York, in its infinite wisdom, raised the drinking age from nineteen to twenty-one back in 1985. Based on your observations, Mr. Weaver, would you say that stopped people under the age of twenty-one from drinking?”
“No.”
“Of course not. I would imagine that in 1985 you yourself were under the age of twenty-one.” When I said nothing she continued. “And did that law put the fear of God into you, or did you and your friends get hammered every weekend anyway?”
“We pretty much got hammered.”
“Damn right you did. We know what kids are going to do, because we know what we did when we were that age. Better it’s happening in one place, where we can keep an eye on it, don’t you think?”
“So we’re surrendering. We’ve decided we can’t control
what
our kids do, so we’re just happy if we know
where
they’re doing it.”
Pearce beamed at me like I was the smartest kid in the class. “And not just that. I’m doing what I can to help the local economy. Because if they can’t come here, they can be across the border to Canada in ten minutes, where the drinking age is nineteen. A seventeen-year-old with the right ID can pass for nineteen. But a seventeen-year-old has a lot harder time passing for twenty-one. All these kids, before and after they come to Patchett’s, they buy pizza, go to Iggy’s for a burger, get gas, pop into the local 7-Eleven. And zipping across the border ain’t what it once was. How many of these kids have passports? Used to be, they whisked you through in five seconds, but now, if you haven’t got a passport, you’re not going across that border one way or the other, thank you very much, Osama bin Laden, may you rot in hell, you motherfucker.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I’m not gonna tell you I’ve managed to put every Griffon parent’s mind at ease, thinking if their kids are drinking, they’re doing it here. Kids are still having parties in their basements, having a wild time when their parents are out of town. There’s quite a little business going on of getting booze to kids who aren’t old enough to go into stores to buy it themselves. They even deliver.” She smiled. “But I do my part.”
“And the police leave you alone.”
“They’re very . . . supportive. Once in a while, we get some riffraff in from the south, and they look after us in that regard. Couple of fellows out there right now, monopolizing the pool table, have me a little concerned.”
“Maybe the local cops give you a pass because, as you’ve demonstrated, you know everybody’s business. Pissing you off might not be in anyone’s interest.” My eyes narrowed. “And maybe there’s a little something in their Christmas stocking, too.”
“You smooth talker,” Phyllis said, grinning. “Thinking I wield any power around here. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m just a simple businesswoman, trying to get by. But I will say this—that Augustus Perry, he’s a good man.” She served me a sly smile. “Not that I have to tell you.”
“One last thing,” I said. “I’d like a peek at your security tape. See who it was who clobbered me.”
“I can’t help you there,” she said.
“If you don’t show me, you’ll just have to show it to one of Griffon’s finest.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She gave me a look of disappointment. “You’re not going to the police about that and you know it. Is that what a real private eye does? Goes running off to the cops every time he gets a knock on the head? Please.”
She was right. I had no intention of reporting the assault.
“But that’s got nothing to do with why I won’t let you see the security tape,” she said, and then waved her arm around the room, like she was about to pull back the curtain to Door Number Two. “You see any monitors in here? We have no surveillance system. No closed-circuit cameras.”
“Not even out front?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“You look surprised,” Pearce
“No.”
“Of course not. I would imagine that in 1985 you yourself were under the age of twenty-one.” When I said nothing she continued. “And did that law put the fear of God into you, or did you and your friends get hammered every weekend anyway?”
“We pretty much got hammered.”
“Damn right you did. We know what kids are going to do, because we know what we did when we were that age. Better it’s happening in one place, where we can keep an eye on it, don’t you think?”
“So we’re surrendering. We’ve decided we can’t control
what
our kids do, so we’re just happy if we know
where
they’re doing it.”
Pearce beamed at me like I was the smartest kid in the class. “And not just that. I’m doing what I can to help the local economy. Because if they can’t come here, they can be across the border to Canada in ten minutes, where the drinking age is nineteen. A seventeen-year-old with the right ID can pass for nineteen. But a seventeen-year-old has a lot harder time passing for twenty-one. All these kids, before and after they come to Patchett’s, they buy pizza, go to Iggy’s for a burger, get gas, pop into the local 7-Eleven. And zipping across the border ain’t what it once was. How many of these kids have passports? Used to be, they whisked you through in five seconds, but now, if you haven’t got a passport, you’re not going across that border one way or the other, thank you very much, Osama bin Laden, may you rot in hell, you motherfucker.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I’m not gonna tell you I’ve managed to put every Griffon parent’s mind at ease, thinking if their kids are drinking, they’re doing it here. Kids are still having parties in their basements, having a wild time when their parents are out of town. There’s quite a little business going on of getting booze to kids who aren’t old enough to go into stores to buy it themselves. They even deliver.” She smiled. “But I do my part.”
“And the police leave you alone.”
“They’re very . . . supportive. Once in a while, we get some riffraff in from the south, and they look after us in that regard. Couple of fellows out there right now, monopolizing the pool table, have me a little concerned.”
“Maybe the local cops give you a pass because, as you’ve demonstrated, you know everybody’s business. Pissing you off might not be in anyone’s interest.” My eyes narrowed. “And maybe there’s a little something in their Christmas stocking, too.”
“You smooth talker,” Phyllis said, grinning. “Thinking I wield any power around here. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m just a simple businesswoman, trying to get by. But I will say this—that Augustus Perry, he’s a good man.” She served me a sly smile. “Not that I have to tell you.”
“One last thing,” I said. “I’d like a peek at your security tape. See who it was who clobbered me.”
“I can’t help you there,” she said.
“If you don’t show me, you’ll just have to show it to one of Griffon’s finest.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She gave me a look of disappointment. “You’re not going to the police about that and you know it. Is that what a real private eye does? Goes running off to the cops every time he gets a knock on the head? Please.”
She was right. I had no intention of reporting the assault.
“But that’s got nothing to do with why I won’t let you see the security tape,” she said, and then waved her arm around the room, like she was about to pull back the curtain to Door Number Two. “You see any monitors in here? We have no surveillance system. No closed-circuit cameras.”
“Not even out front?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“You look surprised,” Pearce
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