“This makes no sense,” I said. If someone wanted to thank him, there were all sorts of public channels. Social media would be the perfect place to ask ‘Do you know who this belongs to? He saved my dad from attackers but left before police arrived!’ because a story like that, combined with Bax’s clean-cut good looks, had viral social-media post written all over it.
“You just helped a guy?” I asked.
Bax squirmed slightly. “Well—”
“Out with it.”
“When I checked on the guy after breaking up the mugging, he put a flash drive into my hand and told me to get lost. So I did.”
The sound of a car door slamming in the distance made several puzzle pieces fall into place.
“Do me a favor,” I blurted out. “Follow my lead, no matter what happens.”
“Why?” Bax stared at me.
I stared back. “Trust me. I’m on the side of the angels. Pour me a pint of something, anything,” I said as I heard feet climbing the stairs to the entrance of the tasting room. Bax poured a pint, keeping his eyes on me. Wariness covered his face, and hopefully the smile I gave him in return was reassuring.
I sipped but didn’t taste the straw-colored beer Bax handed me as a guy came into the tasting room. I scoped him out in the mirror to one side of the bar. White tee-shirt, dark blue jeans turned up at the cuff. Black boots. Bit of a James Dean vibe. He just needed a cigarette and maybe a leather jacket.
“Can I get something for you?” Bax asked him.
“Is this the guy?” Wanna-be James Dean asked.
I turned to face the guy who’d been following me. One of the best parts about being five-foot-one and female is that it’s easy for people to underestimate you. You’re not physically intimidating when you’re standing nose-to-pectoral muscle with a guy. Fake sweetness and girly laughs disarm them.
But you’ve gotta keep your wits about you.
“Hey, if you wanted to ask me out for a beer, you could have just said something,” I said. “Instead of following me around town.”
“I’m not asking again.”
I turned and picked up my pint, finally tasting the brew, which turned out to be a lager, based on the crisp taste with the perfect light bite of hops. “Hey, this is really good,” I said. “And which guy are you talking about? If you’re looking for my faux-groom, I last saw him at the Rhododendron Garden…but let’s not get into that.”
I looked at Bax and motioned to the sketchbook. “Although while I’m here, do you know the guy who owns this? Maybe he draws in here? He likes the bridge.”
Bax looked at the sketchbook and shrugged. “I pour beers. As long as people don’t start fights, I don’t have time to pay attention to what they’re doing.”
“’Cause you’re so busy.” James Dean motioned to the otherwise empty pub.
I turned to face the guy. “I’m a little annoyed you’re following me. Care to explain why?”
He had to be aligned with Mila, and clearly, her lover spat had been a sham from the beginning. But why had someone decided to drag me into this? ’Cause whoever had started this came at me from an angle I couldn’t refuse: my sister. Something told me this guy wasn’t supposed to have made contact with me. So would he backpedal, or push forward? More importantly, could Bax keep up? All I needed was to have led a creep to an—as far as I knew—innocent guy. Not to mention the innocent guy had amazing eyes and the sort of perfect nose that it would be a shame to see busted up.
“Sorry,” the guy said. He stepped backward, and his eyebrows scrunched like he was thinking hard. “I must have you confused with someone else.”
I wanted to tell him to leave my sister alone, and that if he and Mila wanted something, to come at me directly. But so far he hadn’t overtly shown his hand, and I needed him to leave. A showdown with him and with only Bax as backup sounded like a terrible idea.
“Yeah, go confuse someone else.”
I waited for him to walk out of the brewery and counted to five before going to the balcony to make sure he was leaving. He headed in the direction of his car, probably to report to whoever was pulling his puppet strings.
“What next?” Bax asked. “Is that guy really after me?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know a detective who can help.”
Bax bit his lower lip, and his hands shook as he picked up a bottle of water. He knew something I didn’t. We were going to have a serious talk after I made my call.
