This is the final installment of a trilogy.

Olson wheeled the massive Mercury Monterey in between Trixie’s Buick Electra and Harlan Beaucamp’s Dodge Power Wagon. He left the windows down in order to keep the sedan cool while he went into The Lucky Lady to gather all the information he could on Lauren Martin, daughter of the chief of police who’d just disappeared with Glen Roberts. There were only two places in Fort Stockton to gather useful information, and the other one didn’t serve alcohol.

Heaving his girth onto one of the empty barstools, Olson greeted Hank behind the bar with a feigned friendliness that fooled no one.  “What can I getcha.” Hank asked as he dropped a napkin in front of Olson and quickly sized him up.

“Bourbon.  Neat.  Make it a double,” the portly detective said, pushing the pork pie hat back on his head.  “And anything you can tell me about Lauren Martin.”  

“As a rule, we tend not to talk to strangers about other folks here in Fort Stockton. Especially when public officials are involved. Hank set down the drink on the napkin and threw a bar towel over his shoulder. “Two bucks for the drink.”

Olson put two one dollar bills on the bar, then a five next to it. Hank slid all seven bucks up with one swipe of his hand, folded them twice and slid them into the breast pocket of his white shirt. “Nice girl, I s’pose. Pretty thing. Must be about 21 or 22 by now. Hardly ever see her. She lost her mama a few years back and the Chief is pretty protective of her. Still lives at home.”

Olson was writing notes down in a spiral topped notebook with a worn yellow #2 pencil about two inches long he’d pulled out of the spiral metal coils on top of the pad. “She date?”

“Not that anybody knows of. Like I said, the Chief’s pretty protective. Not too many young bucks in Fort Stockton would have the balls to come callin’ on her, be my guess.” Hank pulled a glass out of the sink filled with brownish soapy water, dumped the liquid into the sink took the towel off his shoulder, and began drying it as he thought about the question. “Seems like she may have been involved with someone a few years back. There were even rumors she’d run off with him. Young kid just out of the military. Don’t remember the details.”

Olson pulled out another five and two singles out of the ragged alligator wallet from his back pocket and laid them on the bar.  “Information’s pretty expensive in this town.”

“Makes up for the cheap drinks,” Hank said.

“What about the kid she ran off with?” Olson pried.

“Good lookin’ kid. Local boy. Served in the Army or Marines. Honorably discharged. Came back to Fort Stockton and started up something with the chief’s daughter. She’d be tough to say ‘NO’ to.” Hank winked, though Olson missed it. He was scrawling notes in some type of shorthand only he understood. “Like I said, there were rumors the two of them ran off, but she wasn’t even outta high school back then. Right after that the boy disappeared.”

Olson kept writing. Hank scratched his head, looked off into the distance. Chuckled. “Now that I think about it, someone just said they thought they’d seen the kid over at Prairie View State Bank. Said he looked chiseled. Like he had an edge,” Hank said. “Roberts. That was his name. Glen Roberts. Always seemed like a good enough kid.”

The bar was filling up with ‘the regulars’.  Olson figured he’d gotten all the information he was going to and he needed to get up early in the morning, anyway.  He slid off the bench, put the pork pie back on his balding head and started to head out to the Mercury for the short drive over to the Naughty Pine.  “You want more info, check in with Lucinda at The Grounds for Divorce in the morning.  Not much gets past her,” Hank said.  “No charge for that info.”

Cliff had nodded off behind the desk at the motel. When Olson pulled up in front of the office, the headlight looking off in its own direction shined right in Cliff’s face and startled him from his dream of being in a three-way with Sally and Laura from The Dick Van Dyke Show. He’d wiped off the drool from his chin by the time Olson made his way through the door.

“Olson.  Should have a room.”

“Number 7. Around back. You drivin’ that Mercury?” Cliff asked. Olson nodded and scooped up the key. “What happened to the headlight?”

“A nosey motel clerk,” Olson shot back.

