by R. J. Jagger
Dangerously close.
Almost brushing.
Her breath was hot.
Hotter than sin.
“You’re an evil man,” she said.
32
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
With every second that passed, Waverly’s throat got tighter and tighter. No menacing silhouettes were coming down the dock but one could spring out of the cold black thickness at any second.
“Su-Moon, hurry up.”
“I am hurrying up.”
A moment passed.
Waverly kept her eyes fixed on the wooden planks that disappeared into the eerie weather.
A distant light washed through the darkness, faint and vague, bringing a luminescence to the rain.
It wasn’t close but it was something.
Did headlights pull into the parking lot?
“We need to go,” she said.
“One more drawer.”
“Make it quick, I might have seen headlights.”
“Hold on, I found a file.”
A moment passed, then another.
“What are you doing?” Waverly said.
“This is weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“Quiet, let me read.”
Waverly’s chest tightened.
Breathing got difficult.
Suddenly what she feared would happen did happen.
A dark shape came down the dock, hunched against the weather, walking fast but not so fast as to lose a grip on the slippery wood.
“He’s coming!”
There was no time to get off the boat, the figure was that close.
Waverly stepped inside, closed the door and made sure it was locked. Su-Moon already had the candle blown out. Waverly met her there.
“What do we do?”
“Can you swim?”
“No.”
The room had a door at the back wall. They opened it to find a narrow swim platform.
They stepped onto it and shut the door behind them.
The rain assaulted them.
It was a billion frozen needles.
The boat rocked, ever so slightly but enough to indicate that someone had stepped onto the front deck. Waverly checked around the edge of the boat, which stuck out ten feet past the edge of the finger. They couldn’t reach it, not without getting into the water.
A narrow fixed ladder led to the roof.
They headed up, laid flat on their stomachs and got motionless.
Lightning arced across the sky.
The marina lit up.
The water was choppy.
Waverly suddenly had an image of it swallowing her down and sucking the last breath out of her lungs.
33
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
Ten miles down the road a small prairie town popped up. On the main street of that town was a hillbilly-looking bar called the Coyote’s Breath. A couple of dozen pickup trucks were parked in the vicinity together with a smattering of cars and a handful of motorcycles. One of those pickup trucks was white with a black tailgate.
River drove by slowly.
The place had no windows but the door was propped open.
The interior was long and narrow. A bar ran down the right wall. The stools were filled with rough-looking drunks fondling brown bottles.
“Did you see ’em?”
January shook her head.
“No, but I can smell ’em.”
River did a one-eighty, circled back and scoped it a second time before pulling over at the end of the drag three blocks down and killing the engine.
“I’m not sure exactly how to do this,” he said.
“Let’s forget it.”
He grunted.
“That’s not an option.”
She tugged on his arm.
“If you go in there you’re dead,” she said.
He kissed her and said, “Stay here.”
“River, no!”
He already had the door open.
“I’ll be back.”
A louder and louder thunder pounded in his chest as he headed up the street.
He had no gun.
He had no knife.
He had no club.
When he got to the door he took a deep breath, crossed his chest and stepped in. A jukebox somewhere near the back was spitting a hillbilly twang from crumby speakers. The air was thick with smoke and stale beer. The floor was scuffed linoleum, buried with butts and peanut shells.
River got onto the bar, grabbed a bottle of beer and smashed it on the edge of the counter.
Every face turned.
“Who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”
Noise broke out.
“Looks like we got ourselves a girl,” someone said.
“A fag is more like it.”
“Hey, baby, you want to choke on a big one?”
River gave the closest guy a warning look.
“I said, who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”
Eyes turned to two men in the back standing next to the pool table with cues in hand.
One of them said, “Why the hell do you care?”
“Is it yours?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
River hopped down and headed for him.
The bodies separated in front and closed in behind.
River got face to face with the man.
Their eyes were the same height.
He was a lot bigger close up.
“Is that your pickup truck?”
“Maybe. What’s your problem, girlie?”
“You forgot to do something,” River said.
He looked around. The faces were quiet. “I forgot to do something,” he told everyone. Back to River, “So what did I forget to do exactly?”
“You forgot to cut your dick off,” he said. “That’s the proper etiquette after you rape someone. You cut your dick off and give it to ’em for a souvenir.” He tossed the broken bottle onto the pool table. “You can use that.”
Someone said, “Jesus, Jackson. Did you rape someone?”
“Hell no. He’s making it up.”
“Do it,” River said. “Do it now. Do it now or I’ll do it for you.”