I pulled out my cell phone, scrolled through the contacts, took a deep breath, and hit the call button. “Dad? I have something for you.”
***
I was waiting on the balcony when my father arrived. Given the dark blazer he was wearing, I could tell he had his side arm with him—or he found the summer weather to be on the nippy side. He scoped out everything as he made his way across the parking lot. I waved and pointed out the stairs, and he made his way up. I met him in the tasting room.
“Beer?” I asked.
“What’s with the dress?”
I shrugged. “I was helping someone out today and it just sort of snowballed until I ended up here,” I said, not wanting to tell him that I’d ditched my fake groom an hour into the charade. He needed wedding photos to get his parents off his back, but he didn’t need to be an overbearing dick about it.
As I told him the story of my hunt for Bax, I could read the ever-present note of skepticism in him. But when I held up the locker key, he reached to snatch it out of my hand. I closed my fist before he could grab it.
“Wait,” I said. “Bax is afraid he’ll get into trouble for ending up with this. He didn’t realize what he had, at least not at first.”
“Why didn’t he call the police?”
“He was scared. He wouldn’t even tell me what was on the flash drive, just that it freaked him out and he was afraid he’d get in trouble for seeing it. He was going to mail it in anonymously, but then I showed up.” As I put the key into my father’s hand, I said, “locker 231.”
I trailed my father down the hallway that led from the tasting room to the bathrooms. A row of old school lockers lined one wall.
“What kind of brewery has lockers?” Dad asked as he opened the door.
“Bax has roommates in a one-bedroom apartment. The locker gives him a place to store stuff he doesn’t want his roommates to take.”
He put on gloves before opening the locker. After a moment, he held up the flash drive.
“I’m going to want to talk to this Bax.”
“I’ll make sure the two of you connect.” I hid a smile since it sounded like I was setting up a date versus a serious discussion with the police.
My dad sighed and glanced around. “Where is he?”
I could deny the truth my father had already heard in my voice, but instead I half-smiled. Caught again.
“Come on out, Bax. Say hi to one of Portland’s finest,” I called out. I glanced at my father. “Some nineteen-fifties throwback guy followed me here, looking for Bax. It’s probably safer for him to go with you.”
Bax emerged from the back of the brewery, where he must have been sitting amongst the tanks, trying not to hyperventilate. He looked young, like a teenager busted for throwing a party while his parents were out of town. When he met my father’s eyes, he looked down, but then looked back up and met them straight on. His shoulders tightened and he stood straight.
“So you’re the guy who broke up the mugging,” my dad said.
Bax nodded.
I slipped away, letting my dad do his thing. No one noticed as I made my way out the door, and then back to the parking lot at Cathedral Park.
I pointed Rose’s car toward home. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to convince my father to tell me what’s on the zip drive. For now, I need to divorce myself from this wedding dress. And say “I do” to some cold brew coffee
.
Girls with Tools
Triss Stein
Decades ago I published two mysteries with a publisher that dropped its mystery line just about the time I turned in the third. Life kept happening, and it was a long time before I went back to writing. Trying to find a new agent for my new book and new series idea, I had several variations of this actual response, “I love your book but I don’t know anyone who is buying literate, non-gimmicky mysteries.”
I finally said, “Well, I know who does!” I took a chance and sent it off to Poisoned Pen Press. If all my chance-taking turned out this well, I would have to buy a lottery ticket every day. I am proud to be published by a company with such a strong reputation for quality and professionalism, and happy to be published by people instead of a corporation.
—T.S.
***
Here’s how I become a ship builder. A girl with tools. A real-life Rosie, if you want to call me that, though my real name is Philomena.
After the war started, the government had a big campaign to get women to do men’s work so the men could all go be soldiers or sailors.
I worked at my grandpa’s grocery store then, taking cash and helping at the meat counter as they got short of men. I thought I was gonna die of boredom there. My face hurt from smiling all day.
