Last Thursday was a slow day at Harry’s. When I got there a few regular customers were sitting at the tables looking up at a soundless TV on which some east coast football game was approaching halftime. I was early that afternoon so I sat at the bar drinking Joe’s lousy coffee while waiting for the rest of the gang to show up. If you get there just after Joe makes a new pot and add cream and lots of sugar it’s tolerable.

Dave Prescott arrived a few minutes later. He looked tired and hot in a wool shirt, dusty jeans and work boots. Which is unusual for him. He normally comes to happy hour straight from his office dressed in an off-the-peg discount store business suit with three inches of shirt billowing out between his vest and pants. Dave would look crumpled in a made-to-measure, two thousand dollar Saville Row suit.

“Usual, Dave?” asked Joe reaching up for a martini glass.

“No. I need a long, cold one,” said Dave. “Been cleaning out the garage today. Wife’s been at me for months to get rid of some of that junk.”

He took the beer from Joe, swigged two inches and wiped the froth from his lips with a paper napkin. “Ah, that’s better!” he growled. “I took a load to the dump and some things over to the senior center for their rummage sale. Just a supermarket bag full of old kitchen stuff.” He drained his beer and pointed at the martini glasses.

Des arrived in aura of perfume and cigarette smoke and took her usual spot at the corner of the bar near the window. She was wearing her denim cowgirl outfit with the shiny boots and sequined jacket

“Hi, boys,” she trilled.

Joe reached under the counter for the chardonnay jug, unscrewed the cap and filled her glass to the rim as she watched.

Des took a sip of wine and turned to the window as a police cruiser raced down Ocean Avenue with its blue lights flashing. “Andy’s in a hurry,” she said. “Must be free donuts at the deli today.”

Henry Isaacs pushed open the door and sat next to me. He looked down at my coffee mug. “You gone off the beer?” Without waiting for a reply he signaled to Joe with one finger and pushed my coffee mug aside.

“What’s going on downtown?” said Henry as Joe brought his beer and my ale. “Something’s happening on Elm Street. Close by the Senior Center”.

At that moment, the Ranesville fire truck honked its way down Mountain View and crossed the intersection without stopping. The bar customers rose as one and crowded at the window, glasses in hand, peering over Des’ three-gallon hat.

“There goes Mayor Blamey,” chortled Des. “In his new city pickup.”

“Probably an accident out on the highway,” offered Joe from his perch behind the bar.

The crowd drifted away from the window and settled back into their seats. Joe collected dirty glasses and filled clean ones. The football game continued.

A few minutes later all conversations were interrupted by the sound of a muffled explosion.

“Dynamite,” said Henry. “Probably someone blasting a tree stump. I can tell. I heard a lot of explosions in Korea. One time---,” Henry started in on his war stories and reached the point where he had practically stopped the Chinese army’s advance by himself when he was cut short by the entrance of Igor Blamey. Igor heaved himself up on the barstool next to me and rested his elbows on the counter.

“What’ll it be, Mr Mayor?” asked Joe.

“Scotch. Double.”

“What was all that commotion downtown?” asked Joe as he delicately poured the pale amber liquid in a shot glass.

“Someone reported a suspicious package left unattended” said Igor. “Chief Houser called in the bomb squad and the fire department. We even had the Sheriff’s department there.” Igor sipped his scotch.

“So what happened?” asked Des impatiently.

“The bomb squad moved the package with a fire hose and then blew it up,” said Igor. “Seems that some idiot left a paper sack full of electrical stuff with the power cords hanging out under the propane storage tank outside the Senior Center. Looked like a bomb. They left Andy and me to clean up.”

I swiveled my eyes sideways at Dave Prescott who was trying to look unconcerned and not making it.

“Any idea who did it?” I asked. “Was it a prank or something?”

“No idea,” said Igor. “If I knew who the idiot was, I’d send him a bill for the cleanup time.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of yellow paper and laid it on the counter. “I found this near the remains of the supermarket bag. Looks like a credit card slip. The signature’s not complete but the number is still there. Might be a clue.”

Dave Prescott was white-faced and wide-eyed now.

“Can I see it?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Igor. He slid it over to me.

“No good, Igor,” I lied. “That’s only the terminal number. Could’ve been anybody.”

After Igor finished his drink and left, I ceremoniously tore up the sales slip and dropped the pieces in front of Dave. He gave the rotating finger signal to Joe and we pushed our glasses forward over the bar for refills. Doubles.

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