by Joan Boswell
I hunted through the rows of cars. And I found her.
She was sitting in the passenger seat of a shiny new Pontiac with the door open. Poised sideways, she had one high-heeled pump resting on the ground, her stockinged legs crossed and tempting.
“Would you like to drive me home?”
I almost didn’t hear her. Her voice was low and sultry, like a summer breeze, and it was almost swallowed up by the firing of the engine in the old Packard beside me. But the keys she dangled from her fingers told me that I’d heard right.
I hesitated only a moment. Taking the keys, I watched appreciatively as she swung those luscious dancer’s legs into the car. Closing the door, I walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with those smouldering eyes, the way she had been doing for the past two months. I could have got out then. Maybe I should have. I turned the key.
The engine purred to life. “Yours?”
“A friend’s.”
Hmmm. Some friend. I put it in gear and eased it into the line exiting the lot.
“My motel’s down this way,” she said. But I’m not in any hurry. We can go for a drive if you’d like. If you want to try out the car.”
The car was nice, but it wasn’t really what was on my mind. We drove about for a while with the windows down, feeling the night air cool against our skin after the heat of the dance hall. We didn’t speak much—she didn’t appear to want to. It was late when we pulled into her motel parking lot. She invited me in.
I trailed close behind her, opening the door to room eight when she handed me the key. She slipped past, and I followed her in. The uneasy feeling I always got whenever she was near flared worse than ever. Glancing around, I suddenly wondered if she shared that room with anyone, maybe her “friend”. I wasn’t in the mood to fend off a jealous husband or boyfriend.
“You got the room to yourself, honey?”
“Sure,” she said, casually flinging her purse on the floor by the room’s one dresser. Taking a seat on the bed, she crossed her legs and leaned back invitingly.
Seeing no obvious signs of male occupancy, I put my horn down by the door, and took up the offer, sliding in close beside her. But when I attempted to put my arm around her, she wiggled away.
“Not yet.”
“All right. You tell me when. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me what this is all about.”
“Come now. I’m sure you’ve been in girls’ motel rooms before?”
“Sure. Lots of times. But not with someone like you. Not with someone who’s been following me. What gives?”
She appeared put out by my bluntness, those luscious lips that I had not yet tasted, pursing together. “I like music. I like to dance. Your band’s good.”
“That doesn’t cut it. We’re not that good. And I know you can dance; I saw you once. But you don’t dance; you watch. You watch me. Why?”
She stood up abruptly. “Would you like a drink?”
I sighed. “Sure, honey. Whatever you’ve got.”
Two glasses and a bottle of Canadian Club sat waiting on the nearby dresser, almost as if she’d been expecting company. Of course, for all I knew, she always brought someone home with her. With a face like that, there wouldn’t need to be much arm twisting.
“Someone once told me about you,” she said, her back to me as she poured the drinks, “and I was curious.” I thought I heard her voice quiver a bit. But that wouldn’t be so strange. She was just a kid.
“You could have got to know me a lot faster if you hadn’t been so quick to leave each night.”
“I wasn’t ready.” She turned to me, a drink in each hand.
She didn’t strike me as the shy type, but I didn’t comment. “And now you are?”
“It’s time.”
“So what’s this all about? Who told you about me and got you so interested?”
An answer didn’t come right away. She made me wait before throwing me the first piece of the puzzle.
“It was a woman who used to sing in one of your bands.”
“Sammy’s?”
“No. Another one you were in years ago.”
“What was her name?” I asked, but she sidestepped.
“She collected pictures of you.” The girl put her drink down on the nightstand beside the bed and picked up an envelope. “I have them here, if you’d like to see.”
I seized the envelope from her outstretched hand and dumped the contents on the bed beside me. There were about half a dozen newspaper clippings, most pretty faded and worn. I picked up the first one and sure enough, there I was with a few other members of a band I’d played in years before. I glanced through them all and noted that except for a couple of more recent ones, they dated back more than fifteen years. Taking a closer look at the older ones, I saw they were all of the same band. I identified some of my cronies from that period—Ferde Scott, Arnie Wilts, Bill Harrington, Bob Mowry. It was funny seeing them there. Most I hadn’t seen or thought of in years. Ferde Scott was the only one still in the business.
I looked at the girl for some kind of explanation. She handed me my drink.
“It was Irene Driscoll that collected those pictures. The earlier ones at least.”
Her expression was almost triumphant; as if she had just made some great revelation that explained everything. I nodded slowly, remembering. “Pretty blonde with a big voice?”
“She was.”
Irene had been more than pretty. She’d been a real knockout, and she’d had talent to go with the looks. The female singer with one of the first bands I’d played in, I’d known Irene for a couple of years before she quit and dropped out of music. I couldn’t remember why. Some sort of accident or something, I thought.
“Something happened to her, in the late thirties, early forties?”
“She got cut up. Someone took a knife to her face.”
“Oh.” I glanced down at my drink, holding it with both hands. “Too bad.”