Olson grabbed the key, got in the Mercury and took up both parking spaces in front of Room 7 by parking on the faded yellow line separating them. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow in the musty, wood paneled room. Cliff, back at the front desk, put his head down on the counter hoping to pick up where he left off with Sally and Laura but was disappointed that, in the latest version of the dream, Buddy had taken Laura’s place.

The next morning Olson awoke, stood in the bathroom butt naked and gave himself a sponge bath with a washcloth and bottle of Aqua Velva, still struggling with his phobia of showers. What took place in the locker room after winning the Lone Star Association of Parochial School Class 3A Water Polo Championship in Georgetown back in ‘43 still haunted him. He turned his underwear inside out and put on the same clothes he’d had on the day before. He got in the Mercury pulled around the motel, slamming on the brakes in front of the office.

Cliff was at the desk, watching a rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show on a small black and white portable TV, smiling whenever the camera panned over to Buddy.  Olson left the Mercury running, driver’s side door open, and went into the office.  It was obvious Cliff hadn’t left the office since the night before.  He certainly had bothered with a sponge bath.  He saw Olson open the door and tossed him the thick Manila envelope that a courier had dropped off earlier that morning.

Back in the Mercury, Olson opened the envelope, pulled out the contents, and spread them out over the front bench seat of the sedan as he put it in gear and headed to the Grounds for Divorce. Arrest records. Prison records. Military records. Academic records from Jim Bowie High School. Obituaries on both parents. Everything known about, or pertaining to Glen Roberts was in the file. Olson had no idea how Chief Martin was able to gather so much information on the guy, but was impressed. And Olson was a man who was not easily impressed.

He swung the sedan into the ESSO station and honked the horn for Petrol Pete to come out and pump all the Ethel into the Monterey she’d hold.  He had no idea how much time he’d be on the road, nor how many miles he’d be covering.  He was hoping Lucinda would be able to shed more light on the case than Hank had.  He wanted to be able to follow every lead she might provide.

“That’ll be six bucks,” Petrol told him as he squeegeed off the windshield of the navy blue  Monterey.

“This is going to be an expensive case to crack,” Olson thought to himself as he fished a ten out of his wallet. He gathered up all the papers, photographs, records, and documents from all over the front seat and stuffed them back into the envelope. Pete handed him back three singles and four quarters hoping for a tip for the windshield service. Olson folded the ones and slid them into the alligator wallet, tossed all four quarters into the ask tray, put it in drive and spun the rear tires. The ESSO was just a greasy spot in the rear view mirror by the time Olson slid his wallet back into his back pants pocket.

At the Grounds for Divorce Lucinda was refilling ketchup bottles on the tables and waiting for the first pot of Folgers to brew in the Bunn-O-Matic.  Her hair was tied in a tight, messy knot on top of her head.  She’d applied her red lipstick in the dark in her Jeep Gladiator before the sun came up, out back of Delgado’s garage apartment, but still looked like a million bucks.  “Take a seat wherever you want,” she told Olson.  “Just opening up.”

She turned back around and continued ketchup duties.  Olson noted the subtle way her legs made an ass of themselves as he slid into the booth next to the front door.  Lucinda grabbed a menu off the lunch counter and an empty cup from the shelf and put both down in front of him almost as soon as he sat down.  “I’ve got some fine pastries this morning,” she said as she bent over to put silverware rolled up in a paper napkin down next to the menu.  Noticing her ample bosom, he couldn’t disagree.  “Coffee?”

“Sure.  And information, if you got any.”

Lucinda went to get the pot of fresh coffee.  Returning to the table, she reached over in front of him to fill his cup, granting him a better look since he’d seemed to enjoy the first one so much.  “What’ll ya have?”

“I’d like one of those pastries. Two would give me a heart attack.” She took the green and white striped order pad out of the pocket of her apron and wrote down the order. “Lookin to learn a little about Lauren Martin. Heard you might be able to fill in a few details,” Olson said.

Indeed, Lucinda knew Lauren better than most.  But that was generally not information she was willing to share with someone she’d just laid eyes on for the very first time.  Especially not someone who had the general appearance, aroma, or taste in cars as Olson.  “Yeah, I know her.  So what.”

