My Dad, the Private Eye: Keep on Truckin'

CHAPTER 4

Dad's next stop was Lisa-Ann Beaudry's house. That's right, the same Mrs. Beaudry who blasted open a lady's mobile home door and shot up the wrong man in her bed. Dad knew he had to talk to her next if he wanted to find out where her husband, Harley, might be. But he wasn't on the best terms with her since he'd given her dangerously incorrect information last night – and since, for that reason, she refused to pay him.

Which is why he wanted me to come along! I guess he figured that Mrs. Beaudry would be less likely to tell Dad to get lost if I was there.

We arrived at the Beaudry house, a little bungalow with an untended lawn and an old Camaro up on blocks in the driveway. Dad and I had to push aside some toddler toys as we made our way to the front door. Dad knocked, and he cringed a bit as Mrs. Beaudry answered the door, anticipating some nasty words or maybe even a flying brick. But she actually smiled when she saw Dad. "Mr. Winnette, come on in." Then she looked at me. "And who's this pretty girl?"

"She's my daughter, Krista. I, uh, just picked her up from school," Dad said. As we stepped inside, I was a little annoyed, but I understood it would be a while before Dad could officially refer to me as his partner instead of having to apologize for me being there.

It turned out that Mrs. Beaudry still wanted to find her missing husband, and now that Cortland Trucking was paying Dad's fee, she was only too happy to help. "If I was you, I'd start with that Thelma," she said, referring to the woman whose mobile home she shot up. "She knows where Harley is, I don't care he wasn't at her place or not." She stubbed out one cigarette and lit another.

"Well, just in case she doesn't," Dad said, knowing that he definitely wouldn't be welcome back at Thelma's trailer, "I just wondered if Harley was having any other problems I should know about."

"You know, she wants me to pay for her door!" Mrs. Beaudry said with a snort, ignoring Dad's question. "Check's in the mail, sweetheart. And Razor? Happy as a clam sittin' on his stitched-up behind collectin' disability."

I thought I'd chime in here to help out. "We're just trying to find out if maybe there's some other reason your husband is missing." Dad was a little surprised when I spoke up, but he gave me a quick smile of approval.

"If you mean money," Mrs. Beaudry said, "there's a half dozen shylocks wantin' a piece of him. And I mean the kind that like ridin' hogs and hangin' out at Wesley's Roadhouse."

"Wesley's... Roadhouse..." Dad repeated as he took notes.

I turned to Dad, excited. "Are we going there next?" Dad shot me a look, and I realized my question was more from a 15-year-old girl than a partner in a private detective business. "I mean, you know, to investigate," I clarified.

"We'll see," Dad said as he no doubt questioned this whole partner thing.

After a short drive, we arrived at Wesley's Roadhouse, a weathered, windowless shack on the highway, the name of the place splayed across the front in chipped paint. Dad parked alongside a long line of really cool Harley Davidson motorcycles in the parking lot. "Wow, check out the choppers!" I said.

"Great," Dad said sarcastically. "I'm gonna fit in real well here. But if Harley Beaudry is missing, these guys probably had something to do with it. Either he disappeared to skip out on his debts, or these guys 'took care of him,' if you know what I mean." Dad opened the door and got out of the car. "You stay here," he said as he headed for the entrance.

I didn't argue. But I was afraid for Dad. "Dad... what if they 'take care' of you?"

"Don't worry. I can 'take care' of myself," he said with a half-smile, and he headed inside.

Dad stepped into the dimly-lit saloon full of burly bikers drinking beer and playing pool. Southern rock played on an old jukebox. As predicted, Dad stood out like a sore thumb, but everybody pretty much ignored him. Unsure of himself but trying to be cool, Dad walked up to the bar and tried to get the bartender's attention. "Hey, could I get a Bud Light?" he asked in a nervous voice.

The bartender gave Dad a sideways glance then served him a bottle of regular Budweiser. Dad noticed. "No Bud Light? Trying to watch my weight." The bartender shot Dad a withering look. "This is fine," Dad said, his voice tightening.

Taking a swig of beer, Dad looked around the room. The bikers didn't seem any more inviting than the bartender. Not sure of what to do, Dad turned back to the bartender and asked, "Hey, uh, you know a guy named Harley Beaudry?" The bartender didn't respond, the music being too loud. "I said, do you know Harley Beaudry? HARLEY BEAUDRY!"

The song ended just as Dad was yelling his last "Harley Beaudry", and suddenly, everybody in the place could hear him loud and clear. They all froze, stopping whatever they were doing. A lone pool ball could be heard dropping into a pocket as everybody stared at Dad in silence.

Dad turned white and swallowed hard. He really didn't know what to do now.

Finally, someone broke the silence. A lumbering tough guy walked over, cue stick in hand. "You know Harley Beaudry?" he asked.

"Well, I've never actually met him," Dad said, his voice tightening even more (if that were possible). "I'm a private investigator. I'm trying to find him."

The tough guy leaned in menacingly. "That some-bitch owes me fifteen hundred dollars."

Then another mean-looking dude stepped up. "Harley Beaudry owes me two grand. Every time I get on my Harley, I think of Harley Beaudry and all the money he owes me." He looked down, almost sad. "Ruins the whole Harley-riding experience for me."

"Well, uh... looks like I came to the right place!" Dad said, figuring his chipper attitude might cut the tension a bit. It didn't. But he kept going. "Anybody seen Harley lately?"

The mean-looking dude moved in closer and growled, "Now, that would be impossible 'cuz if I seen Harley Beaudry lately, he'd be a grease mark on the back tire of my hog!" Then he smashed his beer bottle and held the jagged bottle neck like a knife!

"Not unless I got to him first!" the lumbering tough guy said, smacking his pool cue on the bar and splitting it. He brandished the sharp end at Dad's throat!

"Listen, guys, I was just hired by his wife to find him!" Dad said, backing up to the bar in fear.

"Lisa-Ann?" the tough guy said. "That crazy witch shot up my buddy, Razor!"

Now everybody in the room got really mad. I guess Razor had a lot of friends because they all started moving in on Dad!

"Somebody shoots up Razor without my say-so, somebody's gotta pay!" the tough guy insisted as Dad tried in vain to back up even further. GULP!

"STOP!" Yep, that was me. I stood at the entrance, determined to save my dad. I know he told me to wait in the car, but something told me he needed my help, and that something was right. Everybody stopped and turned to look at me. "Leave my dad alone!" I demanded. "He didn't do anything!"

"Listen, little lady, you best go back outside," said the mean dude. "We got a score to settle with your pa, and we mean to do it."

"But wait!" I pleaded. "You said Mrs. Beaudry shot up your friend Razor. Wasn't that two nights ago?"

"Yeah," the tough guy said.

I turned to Dad. "But didn't Mrs. Beaudry say Razor was okay with it?"

Remembering, Dad lit up. "That's right! Razor's cool with getting shot up! He's sitting on his stitched-up behind collecting disability."

The tough guy suddenly softened. "Yeah," he nodded thoughtfully, "that's a sweet deal." There were murmurs and nods of agreement from the rest of the bikers.

Dad took a deep breath and walked over to me, giving a thumbs-up. He hadn't quite gotten the information he came for, but at least he'd survived – with my help!