Then I saw where I could apply at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It was only a trolley ride away from home. And I could build ships. Repair ships. Use tools. Meet new people. So I said to my pop, who had worked there until he was disabled, and my oldest and bossiest brother, Vito, who was a foreman there, “Why didn’t you tell me they’re looking for women? I want to do my part!”
Vito said, “You’ve got to be kidding. No sister of mine is working with those roughnecks. Bad language and worse behavior. Not for you, toots.”
And my mama cried, and said, “It’s dirty. You have to wear coveralls. You come home with grease in your nails. Not for my little girl.”
My pop kept it simple. “Never. I’d rather see you dead.”
“I don’t care about the grease or the coveralls. Not the bad language, either.”
Then Vito said, “Some things there are not right for you to see.”
“What things? I don’t believe you. You’re just bossing me around like you always do.”
He did look at me like he always does, like I’m a dumb child, and said, “Yeah? Last year, we had a ship come in where we found bodies below, sailors trapped when the ship got hit. They couldn’t retrieve the bodies until we started taking the ship apart. You want that? The sights and the smells were worse than you can guess. Plenty of big, tough welders were sick right there on the dock.” He grinned but not in a nice way. “You ready for that?”
Mama crossed herself and I know my face went white, just thinking about it, but I didn’t give up.
“If you can do it, I can.”
Then came the shouting and the tears and my threats to move in with some relatives. I was eighteen. They couldn’t stop me. And mama tried to get me to talk to the priest from Sacred Heart. It went on for weeks.
But then my youngest, favorite brother, Francis, came home on leave after basic training. He couldn’t tell us where he was being sent, but anyone who listened to the news on the radio could figure it was North Africa, where there were big battles now.
My other brothers were already in. Mama prayed all the time in those days.
So there was Frankie, all decked out in his uniform, and the whole family was so proud. Mama already made a flag with the third blue star—one each for Frankie and my other brothers in the service—and Pop hung it from a second-floor window.
Mama ordered all of us, everyone, even Pop, to stop our fighting while Frankie was home. He was going to have a good visit before he got on that troop ship! There were threats about the evil eye if anyone disobeyed, but I was so angry I didn’t care. Evil eye, big deal! Even Mama didn’t really, truly, believe that stuff.
I told Frankie all about our fighting, and he told them. Boy, did he. He smacked the table and said if they want all the boys like him to come home, everyone had to pitch in and do what was needed. Then he looked at our folks and said, loudly, “What’s the matter with you? You think you didn’t raise a good girl? You think she would play the puttana?”
They all gasped when he said that.
Then he said, “And, besides, I taught her a good uppercut, so she could take of herself if anyone tried anything.”
Mama finally said, “How you say no to the boy who’s going overseas to the shooting?” I put in my application the next day, with Frankie escorting me downtown to do it.
Well, it was hard work, long hours, exhausting. And I was so proud to do it, something so real. Real tools. Real metal. Real big—really big—ships. It wasn’t like making change all day and saying, “Hi, Mrs. So and So” and asking about her arthritis and yes, she needed her ration book for the sausage.
I liked my own paycheck too. I gave it to Mama, but I kept a little back. A girl needed nail polish, especially with my job. And a new hat once in a while.
The first day some guys stared and yelled rude remarks. I gave it right back, loud. Then I smacked my hands together, and got to work. You don’t mess with a real Brooklyn girl who grew up in a house full of brothers.
But some of the guys were helpful and nice, once they saw we girls were serious, and I made some girlfriends, too. Then we got a new foreman who was not nice at all. He barked his orders, never wanted to show us anything, was rude to the guys and even worse to us girls. There was some secret crying, lots of days. He really, really did not want women on his crew and he let us know it. Every day. Every hour.