“She’s gone. Disappeared yesterday. Maybe against her will. Day after Glen Roberts gets released early from the Big House,” Olson told her. “Lot of coincidences there, heh?”

“I’ll get your pastry.”  She turned around and went back to the kitchen, returning a minute later with a cinnamon roll that was bigger than the dinner plate it sat on, butter dripping off the sides.  “Why isn’t the Chief asking me about it.”

“He wants to keep it low key.  Asked me to help out.  We go way back.  No need in stirring up fear in the community.”

Lucinda thought about how long it’d been since she’d talked to Lauren, and if there had been anything in the conversation that would hint of a problem. “Can’t remember the last time anyone mentioned Glen Roberts. You really think Lauren’s in danger.”

“Hope not. Won’t know for sure till I can find her and ask her face to face.” Olson took a swig of coffee and tried to not let on that he’d burned an entire layer of skin off the roof of his mouth. Just then Rex and Darla Hall came through the door and Lucinda had to greet them, exchange pleasantries and grab a couple menus while they sat down. Once they had been tended to, she came back and stood with her back facing them and addressed Olson in a low voice. “If she went against her will, I can’t help you. If she went by choice, there’s a chance I know where she might be.”

Olson got out his spiral pad, the tiny pencil and opened to a blank page without saying a word.

“There’s a place she used to go every once in a while, to get away from the Chief.  Clear her head.  Took me there once, a while back.  It’s on a gravel road off the Old Alpine Highway.  Some land in the middle of nowhere with an old trailer on it, a Spartan Model 25.  A ’48, if I remember right.”  Olson was writing as fast as Lucinda was talking.  “I can draw you a map.  It’s not hard to find if you know what you’re looking for.  Old rusty gate with a cattle guard right off the road. Padlock combo is 2743.  Lauren’s birthday, 2/7/43.”

She took the spiral and sketched out a map that Olson thought was amazingly well detailed for a woman who looked like Lucinda did. He jotted down the combo at the bottom of the page, pulled a ten out of his wallet and left it on the table. Before she even knew he’d left, Olson had the Mercury pointed south on Highway 67.

The air was as dry as Olson could remember it ever being. The four windows of the Mercury all rolled down, the air rushing in felt like a blast furnace. Forty minutes later he was pulling off the highway and on to a two lane Farm to Market Road, just like the map Lucinda had drawn. Seven miles later, he was at the gate dialing in the combo she’d provided. A mile further from the gate sat the trailer Lucinda had described. A 1948 Spartan Manor. Looked to be 25’ long. In good shape. Right next to it was the white 1959 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight convertible Chief Martin had described as the car Lauren had been taken away in. This job was going to be easier than he thought.

He shut off the ignition on the Mercury and let it coast to a stop behind the Oldsmobile, hoping not to be heard.  He took the revolver out of the glove box, got out, and slowly pushed the door back, nearly closed.  The sun went behind the only cloud in the sky.

Sweat ran down the band of his pork pie hat, cascaded down his face and was soaked up by the cotton collar and necktie as he inched his way between the Mercury and Oldsmobile, inching closer to the Spartan.  Trying to be as quiet as possible, hoping to have the element of surprise on his side, he was almost to the door of the Spartan when the cloud rolled away from the sun, leaving it completely unobscured.  The glare from the Spartan temporarily blinded him, giving Lucinda the chance to hit him upside the back of his head with the stainless steel coffee pot from the Bunn-O-Matic.

Making sure to give him directions that took him the long way to the Spartan, she’d beat him to the scene by a good twenty minutes, parking her Willys Jeep pickup behind the 25’ travel trailer and warning Glen and Lauren who were waiting inside. They were not alone.

