The Emporium by M.E. Proctor

from The One That Got Away: a Pistol Jim Press series

The Emporium by M.E. Proctor

The bus rarely stops here. The last time might have been in May, four months ago.

I was at the window when the bus braked and came to a screechy stop. A young man stepped off. Tall, good looking. Leather jacket, boots, jeans. He carried one of these green duffels you find at army surplus. He looked at the long darkening stretch of Main Street. Seven in the evening, all the shops were closed. Except mine: The Emporium—two gas pumps, a grocery store, a lunch counter. A place to sit, read the paper, and have a beer.

The guy came in.

“Good evening,” he said. “Is it possible to have a cup of coffee?”

I pointed at the urns on the lunch counter. “Help yourself, on the house. I warn you: At this time of day, the brew ain’t what it should be. Won’t you have a beer instead?”

“I just want something warm.” He poured a cup, added a ton of sugar, and grimaced when he took the first sip. “Do you have a local phone book?”

I reached under the counter and handed him the thin brochure. “The phone’s in the back.”

The conversation was short. He hung up and took a sandwich from the glass case. He put a ten on the counter and I gave him his change. He refilled the coffee and munched on the ham and cheese, standing by the front door, waiting for his ride.

An old Chevy pickup pulled up.

“Good night,” he said.

I knew that truck. It belonged to Pete Hollister who had a rundown place at the end of the mesa road.

***

I didn’t see the young man again until Pete’s funeral three weeks later. Pete’s passing didn’t come as a surprise. He was eighty-five and suffered from a slew of conditions. There was some gossip about the coincidence. Pete doesn’t have a visitor in forever and right after one shows up, he dies. The coroner said it was a heart attack and there was nothing at all suspicious about it.

After the service, a cluster of Emporium regulars assembled for beer and a poker game. All four were up there in years. They knew Pete Hollister well. I leaned on the lunch counter to listen to what they had to say.

“We know who the kid is?” Clem, the youngest of the bunch, asked.

“Must be family.” That was Tony, the vet. “The pastor called him Mr. Hollister.”

“Pete’s brother’s side of the family, then,” Matt said. Eighty years old and spry. “Pete never produced anything but bile and spite.”

Davey, the fourth musketeer, chuckled. It turned into a rasping cough that got me worried. “Nick Hollister was quite a charmer. His time was short but he must have managed to knock up a chick or two before they fried him.”

“Fried?” I said.

Davey went all shaky, “bbzzzzz… you know, in Huntsville.”

“Jesus,” Tony said. “The chair. What for?”

Matt dealt the cards. In slow motion because of his arthritis. “Cut up a Mexican girl. A damn pretty one.” He frowned. “I can’t remember her name.”

“He chopped her up, made mincemeat of her,” Davey said. “If he’d just stabbed her, he might have gotten off. Crime of passion, and such.”

I couldn’t remain behind the counter, with the trays of deli meats. I went to the front of the shop. The light was fading. The sun was close to the edge of the mesa. “When did that happen?”

“Before the war. When do you think, Matt?” Davey studied his cards.

“Might have been ’34 or ’35. I worked at the sawmill with Nick. Can’t tell you how shocked I was when he was arrested. He was a great guy. Pete’s always been a vicious piece of work, but Nick was a prince.” He shook his head. “The kid looks like him. From what I remember.”

“Some said they got the wrong brother,” Davey said. “Could be true.”

“Hell of a story.” Clem folded his cards. “We’re playing or jabbering?”

A truck was coming down the mesa road. Pete’s Chevy. I pulled out the piece of paper they gave us at the service.

Printed at the bottom, under Relatives: Nick Hollister.

The sun dipped behind the mesa as the pickup truck passed in front of me, going west toward the sunset. I had a glimpse of Nick in the driver’s seat, his fine profile.

A prince, Matt said.

He was smiling.

Bio

M.E. Proctor writes the Declan Shaw PI series, Love You Till Tuesday & Catch Me on a Blue Day.

She’s the author of two short story collections, Family and Other Ailments and A Book to Live By. She’s also the co-author of a retro-noir novella, Bop City Swing.

She’s a Derringer and Shamus award short story nominee. Website: www.shawmystery.com. On Substack: