begin spending time with her. But around that time, he stopped coming around and we lost touch. Brenda owns the Tinny Town. Surely, she can provide you more insight.”
    “You’ve been extremely helpful, Mr. Clive.”
    “Please, call me Adam. Anything else I can do to help you?” 
    “I just have one more question. Do you think Preston killed himself?”
    “Absolutely not. He was not the kind to give up. He was, in the end, a fine, determined man, and it is my great regret he is no longer among us.”
    I thanked Clive for his time, and began walking back to my truck. As I did, I heard men laughing as they sang: “I like to go swimming with bow-legged women, swimming between their legs…”
     
     

 
     
Chapter #20
     
    Brenda Carbonara had owned and operated the Tinny Town Lounge for more than 45 years. She and her husband opened the place to launder the proceeds of a long defunct numbers-booking operation. When her husband died 20 years earlier, she took it over and has run it as a legitimate business since.
    But unlike any exotic-dancer club you’ve ever been to, the Tinny Town was imbued with feminine warmth — its atmosphere was more like a neighborhood pub than a place where women disrobed for money. It was very clean, for starters. And Brenda decorated the place for every holiday. 
    I knew the place especially well. I worked there as a bouncer during my college years.
    “Kid, this place hasn't changed a lick in four decades,” said Mick, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
    “You expect me to believe you've not been here in the past four decades?” I said.
    He smiled.
    “I better go check things out while you tend to business,” he said.
    Mick walked to the stage and sat in the front row, while I walked upstairs to Brenda’s office. Brenda was inside, holding a Camel cigarette in her left hand while crunching numbers on an adding machine with her right. She looked up at me like I was interrupting something very important.
    “Mr. Sean McClanahan,” she said, as a smile crept into her weathered face. “You hardly ever visit anymore.”
    She stood and hugged me, then sat down. I sat in the chair next to her.
    “So what brings you here?” she said.
    “John Preston,” I said. “I understand he may have visited your establishment?”
    “As have numerous ministers, councilmen, judges and more prominent businessmen than I can count on all my fingers,” she said laughing.
    She took a drag on her cigarette, then continued.
    “Preston was a regular for a time, yes. The first time I remember him coming in, he was with Adam Clive and his crew of merry men. What a nut Clive is, though he's certainly good for business. Anyhow, he brought Preston one evening that would have to been two or three years ago. After