A Tale of Two Carnies

15 - Inn of the Dancing Bear

The contact information the sheriff had written on the index card led me to a place called, The Inn of the Dancing Bear. The entire county was rural, with only small towns scattered about. It worried me because I might have trouble finding work in such a sparsely populated place.

I pulled into a gravel lot and parked at the far end under some oak trees.

There were only a few other vehicles. If the clock on the Beast's dashboard was accurate, it was almost four in the afternoon. Either business was bad, or it was downtime between lunch and dinner.

While walking toward the entrance, I checked the place out. The building was constructed of huge old logs, had two levels, and looked as if it could've been built around the time of the Civil War. The owners must've spent a fortune on renovations and upkeep because it appeared in great shape.

Stepping onto the porch, I found a plaque on one of the pillars announcing the Inn had been listed in the U.S. Register of Historic Places. I scoffed. It meant the owners would have an excuse to jack up their prices.

A bell above the door alerted everyone of my arrival. I stepped over the threshold. Three middle-aged guys in overalls sat at one of the tables finishing a meal. They paid me no mind. At another table, a couple of thirtysomething men in suits were chatting up a waitress.

I walked up to the bar which was empty except for one old timer sitting belly up to the rail. He swiveled his stool in my direction and studied me. I studied him right back. His large nose was lined with so many thin red veins it reminded me of a road map. There was something wrong with one of his eyes. I could swear it was vibrating around in its socket like that creepy doll from Squid Games.

After consulting the sheriff's index card, I said to the old timer. "I'm looking for Trevor Dunne. He's supposed to work here."

"I know him," the old man spoke in a raspy voice, his words slurred.

"Where can I find him?"

He smiled and slurred, "Buy me a drink and I'll tell you."

He obviously already had one too many. "I would if I could, but I'm still a few months shy of twenty-one."

He held an index finger to his lips. "Shhh. That can be our secret."

A woman emerged through a set of batwing doors I assumed led to the kitchen. She was short, athletic, and looked to be in her late thirties. Her darker than usual skin, high cheekbones, and shiny long hair made me think she was Native American.

She wiped her hands on her apron and approached. "Can I help you?"

"He's buying me a drink," the old timer blurted.

"Quit bothering the customers, Twitchy, or I'm going to kick you out again."

She focused on me, waiting for me to speak.

I cleared my throat. "I'm Jason Muir. I go by Jace. I'm looking for Trevor Dunne."

She smiled. "Well then, I'm Jill Summersong Dunne. I go by Jill. Trevor is my husband."

Summersong, the name further evidence of her Native American heritage. I told her how the sheriff sent me to see Trevor because he might be able to help me find work.

"I wonder why he would tell you to come here. We aren't hiring."

"He told me your husband was, and I quote, plugged in."

"I suppose he's right. Trev is plugged in. This is the only watering hole for miles around. Everyone comes here to eat and drink, and my husband gets to hear all their stories."