Wilson climbed back in the car and drove to the Bradford Mansion. He knocked on the door. A buxom lady in here late 40s in a grey maid’s uniform appeared at the door.
“May I help you,” she said.
“Mrs. Bradford, please,” Wilson said. “And please tell her it’s Steve Joseph.”
“Steve!” Mrs. Joseph called out from inside. “Let him come in!”
Wilson was greeted with a hug and peck on the cheek. “Let’s sit in the dinning room.” Mrs. Bradford said to the maid, “Greta, will you prepare another plate for my guest.”
Mrs. Bradford ushered Wilson to the dinning room and they sat at the table.
“Tell me of your progress,” Mrs. Bradford said.
“I wish I could tell you things are fine,” Wilson said.
“Oh no, Steve,” Mrs. Bradford said. “More problems?”
“The name is not even Charles Arnold,” Wilson said. “It is Wilson Gentry.” Wilson then went on to relate the things that had happened to him the last few months as they ate lunch.
“So what brings you back to Indianapolis?” Mrs. Bradford said.
“It seems like my first name change came about 37 years ago. I was in the military then at Ft. Harrison. I went back there to try to pick up some pieces.”
“And no luck,” Mrs. Bradford said.
“I may have come across something,” Wilson said. “I was drawn to a bar right off post. It seemed familiar, but I wasn’t sure. I talked to a woman behind the bar and she told me her mother worked there about the time of my change of names. She called her mother and things became tense and strange. I pleaded with her to have her mother come to the bar at 5 so I could at lest speak to her.”
“So, what is strange about that?” Mrs. Bradford said.
“At first when she called her mother there was no memory of me,” Wilson said. “And now she wants to meet.”
“I think you should be worried,” Mrs. Bradford said.
“I was hoping you could help me,” Wilson said.
“Certainly,” Mrs. Bradford said, “but how?”
“The private detective you hired to find out who I am,” Wilson said, “Could he offer some sort of protection for me?”
Mrs. Bradford smiled politely and stood.” Give me a moment,” she smiled. She left the room and could be heard on the phone. “Les, this is Mrs. Bradford. Can you be here in and hour. Thank you. Yes, in one hour.”
An hour later Les Renfroe was introduced to Wilson. He was a fit man in his late 30s. He looked every bit a private investigator, dressed so ordinary he stood out. Wilson filled him in on all the events that happened that morning.
“You are about the same build as my dad,” Les said. “I have an idea. I’m going to put my dad in your cloths and send him into the bar and see what happens. If we see squad cars rolling up we’ll know we have to get you out of town and a lawyer. If we see two ladies follow dad in, we’ll come in after them. If two thugs walk in after dad, I feel sorry for the thugs. Dad can more than handle himself. He started in this business roughing up guys that like to beat their wives.” He chuckled. “A woman will pay a lot of money to see there ole man or ex boyfriend get the crap kicked out of him. That’s how mom and dad met. She hired him to stop her boss from stalking her. Mom eventually got fired, but the business closed anyway. It’s kind of hard to run an insurance agency from a hospital bed.”