“Bud,” the big man croaked. The single syllable came out low and baritone. He didn’t look her in the eye, just openly stared at the woman’s tits.
“Tap or bottle?”
“Bottle,” he croaked again, eyes glued to her breasts.
“There’s naked tits up onstage, chief.”
The bruising hulk kept staring at her tits anyway.
“Whatever,” the bartender said.
While they waited on their drinks, the little man spun around on his stool, feet dangling a few feet from the floor, puffed on his Salem, and took in the lopsided dancer’s moves in mild amusement. As the song finished and Summer’s set concluded, he pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from a large roll of bills, folded it neatly in half, and held it over his shoulder toward the giant.
The large man took the bill between thick, sausage-like fingers and lumbered toward the stage to deliver the dancer’s tip.
The small man clapped his delicate hands together in polite applause, and in the absence of music, his appreciation got the attention of the other non-applauding customers. They grinned and shook their heads at him, silently mocking the strange little man.
“Nice. Real nice,” he called out, his voice nearly as high as a castrato’s. Over the years, he had been called many different names due to his diminutive size and odd pitch of voice. Alfalfa. Tiny Tim. Pee-wee Herman. People would laugh, dismiss him as if he were a silly little toy. But appearances could be deceiving.
As the giant returned obediently to his side, the small man stared down at the large man’s hands with an expression of disapproval. The hulking mass nodded and grunted, and began to applaud as well, and didn’t stop until the small man returned his hands to his lap.
When the bartender delivered their drinks, the woman couldn’t help but stare at the undersized man. “You want a private dance with Summer? She’ll lose the G-string for the right price.”
The man smiled at the offer. “Thank you. But, no. Another time perhaps. I’ll let Summer catch her breath.”
The bartender shrugged that it was his loss. “Fourteen for the drinks. Unless you want to start a tab.”
The small man withdrew his money clip again and pulled out another twenty. “Just the one round, thank you. Keep the change.”
As the bartender nodded her thanks and took the twenty, he let his fingers linger on her hand for a moment, his skin icy cold, like he perhaps suffered from a circulation disorder.
“I was hoping that you could possibly help me out with a personal matter.”
The bartender withdrew her hand from under his. “Sorry, Charlie. I ain’t a dancer.”
“And I’m not looking to be danced for.” He maintained his toothy grin, slipped a hundred-dollar bill from the money clip and placed it on top of the bar. “My name is Sinclair. I’m an acquaintance of Terry’s.”
“Sorry to hear it,” the bartender replied, her voice cool and flat.
Sinclair kept grinning. “Yes. Not necessarily a charmer, is he?”
“Far from it.”
“A bit of a bully, truth be told. Lacks certain social graces. Hard to appreciate a man like that.”
“Whatever. Anyways, he ain’t been in yet today.”
Sinclair nodded. “I’m well aware of that fact.” He stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “May I ask your name? If I can be so forward.”
The bartender stared at him for a second, thinking to herself, Is this guy for real? She glanced at the hundred-dollar bill. “Tammy.”
“Ah. Tammy. Always loved that particular name. A real sweetness to it. My first crush was a Tammy. Tammy Tucker. Prettiest smile in the third grade. But I’m sure you have no interest in my Tammy Tucker.”
“Pretty much, my man,” Tammy agreed.
“Candid. I appreciate that.” He lit up a fresh cigarette. “Now then, a few more questions for you, then I’ll let you go about your business.”
“Fire away, chief.” Tammy lit up a cigarette as well.
“Wonderful. I appreciate your cooperation. Now then, I am curious about something. Anyone not show up for work today? One of your performers perhaps?”
Tammy smiled at his use of the word performers. “No. All the girls are here.”
Sinclair took a small sip of his white Russian. “Very tasty.”
“Uh-huh,” Tammy grunted through a mouthful of smoke.
“One of your cocktail waitresses call in sick possibly?”
Tammy had yet to pick up the hundred-dollar bill. “Why you asking, anyways?” She didn’t ask if he was a cop, but that was what she was inferring.
Sinclair sipped his drink again. “Well, I’m afraid Terry has gotten himself tangled up in some unfortunate business that I speculate may involve another one of his employees. I have a pretty strong hunch that is the case.”
