I finished my drink and went out to stand on the street corner, thinking things over.
I put myself in the position of a young woman-hairdresser, manicure, cleaning and dyeing.
There was a beauty shop across the street and part way down the block. A woman who seemed bubbling over with good-natured friendliness came to the door when she saw me fumbling around with the knob.
“What is it?” she asked.
I said, “I’m trying to find out something about a woman. She’s a customer of yours,” and pushed the best picture of Roberta Fenn in front of her.
She recognized the picture instantly, said, “She hasn’t been here for as much as a couple of years, I guess. She used to come in quite regularly. I can’t think of her name now, but she was a good customer — came down here from Boston or Detroit or some place up north. I think she was looking for work when she first came here, and then she didn’t seem to worry about it any more.”
“Perhaps she got a job.”
“No. She didn’t. She used to come down weekdays around the middle of the day. I used to see her going out for breakfast around eleven o’clock, sometimes not until afternoon.”
“You don’t know whether she’s still in town?”
“I don’t think she is, because she’d have been in. We were friends — well, you know, she liked my work and liked to talk with me. I think she was-say, why do you want to know?”