The man stepped back, slowly with a confused smile on his face, as if pondering the next thing he would say. Then he exploded in a motion that brought the thick end of the cue swinging with full force at River’s face.
River jerked.
He was fast.
The stick was faster.
34
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
By most people’s score, Wilde was Denver’s best drummer, hands down, end of story, next subject please. He could land a seat with any band in its right mind as well as a few that weren’t. He didn’t do that though. Instead he filled in at clubs when regular drummers couldn’t make it, for pay of course; that, and he did studio work—also for pay, also of course.
He was particularly effective in the studio.
He could keep a constant beat throughout the song.
He didn’t speed up.
He didn’t slow down.
He didn’t get up halfway through to go to the restroom or spit-shine his wingtips.
He’d sat in with Mercedes Rain twice before, once when her regular drummer got arrested for murder, and the second time when her next drummer got arrested for murder.
“This probably means I’ll get arrested for murder,” he told her.
That was last year.
Now, tonight, he got Secret as composed as he could during the break.
In two minutes the break would be over.
Wilde worked the drumsticks on his knee, getting the speed up.
“Here’s the main thing to remember,” he said.
“What?”
He tilted his head a
nd softened his voice.
“Even a lot of established singers don’t know what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “But if you remember this one thing, you’ll always be tops.”
“Okay.”
“Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“Whenever you sing, be sure you sleep with the drummer after the gig.”
She punched him on the arm.
“You’re awful.”
“Thank you.”
Then they were up.
Mercedes introduced them.
Secret took the microphone.
She was shy, uncertain, looking down.
Wilde got his frame comfortable on the throne.
Then the band broke into the greatest Lady Day song ever. Wilde altered his eyes from Secret’s backside to the crowd.
Just as Secret was about to let the first word loose, something happened that Wilde didn’t expect.
A familiar face appeared by the bar.
It was Alabama.
She wasn’t work-Alabama, not at the moment, she was sexy-little-thing Alabama, wearing a short red dress that was strong on color but short on coverage.
She looked into Wilde’s eyes, saw she had his attention and pointed discretely to her left.
He looked that way.
About four steps down, leaning against the bar, was a tall, good-looking man in a white suit and a matching hat.
For some reason he looked familiar.
Wilde couldn’t put his finger on it.
Secret started singing.
Her voice was incredible.
Wilde hardly heard her; he was more focused on the man. Suddenly he realized why the guy looked familiar.
It was Robert Mitchum.
35
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
The storm would kill her. Waverly knew that, deep down. Her core temperature was dropping and the wind was pounding the rain through her clothes and straight into her bones.
“I need to get out of the weather.”
“Can you hold on another half hour until we’re sure he’s asleep?”
“No.”
A beat.
“Okay, stay here a second.”
Su-Moon crawled to the front of the boat, hung over the edge and studied what was below. Then she came back, slowly.
“There’s no way down except to jump,” she said. “It’s not far but there’s no way he won’t feel it.”
Waverly’s heart raced.
She couldn’t outrun anyone.
She could barely move.
“We have three options,” Su-Moon said. “We can climb down the ladder, get in the water, make our way to the finger and climb up.”
“I can’t swim.”
“I’d have to hold you up.”
“No, you’ll drop me.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“No I won’t. I already had a vision about drowning.”
“Okay,” Su-Moon said. “The other option is for you to get to the front of the boat. I’ll climb down the ladder and get on the swim platform. I’ll beat on the door to distract him. You jump down and head down the dock.”
“How about you?”
“I’ll dive in the water.”
“What if he comes after you?”
“He’ll still be half asleep. I don’t think he will.”
“What’s the other option?”
“Okay,” Su-Moon said. “The third option is that we both crawl to the front of the boat and drop down. As soon as we land, you head down the dock and disappear as fast as you can. I’ll stay there. If he comes out, which he probably will, I’ll pretend that I’m drunk and I’m on the wrong dock, I’m looking for D-22.”
Waverly chewed on it.
Her core temperature dropped even more.
“Let’s do it,” she said. “Number three. I’ll stay behind though, not you.”
“Can’t do it that way,” Su-Moon said. “He’ll see your face.”
“So?”
“So, you’ll be working at his shop tomorrow, remember?”
Waverly hesitated.
“I just won’t show up,” she said. “Forget work. I don’t want you taking the risk. This is my issue, not yours.”
Suddenly the boat shifted, ever so slightly, the kind of shift that would come from the movement of weight.
The black silhouette of a man appeared over the edge of the roof where the ladder came up.
