“Rosie the Riveter,” I said.

Steven apparently had the same thought. “Will you look at this place?” he whispered, as if he were in a church, not a bar.

The walls were covered with pictures of World War II vintage airplanes, of fighter pilots in leather jackets, of bomber crews standing alongside their planes. Interspersed were dozens of photos of aircraft factories taken in the 1940s, and lots of pictures of women workers in coveralls and scarves. Behind the bar was a poster-sized print of Norman Rockwell’s painting “Rosie the Riveter.” There were other posters of the same era here and there – “Loose lips sink ships” and other slogans abounding.

I remembered what Steven had told me the day before. Maybe Rosie Thayer and E.J. Blaylock’s mother both worked for the same aircraft company. But the photographs were from the war years, and Rosie Thayer was E.J.’s age. Too young to have worked during World War II.

“Most of the photographs come from Mercury Aircraft,” Steven said, moving closer to a cluster of them. “That’s the company E.J.’s mom worked for. E.J. was really proud of her mother’s war work. That’s one of the topics she wanted to write about – women war workers.”

I looked at a note written below a photograph of a woman making part of an aircraft wing: Bertha Thayer (Mom) working on aileron.

“Her mother…” I said. “Rosie Thayer is as proud of her mother as E.J. was of hers.”

Steven looked over at me, comprehension dawning. “Do these photographs have something to do with E.J.? With why she was killed?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you were asking about this bar when I called this morning. Now you tell me their mothers worked together. What’s going on? Are we here to talk to this Rosie Thayer?”

Before I could answer, we heard a man yell, “Be right with you,” from a back room. He made it sound as if it was a damned shame that we were going to make him wait on somebody.

“Calm down, Steven,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you more later. But for now, just roll with it, okay?”

He didn’t act like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, but he nodded and followed me to a booth near the bar and sat down. A skinny old sad sack came shuffling over to us like he was on the fourth day of a forced march.

“What’ll it be?” he made himself ask.

I had checked out the “on tap” signs and knew I wouldn’t find it disagreeable. “A couple of your draught beers and menus, please.”

“Sure,” he said, as if it broke his heart. He shuffled off.

“So?” Steven said, as soon as the other man was out of earshot.

“I’m just following up on a lead.”

“You won’t tell me? I’ll give you a start, then. Mercury Aircraft. Mercury, Roman version of the Greek god Hermes. Messenger of the gods-”

“The god of commerce, manual skill, cleverness, and travel,” I finished for him. “I looked him up in my mythology books after you mentioned Mercury Aircraft yesterday. He’s also the god of thievery.”

“Maybe Thanatos worked there, too.”

“Maybe, Steven. That’s what I’m trying to say. Let’s see where it leads. I don’t want to play some guessing game, and I don’t want to talk about my theories in here. I want to ask the guy who works here a few questions. If you don’t think you can sit there calmly while I do that, tell me now and we’ll leave.”

He was quiet then. “Sorry. I’m just anxious to see her killer caught. You’ll let me know what you learn?”

“Sure.”

Old Happy Pants came back with the beers and tossed a couple of menus on the table.

“Before you walk off,” I said, “I wondered if you could talk to me for a few minutes about Rosie.”

He eyed us suspiciously. “You with the cops?”

“No, newspaper. This is Mr. Kincaid. My name’s Kelly. I’m with the Express.”

“Kelly – Irene Kelly?” For the first time, he smiled. “You the one who wrote about the witches?”

“The same.”

“I thought a couple of guys beat the crap out of you.” He seemed so happy about it.

“They did. But I’m okay now. Thanks for the concern.” I could see that Steven was taken aback by this last exchange, but he didn’t say anything. I did catch him looking at my right hand again.

“Yeah, well, you gonna put me in the paper?” Happy asked.

“Depends. For starters, what’s your name?”

“Just remember to spell it right,” he laughed.

Lots of people think we’ve never heard that old line. I pulled out a notebook. “Okay, so spell it for me.”

“J-O-H-N-N-Y – you got that?”

“I’m still with you.”

“S-M-I-T-H.” He started guffawing. He was full of appreciation for his own humor, which made him a party of one. I smiled anyway, since I needed his cooperation.

“Wait a minute,” he said, suddenly sobering. “You the one who wrote about that gal who got her brains bashed in down at the zoo?”

Steven turned chalk white, but caught my warning glance and stayed silent.

“Yeah, I’m the one who wrote about it. And I hate to say it, but I’m afraid this same guy might have something against Rosie.”

“Rosie? Naw. Naw, I don’t believe it. She never had an enemy in her life.” But he didn’t look so sure of it. He pulled a chair over and straddled its back. I noticed he was holding on to that chair pretty tightly.

“How long have you known Rosie, Mr. Smith?”

“Aw, call me Johnny. I’ve known her almost all my life. Since high school, leastways.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“Since early last Thursday.”

Almost a week ago. “That’s when you noticed she was gone?”

“That was when she was gone. We had a quick drink after closing on Wednesday night – Thursday morning – and she left at about two-thirty. She didn’t show up that afternoon – Thursday afternoon. I had to take care of the lunch crowd all by myself. Not like her to miss coming in. She’s never been sick a day in her life. I called, wasn’t nobody home. I called the cops. They wait for a while before they’ll say someone is missing. That kinda made me mad.”

“She’s never gone missing before?”

“Never. She never missed a day here. This is her pride and joy. She says it shows the American way still pays off.”

“American way?” Steven asked.

“Yeah, you know, democracy. She wasn’t born rich. She never even finished high school – flunked out. Too busy chasing boys, to be honest. But she’s just like her ma – worked hard and made something of herself. She was always real proud of everything those women did for the war effort. She was real proud of her ma. She never has liked to be called Thelma. She’s been calling herself Rosie for years.”

“Is her mother living?”

“Naw, old Bertha kicked off about five years ago.”

“Do you have a picture of Rosie?”

“I did have, but the damned cops took it. Maybe they can give you one.”

“She have many friends around here?”

“Me. Unless you want to call that bunch of lushes that tries to get credit off her ‘friends.’ We got our regulars, and Rosie’s a real cheerful, friendly type. But this place is her life. She doesn’t have time to pay social calls on people.”

“Are you involved with her?”

He laughed. “You mean, are we shacking up? No. That’s why we stayed friends.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“There have been guys here and there, but nobody for some time. She told me she’s worn out on men. Said we weren’t nothing but children, always needing something from somebody. I told her she was wrong, but I gotta say, she seems happier now that she stopped chasing after men.”

“Anybody been through here lately with a special interest in her?”

“Naw. Nobody even asks where she’s gone. Makes me mad. Except for you and a cop that was in here earlier, nobody’s even showed an interest.”

I pulled out a business card and wrote my home number on the back. “Here. If you hear from her or from anyone who might know more about her, let me know, okay?”