Free Back from the Dead by Peter Leonard Page B

antique rug spread out on the hardwood floor. He bent to roll it up and noticed a plastic six-pack tightener and a pack of matches on the floor half under the ratty-looking couch.
    Harry went over, picked up the match book, looking at the white cover with black type that said Rodeo Bar, illustrated to look like a cattle brand. The address was in Pontiac. Harry went upstairs and checked the bedrooms, went downstairs and checked the basement, but didn’t find any more clues or anything that would help him find Zeller.
    Harry drove past the Rodeo Bar, big gravel parking lot about a quarter full at 11:50 on Saturday morning. The building looked like it had once been a Knights of Columbus hall, low-slung cinderblock painted gray, peaked roof in front with a sign that said Rodeo and a neon cowboy riding a bull. Harry waited across the street in a strip mall, watching the lot fill up, pickups outnumbering cars four to one. Harry scanned the stores behind him. The strip mall had a Kresge’s and a hardware store, cleaners, a Pancake House and a drug store. Earlier Harry had phoned Bob Stark to see if Stark could find which city Hess, alias Gerd Klaus, had flown out of, which airline he’d flown, and where he’d made his connecting flight or flights to Detroit. Harry was thinking what he’d said to Colette. “Find the city and maybe you’ll find the locker.”
    He sat for a while, got out, went to the drug store and bought a Free Press. Got back in the Mercedes, glanced at the sports section. The Lions were playing Minnesota, the Purple People Eaters, on Sunday, a team Detroit had lost to the last six times they’d played.
    A little after noon a green Ford pickup truck pulled into the parking lot across the street. A heavyset guy wearing overalls and a cap got out, walked to the door and went in the bar. Harry was pretty sure he was one of the rednecks from the farmhouse who’d kidnapped Colette, and it sure looked like the same truck.
    Harry got out of the car, locked the door, crossed the road, moved through the Rodeo Bar parking lot to the green pickup. It was the truck all right, unless there was another green Ford with a rebel flag on the tailgate. He opened the passenger door, sat on the bench seat and looked around. The ashtray was overflowing with tan cigarette butts and there were half a dozen empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans on the floor. He remembered seeing the same cans on the kitchen counter at the farmhouse. Looking through the driver’s-side window he could see the front door of the bar about thirty yards away.
    Harry opened the glove box, found the registration. The truck was a 1966 Ford F-100. The owner was Gary Boone, address on Clark Street in Pontiac. Harry considered his options. He could wait till Gary came out and follow him home, or talk to him right here.
    Harry sat in the truck and watched the parking lot fill up. At 2:15 the front door opened, Gary Boone came out squinting, made a visor with his hand to block the afternoon sun, looking across the lot trying to spot his truck. Harry tracked him all the way, and when the redneck got close Harry drew the Colt and rested it in his lap. Gary Boone stopped at the side of his truck, spit and took a long piss, lit a cigarette, opened the door and got in. He was reaching to put the key in the ignition when he noticed Harry and said, “Jesus. What the fuck! Who the hell’re you?”
    Harry aimed the big revolver at him. “The guy that’s going to blow your head off you don’t tell me what I want to know.” Gary Boone sat back against the seat. “Who you kidding? You’re not going to shoot me here. I know that.”
    Harry pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “You sure about that?”
    “Get the fuck out.”
    Harry lowered the Colt, squeezed the trigger and put a round between Gary Boone’s feet that sounded like an explosion bouncing around the small confines of the interior, ears ringing from the noise.
    “Jesus sucks Jew cock,” Gary Boone said.