Tammy glanced up at the giant. His hand gripped the neck of the Budweiser, nearly concealing the entire bottle in his massive mitt. And, still staring at her tits, he tilted the bottle to his lips and emptied half of the liquid down his throat. “Cold,” he uttered more to himself than the present company.
“Any information you might be able to provide would be immensely helpful, Tammy. It really would,” Sinclair coaxed.
Tammy glanced back down at the hundred-dollar bill—more than she would make in tips all night. “Well, Alice is running late. Nothing unusual there. Bitch is always running late.”
Sinclair perked up a little. Kept his glass perched at his lips. “Alice?”
“Yeah. She’s kinda new.”
“Does Alice have a last name?”
“I’m sure she does. Don’t know what it is though. You’d have to ask Terry that.”
“Right. Terry. I’ll see what I can do on that one.”
“Terry’s a dick. I hope he gets his ass into some trouble. Serve him right,” Tammy said.
“Yes. He’s in a bit of a jam. You don’t have to worry about that.” He wiped some lint off his pristine suede jacket. “I’m assuming Alice is an attractive woman.”
“Sure. I guess. Too plain to be a dancer though.”
“Is that right? Why so?”
“I don’t know. Not slutty enough, I guess. That, and she always looks pissed off at something.”
“I see. Interesting. Could you describe her for me?”
“Whattaya mean exactly?”
“What she looks like. A brief description if you don’t mind.”
Tammy crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. Sighed like she was put out by the question. “Green eyes. Long brown hair. Kinda tall. Athletic. Like she used to play volleyball or basketball. She’s still got some freckles on her face. Makes her look like Pippi Longstocking.”
“Okay. That’s helpful. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Like I said, she always looks pissed off and doesn’t smile much.”
“Maybe Alice doesn’t have much to smile about,” Sinclair offered.
Tammy shrugged like it wasn’t her problem. “I guess. Bug always seems to be up her ass. Like she’s too good for this place.”
“Not all of us enjoy our current state of employment, Tammy.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“And do you know where Alice might live?”
“I dunno. Some motel around here, I think. She never invited me over.”
“Okay. That’s good. Anything else you can think of? Birthmarks? Tattoos? Anything of that nature?”
“I think she used to be a cutter.”
“A cutter? I’m not familiar with the reference.”
“Yeah. A cutter. She’s got a few scars on her forearm. Above her wrist.” She lit up another cigarette. “Probably won’t tell you much, but she’s got a slight accent. Sounds like she’s from the South. You know? Georgia or Alabama or some place like that. Makes her sound stupid if you ask me.”
“Good. Good. That’s very helpful. Anything else you can think of?”
“Nope.”
Sinclair finished his drink and motioned f
or the hulk to do the same with his.
“You know, if you’re throwing the Benjamins around, Tia will give you a lap dance that will keep that perky little smile on your face. Get one for your big friend here, too.”
“Next time. Next time for sure.”
Tammy watched him slip his money clip back into his suede jacket pocket. “If Terry shows up, do you want me to give him a message or anything?”
Sinclair hopped down off his stool. “No. That won’t be necessary. Terry won’t be coming in here anytime soon, I’m afraid.”
Another dancer took the stage, but Sinclair slipped through the tables, never looking back, waited for the giant to open the front door for him, then stepped out into the late-afternoon sun.
CHAPTER TEN
BUDDY, THE MAN with the ponytail, caught up with the young girl a few cars up, on the platform in between passenger cars where the bathrooms were located and also isolated from gawking eyes. One of the fluorescent lights had burned out in the platform area, casting the two of them in dull shadows. Buddy had the poor kid blocked in front of the exit doors. Both of his skinny arms were spread eagle, touching the two walls on either side of her, and his legs X’d out, completely pinning her in.
The industrial sound of wheels roaring ninety-five miles per hour along the steel tracks hummed below them, and the swaying of the train cars rocked the man and girl back and forth as if in a strange rhythmic, almost sensual dance. The high-pitched whine of metal on metal and the steady clickety-clack drowned out everything else. Buddy wore a shit-eating grin, enjoying the young girl’s panicked distress.
“Not cool. Not cool at all. You got beer all over me. I was just trying to be hospitable.” But Buddy couldn’t pronounce hospitable correctly. Instead, he said hospital.
The girl chewed on a piece of gum so hard that it looked like she might crack her jaw. She clutched at her purse, wanting all this to go away.
