Arlo Perkins jabbed the doorbell like he wanted to poke out an eye. When no one answered, he banged on the front door until someone shuffled inside the house.
The lock clicked.
It was Lola, not Bob, who opened the door. She wore a pink nightgown, matching pink mule slippers, and pink nail polish on her toes. In her left hand, she held a glass of orange juice and lit a cigarette.
Lola sneered. “What the hell do you want? Bob’s not here.”
Arlo thrust his work boot in the door. “Where is he?”
She gulped her orange juice, blew alcohol – scented smoke into his face, and tapped cigarette ash on his boot. “No idea. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
His face turned red, and he took a deep breath to stop himself from belting her. “Bob didn’t show up to our Thursday pool game. When was the last time you saw him?”
Lola sighed. “Wait here.” She sauntered down the hall and returned with a piece of paper in her hand. She handed it to Arlo.
To my loving wife, I leave my worldly possessions and my sincere wish for an interesting life. May you burn in hell.
Your loving husband
Bob Scoggins
Arlo read the note twice. He recognized Bob’s left-handed script. “This is bullshit. Bob wouldn’t abandon his bar or kill himself.”
Lola Shrugged. “Yet, here it is. Now get off my stoop and leave me alone before I call the cops and have you arrested.”
Arlo withdrew his boot.
Lola snatched the note from his hand and slammed the door.
He stomped to his truck, scattering small stones onto the lawn.
She murdered him. I know it. I’ll prove it.
He drove to the police station and filed a missing person’s report, but the cop at the front desk told him. “Happens all the time, buddy. A guy leaves for greener pastures. But I’ll send a patrol unit around to talk to the wife.”
Arlo returned to his truck and sat in the front seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Bob never ran away from anything. We stood back to back at Iwo Jima. I’ll get her.
At their Thursday afternoon bull and pool sessions at his tavern, Bob told Arlo he knew Lola was stepping out on him. He suspected at least two men and one woman but was sure there were others. When Arlo tried to persuade Bob to hire a PI and a divorce lawyer,
Bob laughed. “Divorce is not my way. Marriage is for life.”
Three weeks later, Bob was still missing, but Lola had filed a missing person’s report.
Arlo didn’t expect much from the police. He turned the day-to-day operations of his construction business over to his office manager and foremen to devote his time to find his friend’s body. Bob is dead. I’ll find the evidence to convict that bitch.
He stopped at Bob’s tavern, the Easy Chair, and questioned the staff. They liked Bob and had no information other than Bob had not been in for four weeks. Lola had taken over the management and flirted who any man who looked like he had money.
Arlo bought the house across the street and rented it to a young couple with the understanding they would watch Lola’ and report suspicious activities to Arlo.
When Lola went to the tavern, Arlo used the key Bob gave him to enter the house. He searched every room for blood, bullet holes, and new carpeting. All traces of Bob had vanished. No clothes, no photographs, no golf clubs. It was as if Bob had never lived there. Arlo searched the backyard for new holes or new flower beds. Bob’s beloved Hudson Hornet gathered dust in the garage. Lola never learned to drive.
Lola needed help to move the body. Bob was six-two and weighed two hundred pounds while she barely topped five feet and one hundred pounds.
She and her accomplice must have taken Bob’s body and disposed of it somewhere. Where?
Arlo hired a PI.
After two months of surveillance, one visitor showed promise. A blonde hulk, driving a green Plymouth business coupe, parked out front of Lola’s house every weekend. On Monday morning, Arlo followed the guy to an insurance office on Belvedere Street.
Arlo called the insurance company. “Hello, I ran into one of your sales reps at a bar, and we discussed a policy, but I lost his card.”
“Can you describe him, sir?”
“A big blonde guy, does that help?”
“That’s Danny Holden. He’s in the office. Would you like me to put you through to his desk?”
“Yes, please.”
Danny and Arlo met for lunch. While Danny droned on about a whole life policy’s investment potential, Arlo nodded in rhythm to the words.
Not the flashy type Lola went for, so he must be good in the sack. Big enough to carry a body.
Arlo interrupted Danny’s monologue. “Bob Scoggins recommended you.”
Danny’s forehead creased, then he smiled. “Yes. How is Bob?”
He didn’t have a clue who Bob was.
Arlo bought a small insurance policy to avoid suspicion. This palooka is not the guy.
The PI reported he’d located several of Lola’s lovers, but they had solid alibis. He’d interviewed the clerks at the bus station and the train station, but no one had seen Bob. The man had disappeared. He was at a dead end.
Arlo sat in his study, sipping a neat whiskey, pondering his next move. I’ll beat the truth from that bitch. His phone rang.
It was the woman who lived across from Bob’s house. “Mr. Perkins, come quick. The house across the street is on fire.”
Arlo parked a block away and joined the crowd gawking behind the yellow police tape,
He listened to the rumors floating through the crowd.
“Her foot was hanging by a shred.”
“She had a knife in her right hand.”
“Her foot was chained to the bed.”
“The fire marshal smelt gasoline fumes.”
Arlo glanced at the yard, bustling with firefighters and cops. Now I’ll never know what happened to Bob, but the bitch is dead.
Arlo wandered away, shaking his head. A cue ball inside a glass beer mug sat on the hood of his truck.
He smiled—good old Bob.
by 
Richard Bishop
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