There were three taverns in the center of Avalon, New Jersey. Pellatier had figured the Sardine was an irregular customer at one or more; although, judging by the comments in the "Health Utopia" columns, he believed the Sardine couldn't stay away for very long.
His best chance was to discover the identities of the fish's sidekicks.
McNulty, for example, couldn't be hard to spot. The same was true for Joe T.'s hair plugs. And whoever Frank Weathers was had to be noticeable by the numerous conversations he would carry on simultaneously. Yet, it would be the first ones he talked to, the bartenders, that would reveal a Wal-terr.
The plan was simple. He would speak with them anonymously, haphazardly, drop hints from the columns to see how they would respond. He didn't expect them to point to the Sardine in a corner writing the column, but something — a few clues — could get him closer to his quarry.
Yet, if nothing happened, Pellatier was prepared to tell these same people who they were in the column. Did they know who made them this way? Risky, because it might alert the Sardine to the danger of being found out. Police and detectives in television shows used similar methods to spook a criminal, a sort of last resort before using violence and threats.
Not that he wanted to hurt the Sardine. Privacy must be respected. Pellatier expected the price for knowing who the Sardine was to be silence. For this silence, he expected to be made a member of the crew that hung around the Attic.
*
First, he would watch the bartenders to see who would take the money left on the bar. Unfortunately, four out of five either overcharged for drinks, swept away loose change into the next person's pile, or brought back the wrong change. At one place, he decided to ask the bartender's name.
"Phil," the fifty-year old man with a gray two day stubble on his chin replied suspiciously.
"Do you have any entertainment here?"
"Weekends."
"Did Benny McSelf ever play at this place?"
"Not here. Maybe the Rocking Chair or the Princeton. But not for the last couple years."
So much did he want Phil to be Wal-terr that Pellatier wanted to believe that each answer, however innocuous, was taking him closer and closer to the Sardine. Phil was nearly Wal-terr's age and exhibited the same caustic, unsavory characteristics.
The bartenders at the Rocking Chair and Princeton exhibited distinct personality dysfunctions, treating him as an unwanted step-child, as if Pellatier by asking for a drink were rudely interrupting some other important activity.
"That's a problem in these resort towns," the man beside him said, seemingly reading his mind. "The businesses want your money, but most of the employees are hostile to you."
"It's hard to believe," said Pellatier.
"I had a business in Wildwood. My workers nearly refused to wait on the customers."
"Why?"
"They always said that they were too busy. Yeah, too busy doing nothing."
"What kind of business?"
"On the boardwalk. Selling water ices, cotton candy, hot dogs, hamburgers."
"Went out of business?" Pellatier asked hopefully, having stumbled on a chain of facts that may be taking him to Frank Weathers.
"Still have it. I also run a small grocery in Ocean City."
Pellatier returned a few nights later and saw this same man drinking with two other people at the bar. He was also in his fifties, over two hundred pounds, a bit gregarious. He waved to Pellatier then signaled the bartender to send him a drink. Fifteen minutes later they were talking.
His name was Jack. His hair looked real, but hadn't the Sardine described Frank's toupee as authentic as a hair piece could look? And Jack, like Frank, seemed self-centered yet caring about everyone else.
First, Jack had plans to improve Avalon by dredging the bay to allow bigger fishing boats and larger yachts to dock there.
"Have you seen Cape May? Hundreds of boats docked in the inner harbor. We could draw from there and become a first-class stop on the Inland Waterway."
Then he wanted twice weekly trash collections in the winter in Avalon. The year-round population is increasing, and the people here are primarily upper middle and upper class people who expect these kind of amenities.
"I was on the town council ten years ago. Been on the Chamber of Commerce. Nobody ever listened to my suggestions."
Third, he thought the bar could add a hundred-seat restaurant. It would be tough to find room for a large enough kitchen, but an eating area would increase liquor sales.
"They should hire someone from the Culinary Institute of America. Restaurants around here are found of hiring cooks from County College Food Schools."
Pellatier detected something familiar in Jack's voice. The litany differed from the usual contents of Frank Weather's concerns in the column but not from the general cacophony of general advice laced with self- importance.
"What's wrong?" Jack asked self-consciously, his hand softly patting his hair. "What are you staring at?" "Sorry."
"I thought you'd gone into a trance. One of those epileptic things."
"It's just that, well, I don't know how to say this."
"Say what?"
"You are Frank Weathers!"
"No I'm not. I told you my name."
Pellatier quickly explained the Sardine column.
"I don't go to the internet to read stuff," Jack said.
"It's pretty famous."
"Am I in it a lot?"
Now Pellatier was certain that he had his man.
The Sardine's essays, articles, and stories have appeared around the Internet in the last few years at 3 A.M., Facets, Eclectica magazine, Fiction Funhouse, The Fiction Warehouse, 5_trope, and several film journals. Who and what he is probably will be revealed at various points through the articles appearing at this site. The first fifteen installments of his saga can be viewed at the old Unlikely Stories.