“What? Your shit don’t stink? Is that it? Too good to drink a beer with me?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Well, let me tell you something, honey. I’ve dealt with uptight bitches like you before. Got my pants all wet. Shit.”
“Sorry,” she moaned.
“Yeah, you’re sorry alright.” He stared down at his jeans. “I should make you suck the beer right out of my pants. That’s what I should fucking do.”
The girl tried to fight them back, but the tears came anyway.
“Save the waterworks, bitch.” He reached down and grabbed her by the chin. Forced her head up. Forced her to look right at him. “Bet you’re good at sucking. Aren’t you?”
Another moan escaped the girl’s lips and that made Buddy grin even harder. She clutched her purse tighter and pressed her eyes closed.
“Whatcha got in your little bag, huh?” He reached for the purse, and the girl yanked it back and actually snarled—lips pulled back over her teeth like a rabid dog.
“Whoa. Easy, bitch. Jesus. Don’t take my fucking hand off.” His eyes stared back down at her bag. “So, now you’ve got to show me what you’re hiding. Must be something in there that’s pretty damn special.”
The girl pressed against the wall, face-first. “Please leave me alone. I didn’t do anything to you.”
“Not yet you haven’t. What’s in the purse?”
The girl pressed tighter against the wall. Shook her head. “No.”
“Fuck. Have it your way then.” He snatched at the purse and tugged hard, but the girl clung onto the straps for dear life.
“Leave her alone.”
Buddy glanced over his shoulder—Alice stared right back at him.
“And let go of the purse.”
Buddy maintained his grip on the bag. “And who the hell are you?”
“I’m nobody,” Alice said.
“Fucking right, you’re nobody. Why don’t you mind your own damn business and beat it?”
“Sure. After you let-go-of-the-purse.”
“Or what?”
Alice set her duffel bag on the floor. “Last time. Let-go-of-the-purse.”
His eyes went up and down Alice’s body, lingering on her breasts for a moment before locking eyes with her. He was grinning again. “She a friend of yours, honey?”
“Nope. Not yours either.”
The train zipped around a turn in the tracks and the three of them swayed with the motion.
Buddy kept smiling, liking what he saw in front of him. Even without makeup and looking a little worn around the edges, Alice was still attractive. He finally let go of the girl’s purse and held his hands up to illustrate his full cooperation. “Okay. There you go. The purse is all hers. Bitch is too young anyways.” He moved closer to Alice, standing over her by more than a foot. “But you’re not, are you?” His eyes went up and down her again.
“I’ll be honest with you, I’m not having a great day. Been pretty shitty, in fact.”
Buddy stroked his ponytail. “Then maybe I’m just what the doctor ordered.”
“Fat chance of that. So why don’t you do us all a favor and go grab yourself another Budweiser and chill.”
He kept stroking his ponytail. “You sure, sweetheart?”
Alice could smell the beer on his breath, and when he smiled down at her, she could see that his teeth were a mess of nicotine brown. “I’ll pass.”
He faltered a little. His confidence bruised just a bit. But he wasn’t about to give up just yet. “You sure look pretty when you’re pissed.” He reached out to touch Alice’s hair.
Alice reacted—her knee shot straight up and pounded him right in the nuts, hard enough to lift his feet off the floor for a second. He grunted and down he went. Dropped and crumpled to the floor in a heap, cupping his throbbing testicles with both hands. He let out a pathetic groan and rolled over onto his back.
Alice stared down at him. “You done, Buddy? You gonna leave everybody alone?”
The man’s eyes were leaking water. “Fuck you, you fucking bitch,” he managed to gasp. His legs were kicking and slipping all over the floor, then the heel of his construction boots popped her hard in the shins.
“God damn it.” Alice glanced over at the young girl. “Open up the bathroom door.”
The girl didn’t move. Just stared down at the man as he sucked for air.
“Now. Open the damn door,” Alice barked.
The girl snapped out of her daze and made a wide berth around Buddy, then opened the bathroom door and stepped back away from both of them.
Alice grabbed Buddy by the arms and hauled him into the bathroom.
“Don’t just stand there. Give me your belt,” Alice demanded.
The girl kept staring down at the man, her mouth grinding away on her chewing gum.
“Now, damn it.”
