Highway 61 Read Online Free PDF Page B

possible for someone to pick a mark out of the crowd, possible to carefully study him while he crossed the pedestrian bridge and descended the ramp, possible to accost him before he could reach the blues festival. I didn’t think that was what happened, but it could have.
    I followed the concrete sidewalk to where Truhler would have entered the park. It didn’t take long to locate a knoll facing the empty bandshell where he and the girl might have set up their chairs. I had not been to the Thunder Bay Blues Festival; however, I have been a frequent visitor to the Bayfront Blues Festival in Duluth, and I knew how it worked. The entire area is enclosed within a temporary fence lined with canvas to discourage non-ticket-holders. (’Course, you can’t do much about the music; when the wind is blowing right, you can clearly hear the Bayfront blues in downtown Duluth.) There are no ushers, no fixed seats, and no bleachers. Spectators are encouraged to set up their chairs or spread out their blankets wherever they think they have a clear view of the stage. Enclaves form; friends signal to each other with all manner of colorful flags, banners, pennants, ensigns, and kites. My favorite was a street sign that proclaimed the intersection of Three Chords and the Truth. Any aisles that form in this throng are purely accidental, making it virtually impossible to move about without being seen by thousands of witnesses. Of course, there is a difference between being seen and being noticed. An asphalt roadway—Marina Park Drive—bordered the rear of the park not far from the knoll. It occurred to me that a couple of guys could have helped their apparently drunken friend from his chair on the knoll, out the gate to a waiting vehicle, and driven off without anyone being alarmed. I didn’t believe that was what happened, but it could have.
    I returned to my Jeep Cherokee and drove slowly north on Cumberland, passing all the landmarks that Truhler had mentioned. Eventually I found the Chalet Motel and pulled into the parking lot—it was exactly 3.9 miles from the Prince Arthur according to my odometer. The Chalet was two stories high with all of the room doors facing Cumberland. Looking out the windshield, I could see the number 34 printed in gold on a door located midway along the second-floor balcony. I told myself that a couple of guys might have been able to help their drunken friend out of a vehicle in the parking lot and carry him up the staircase, along the balcony, and into room 34 without being noticed by any of the Chalet’s guests or management. I didn’t believe it happened that way, either—but yeah, it could have.
    *   *   *
    It was a small office and cramped. There was a table with a half-full coffeepot, sugar cubes, nondairy creamer, and foam plastic cups against one wall, the table flanked by two chairs. On the opposite wall was a rack filled with slick tourist brochures. Between them was a high counter topped with even more brochures. It could have been the waiting room for an auto repair shop for all the ambience it evoked.
    A small, thin man dressed in a white short-sleeve shirt that was buttoned to the throat greeted me. His complexion and accent suggested India or maybe Pakistan. He had been sitting behind the counter and watching a TV about the size of a hardback novel. He turned off the TV and stood when I entered.
    “Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Daniel. How may we accommodate you?”
    I liked how he said that—accommodate.
    “Good afternoon, Daniel,” I said. “I’d like accommodations for the night.”
    “Single occupancy?”
    “Yes.”
    Daniel opened a drawer and retrieved a registration form. He placed both it and a pen on the counter in front of me and requested that I fill it out. The form had blanks for the usual information, including the license plate number of my vehicle.
    “Please, I will need to see a credit card and a photo ID,” he said.
    I gave him both.
    “Do you require a