He was an Irish guy. Donelly. Looked it, too, freckles and all. We Italians, we were big at the Navy Yard. I don’t know why, but lots of Italian men are ironworkers, so maybe there’s a connection to ship work. Being Irish, he wasn’t part of the family, so to speak. Maybe it made him grouchy. That’s what I thought at first, and I worked extra hard just to show him.
Finally, I’d had enough and I opened my big mouth. “I have three brothers in the service. Three! And a dozen cousins, first and second. Can you even count that high? And I’m doing my part right here ’cause the president says I should. You got a problem with it?”
I happened to have a wrench in my hand when I said it.
Dead silence. Then he laughed and most of the other guys laughed and behind his back a few gave me a thumbs-up.
“Well, well. Look what we got here. A little baby patriot in lipstick! Pretty cute. Now everyone back to work. We got a ticking clock for this job.”
A few days later, he sat down next to me at lunch break. Yikes.
“So you got brothers overseas? How are they doing?”
He caught me so off guard that I told him
“My oldest brother is safe. He’s here at the yard and looks like for the duration.”
“Like me.”
“He was one of the guys from here who volunteered to go to Pearl Harbor to rebuild the bombed ships.”
“Like me.”
“But my next was already in the Navy.” I waved my hand around to encompass the whole yard. “He grew up around ships ’cause our dad worked here. He’s officially somewhere in the Pacific now.” I had to swallow hard then, to keep talking. The news wasn’t good.
“The other one is in England for now.” I shook my head. “And my favorite is in the artillery. We’re guessing he’s on the way to North Africa. Where the Germans are.”
I stopped talking, unable to say any more. He kind of chucked me under the chin and said, “So here you are, taking the place of three men. Good work.”
A week later he stopped me as I was leaving and said, “We oughta step out sometime. You’re cuter than me, but we’re both single. Why not? You like to dance?”
Sure, I like to dance. Who doesn’t?
I didn’t like him, not at all, but I faced facts. Men were scarce.
He turned out to be not a bad dancer, and not too grabby, if you get my point, and in the breaks, we talked about my brothers and my cousins, who were all over the map. A real map. My pop had a big one up on the kitchen wall with little pins for all the places the family was. Dark blue for Navy and Marines, green for Army, light blue for the Army Air Corps. Africa, Alaska, a Florida air base, islands in the Pacific we never heard of before. Hawaii. And one in Washington, keeping the generals safe.
Pop was from Naples, and Mama too. They came here as kids, went right to work, got a house and a little vegetable garden and five kids who lived, and one who died. They were proud Americans and they were dead set on proving it every single day, what with Italy being an enemy and all. Besides the service flag, they put up the biggest American flag on the block. When they talked about Mussolini, they only used Italian. That’s how I knew they were cursing him.
I told Donelly all of this, different nights, and he nodded and listened and listened. I guess I needed someone to talk to, now that Frankie was off at the war. I couldn’t even consider romance with him, and he didn’t try too hard. I suppose we were friends. I didn’t know you could be that with a guy.
One day I had to help my grandparents clean out the little extra room behind the store. All kinds of junk was needed for the war effort, like old pots and old rubber girdles and paper. My folks sent me over to lend a hand. On my one day off! But they needed my help and it was for a good cause, just like my job.
They had stacks of Italian newspapers. Grandpa used them to wrap tomatoes in the store. And stacks of magazines, too. They didn’t read much English so they liked the ones with lots of photos. Grandpa couldn’t explain why he kept them except he thought they’d come in handy sometime. Nona just clucked and brought more cookies into the back room while we worked.
A bundle of magazines from the last decade caught my eye. My childhood in pictures! I sprawled on the floor, leafing through them. Glamorous debutante parties and movie premieres, with women in furs and gowns and men in white tie. Adorable, dimpled Shirley Temple. Of course I remembered her! Handsome Errol Flynn, who I had seen in Robin Hood, and Clark Gable, taking off his shirt in It Happened One Night. I certainly had not seen that when it was new and I was only nine. He looked pretty good in the photo.
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