The girl unbuckled the belt from around her waist and handed it over. Alice ran the tip of the belt through the buckle, making a leather loop, and dropped down onto Buddy’s chest. She put the loop around one of his wrists and grabbed for the other when he swung his free hand toward her head and connected with the side of her jaw. It was an openhanded slap, but hard enough to make Alice’s head jerk to the right.
She saw him reach for his pant leg, right above the boot. He grabbed a hold of something. She saw the handle first. Then the blade. Six inches of polished steel. The knife flashed toward her and she managed to pull back, the blade missing by less than an inch. But Buddy wasn’t done. He let out a dull grunt and started to swing the blade again.
Alice didn’t have time to think—instead, she brought a clenched fist down and caught him on the bridge of his nose. The force of it hard enough to break some cartilage and snap his head back against the floor. More moaning, and blood flowed from both nostrils. Alice grabbed his other wrist and cinched the belt tight, pinning his two hands together.
“Whaddaya doing?” the girl squeaked.
“What does it look like?” Alice dragged him beside the toilet and wrapped the other end of the belt around the gra
b bar and tied it off. She stood, put her boot against the wall, and yanked the leather belt as tight as it would go.
Buddy groaned, eyes flickering open and closed as blood leaked down his chin and neck.
Alice was out of breath. Starting to sweat a little. She pushed her hair behind her ears and stared down at the man for a second before stepping over him and exiting the bathroom.
The girl backed away from her, half expecting Alice to give her a slap as well.
“You’re welcome,” Alice mumbled as she picked up her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“You’re just gonna leave him there?” the girl squeaked again.
Alice stopped and stared at the young girl. “You got a pen and piece of paper?”
“What?”
“Something to write with. Something to write on.”
The girl rummaged through her purse and finally managed to come up with an ink pen and a scrap of paper.
Alice grabbed both and scribbled something on the piece of paper. She slipped the note in the crack of the bathroom door, and without another word or glance back toward the girl, she returned to the passenger car.
The girl watched Alice disappear, then looked over at the slip of paper: OUT OF ORDER.
* * *
Alice tried to process what just happened. It all went down so fast. She broke a man’s nose. Where the hell did that come from? Popping a guy in the balls was one thing, but breaking a man’s nose?
Jesus.
Sure, she had been in a position to defend herself before. Mostly girl fights. Half a dozen times or so. Slapping faces, scratching necks, pulling hair, even bit a girl on the ankle once.
But before today, she’d only had one altercation with a man. Alice met the guy in a sleazy bar outside of Allentown. He was drinking alone. He claimed he was in town on business—apparently, he produced adult films. Alice sat next to him and let the filmmaker buy her a few drinks even though he was wearing a wedding band. She listened to his stories, his successes as a producer, his eye for talent, and matched him drink for drink. Pretty soon she felt his hand on her knee. She removed it, but the man did not lack in self-confidence, and promptly returned his hand on her thigh, creeping its way higher. Alice set her drink down, removed the hand for a second time, and told him she wasn’t interested. He grinned, undeterred, and proceeded to offer her a special audition for one of his upcoming films, and Alice proceeded to tell him to fuck off. The filmmaker quickly lost his grin, grabbed her by the wrist, and shook her hard enough to force her off the barstool. She called him a few choice words and never saw the fist coming. He hit her again and she dropped to the floor. Then the bartender stepped in. Not a big guy, but built solid enough to break up fights and take care of the drunks when he had to. The bartender grabbed the filmmaker and twisted his arm behind the guy’s back hard enough to bring the man to his tiptoes. He propped the man up in front of Alice and gave her some advice. Go for the balls or the face. Either one works. And if you’re gonna use your hands, curl them into fists. A slap ain’t gonna do shit. Now take your shot. The bartender pushed the man closer to Alice and waited. She didn’t think she could do it. Didn’t think she could hit someone right in the face. Then the filmmaker smirked at her. Called her a stupid whore. Alice took her shot—she curled her fingers into a tight ball and swung. His head snapped back, and she felt as if she just hit a brick wall. Again. But harder. You might not always get two shots, the bartender offered. Alice hit the filmmaker again. Harder. Hard enough to crack his bottom lip open and draw blood. She watched the bartender drag the man out of the bar and toss him onto the sidewalk like a bag of garbage. Then he poured her a drink and slid the glass across the counter. Not bad. But next time, you’re on your own. Make the first one count.
The Guilt We Carry Page 7