When Olson finally came around, he found himself at the end of the business end of his own gun, being directed up the single step and into the glittering Spartan.  On the deco couch inside the living area of the trailer sat Lauren and Rusty Hammer.  Glen Roberts was leaning against the Formica-topped counter of the kitchen area, a cold Lone Star Long Neck in his hand.  In the bedroom area at the rear of the trailer, Pastor Peterson was removing his clerical collar and putting it in the chrome and leather carrying case he kept it in.  Sister Thelma was stepping out of the closet containing the commode, removing a veil as she rejoined the party.

At gunpoint, Olson sat down in the dinette.

“You’re too late, Olson,” Glen said.  “Nothing you, or Chief Martin can do now.  They’re married.”

“What the hell are you…” Olson started to ask.

“Performed the service myself,” Pastor Peterson said.  “Sister Thelma here served as the maid of honor.”

“Glen and Lauren are married?” Olson asked.

“No,” Rusty laughed.  “Lauren and ME!”

“I’ve been in Huntsville State Penitentiary the last six years, it wasn’t me who got her pregnant,” Glen said.    “I just got out in time to help her and Rusty make it legal and make sure Chief Martin couldn’t do to Rusty what he did to me.  Couldn’t have done it without Lucinda’s help.”

Lucinda let out a laugh.  “Thank God Rex and Darla let us use their Spartan.  We couldn’t have pulled the whole thing off if we were still in the city limits of Chief Martin’s jurisdiction.”

Just then Hank walked into the Spartan.  Nobody had even heard him pull up his Champagne Gold ‘57 Chrysler 300 C, the damn thing ran so quiet.  “Everything is set up in the upstairs party room of the Lucky Lady for the reception,” Hank said.  “Open bar.  All you can eat. K-Bob’s is catering the whole thing.  Half of Fort Stockton will be there.  All thanks to Chief Martin.”  Hank waved the envelope full of cash in the air he’d taken from the glove compartment of Olson’s Mercury Monterey.  He also held up the keys he’d taken out of the ignition.  “You might want to start walking.  It’s a long way back to town.  Guessing you’ll miss the festivities.”

Olson headed for the door, Glen giving him a boot in the butt to help him down the step.

“I told Rex and Darla I’d stay and clean the place up when we were done.  You guys go on ahead.  I’ll swing by and take a shower at Delgado’s and we’ll see you at the party,” Lucinda said.

“If I know you, the real party will be you and Delgado in the shower.  Try not to be late,” Lauren said.

Pastor Peterson and Sister Thelma got in the front seat of the Olds Ninety-Eight with Glen behind the wheel, and headed down the dirt path towards the gate to the property.  Hank and the new bride and groom got in the front seat of his Chrysler 300, following close behind.  Stopping next to Olson walking down the road towards the gate, Hank said “The keys to the Mercury will be in the mailbox next to the gate.  Get ‘em and walk back to your car.  Get in it and drive south towards Marfa.  If we see you in Fort Stockton again, the whole dirty story will be front page news in the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch.  You’ll never work again and you’ll have to look over your shoulder for Chief Martin the rest of your life.”  He drove off, then slammed on the brakes and put it in reverse.  He got out the envelope, pulled a fifty from it and tossed it out the window.  “And get that headlight and bumper fixed.”

Meanwhile, back at the Naughty Pine, Cliff and Trixie from the Klip-N-Dye were decorating Room 12, the Honeymoon Suite, for Rusty and Lauren to retreat to after the reception.  Mayor Goodman had told him to send the bill to City Hall, he’d figure out a way to get it covered.

So there it is. Every car is a story. Sometimes a story is about a lot of cars, and maybe even a shining Spartan out on the horizon. But in the end, the guy always gets the girl. And if someone can help the guy get the girl, exact revenge on an old foe, and get back the support of a town that had seemingly turned its back on him, all the sweeter. Chief Martin eventually came around. Mayor Goodman helped get his mind off of it by getting him a loaded ’65 Galaxie for his new Chief’s squad car. Even then, no good deed goes unpunished.

Olson never got the headlight fixed on the Mercury.

Years later when the details of the story were being discussed over cups of Folgers around the big table at The Grounds of Divorce, the New Guy just sat listening to the tale, occasionally nodding along with a smile at some of the more interesting details, but never said anything.