A hand darted out and grabbed Waverly’s ankle with the force of a vice.
“Got you!”
36
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
The pool cue smacked upside River’s head with a force that dropped him to his knees. Colors exploded deep in his brain and little hammers pounded at the inside of his skull. He was hurt and hurt bad. The hearing shut off in his left ear. He raised his hand to find it filled with blood.
Voices hollered.
They were deafening and jumbled and overlapped to the point where he couldn’t understand anything except an occasional word.
A boot landed in his ribs.
“How’s it feel little girlie?”
His brain spun.
“You want some more? Huh? You want some more?”
Another kick came, lower, more in his stomach.
He braced for another one.
It came from behind him, from a second man.
Then an iron fist grabbed his hair and pulled his face up. Spit landed in his eyes.
“Cut his eyes out!” someone shouted.
A man’s face got close to his.
“You want me to cut my dick off? I’ll cut a dick off all right. It’s not going to be mine though.”
“Do it!” someone shouted. “Cut it off.”
River tried to get to his feet but couldn’t.
His muscles wouldn’t work.
His head was dark with pain.
Three guys held him down.
A fourth one grabbed his belt and undid it.
River struggled with every working molecule left in his body.
It did no good.
He wasn’t even close.
Suddenly the roaring dialed down a touch, then abruptly fell to almost nothing.
Stop!
Stop!
Stop!
Stop!
Stop!
The voice came from a female somewhere behind him.
“Leave him alone!”
Now he recognized it, it came from January. He twisted his head and saw her, clutching what was left of her white dress to her body.
“Those men raped me,” she said. “Him and him.”
“Bullshit.”
“Jesus, Jackson, look at her.”
“She’s lying.”
To prove it, he punched her in the face.
She raised her hand, staggered back and dropped to the ground. The dress fell to the side. She wore no panties. Between her legs there was blood.
She didn’t move, not a muscle.
The hands came off River.
He staggered to his feet.
“Fair fight,” someone shouted. “One at a time.” A hand shook River’s shoulder. “Is that good with you, mister? A fair fight, one at a time.”
River said nothing.
Instead he picked January up and got her to a booth.
Her eyes opened.
She was hurt but she wouldn’t die.
“Stay here,” he said.
Then he walked back.
On the pool table he spotted a bottle of beer, half-empty. He drank what was left in one long swallow. Then he held the bottle by the neck and busted the bottom off. Jagged glass was left.
He set it down on the edge of the table and shook the blood out of his left ear.
He squared off to the two men.
“Now, cut your dicks off, both of you. Use that to do it. Cut ’em off or I’ll do it for you. If
I have to do it, I’m going to cut your eyes out too. First your dicks, then your eyes. Do you understand?”
One of the men tried to bust out.
The crowd closed in and pushed him back.
37
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
From his position at the drums, Wilde watched helplessly as Alabama slipped off her barstool and made her way to the left. When she got to Robert Mitchum, she leaned into the bar, ostensibly to order a drink. Her ass was so close to his hand it might have been touching.
Wilde knew what she was doing.
She was being stupid—the exact thing he told her not to be.
Sure enough, now they were talking.
She was instantly fascinated with this stranger in a white shirt and letting her chest brush up against him to prove it.
She smiled her smile.
She tossed her hair.
It wasn’t clear if Mitchum was responding, but if he wasn’t yet he would be soon.
Alabama was hard to resist.
Even with all his strength, Wilde could hardly do it half the time.
Damn it, Alabama.
When the song was over, Secret got mobbed, she got mobbed so badly that Wilde didn’t even try to squeeze in. One of the mob turned out to be Rex Sailwood, the owner of a local record label called Sky Records. He bought her a drink and chewed on her ear for fifteen minutes before she was able to break free.
“Don’t tell me,” Wilde said. “Sailwood’s going to make you a star.”
Secret was surprised.
“You know him?”
Wilde nodded.
He did.
“Is he legit?”
“Actually he is,” Wilde said. “He’s not as big as what you’ll find in Chicago or New York, but he can get a record made and played.”
She ran a finger down his nose.
“I’m going to take your advice and sleep with the drummer.”
Wilde frowned.
“Do you see that guy over there at the bar in the white suit? The one molesting Alabama—”
She did.
“Is that the guy you saw on the roof?”
“I told you, I couldn’t make him out.”
“Could it be him?”
“It could be but so could you. Why, is that him?”
“That’s our friend Robert Mitchum,” he said. “Alabama’s making a move against my direct orders. Short term, if we stumble into them, pretend you don’t know her. We can’t blow her cover.”