“But you knew her when she was beautiful, didn’t you?”
“Sure. She was gorgeous. A real looker. All the guys in the band were crazy about her.”
The girl raised her glass to her lips and nodded meaningfully at mine. She sipped the pale amber liquid and then said softly, “But you were lucky enough to date her.”
“Me? I wish. She barely noticed me.”
“But it was you that she went with. You that she loved.”
“Are you kidding? She only had eyes for Arnie.”
Her hand shot out and clutched my arm. I had just been about to deliver my own drink to my mouth. Instead, rye splashed all over my hand and onto my jacket sleeve. “Are you crazy? What’d you do that for?” I was on my feet, trying to dry myself with my handkerchief.
“Who’s Arnie?”
“Arnie Wilts.” I disentangled myself from her hold. “They went steady for a year or two. Arnie played trumpet as well.”
Her face had gone pale. I thought she might be ill.
“Look.” I pulled a photo from the pile and pointed him out. “He’s here in these photos too.”
She stared blankly at the clipping a moment, then frantically started scrambling through the pile. When she found the one she was looking for, she thrust it in my face.
“This is you, right? The guy circled?”
“Nah, that’s Arnie. I’m the guy next to him.”
“But it says it’s you.”
I looked at the names listed below the photo. “Someone got it wrong. Story of my life.”
A look of panic and disbelief marred her face. She looked wildly around the room then made a dash for the purse she’d thrown on the floor. Rifling through it, she pulled out her chequebook. From inside it she took another photo. This one wasn’t a clipping, but a glossy photo from someone’s Brownie. There was Arnie’s handsome face, mugging for the camera.
“Arnie again.”
She stared at the photo. “Oh, God,” I heard her say softly. She
stood there immobile, lost in another world.
I put my wet handkerchief aside and raised my glass to my lips.
She screamed and struck me. The glass was smashed from my hand, its contents showering the floor.
“What the hell’s going on?” I touched my fingers to my bruised lip, half-expecting to find blood.
Her eyes were big and round, terrified.
I raised my wet hand to my nose. It smelled strange. It smelled like rye, sure, but there was something else. “What was in that drink?”
“I thought you were him. I thought that was you in those pictures.”
She looked ready to tune out again. I grabbed her wrist. “So? What difference does it make? Who are you?”
She sank down on the bed. “Norma. Irene’s daughter.”
I tried to put the pieces together as I watched her begin to sob. Irene’s daughter. It took me a minute, but I got there.
“You’re Arnie’s girl, aren’t you?”
“He left her once he found out about me,” she choked out. “He just left us to manage on our own. After I was born, she couldn’t handle it. She had no money. And she was so ashamed. When another guy came along and was willing to marry her, she jumped at it. She’d never have looked at him twice otherwise.”
“The guy was no good?”
She shook her head vehemently.
Things were starting to fall into place, for me anyway. “Is he the one that cut her?”
“Yes. She got another job singing. He didn’t like the way men looked at her when she was on stage. He was afraid she’d find someone else. So he cut her face up so she couldn’t work. He cut it up so men wouldn’t look at her any more.”
She quieted for a moment and I waited, sensing there was more she’d tell me when she was ready.
“A few months after that, she killed herself.”
“What happened to him?”
“I didn’t find out until later, but he died a couple of years after her in a car accident.”
“So you wanted revenge on the man that started it all. But you got the wrong guy.” I put my hand to my nose again. “What did you put in that drink?”
“Rat poison.”
“Christ!” I jumped to my feet and raced into the bathroom. I scrubbed my hands until they were raw, and the new bar of soap was merely a sliver. Just in case a drop had actually touched my lips, I bathed them and rinsed my mouth for good measure. When I was finished, I leaned on the sink, staring in the mirror, wondering what to do next. She had tried to kill me.
When I returned, the girl was lying on the bed, still crying. I stood there, not knowing what to do. She looked so young. If she was Arnie’s girl, she could only be about seventeen or eighteen. I suddenly wondered about the beautiful dress she had on and the others I’d seen her in, and thought about the new car sitting outside, but I tried not to think too hard about how a girl like her would get those things.
I walked to the door and opened it. Picking up my horn, I glanced at her once more. I threw her a bone. “Arnie’s dead, by the way. He died just last year, knifed by a jealous husband.”
Outside, the air felt cool and clean. Rubbing at the hand that had been splashed, I set off across the parking lot, the gravel squelching noisily in the quiet of the night.
Irene’s girl. Irene’s gorgeous blue eyes swam up in front of my face as I recalled how beautiful she’d been when I’d known her. Irene. I hadn’t thought of her in years. I’d been half in love with her. I remembered that now. But I never stood a chance. I remembered that summer we’d toured together; it must have been about 1935. She’d been crazy about Arnie; she’d barely noticed me.
My steps faltered.
Arnie had missed part of that tour. About two weeks, because of pneumonia.
I stopped.
The Brant Inn. We’d played a week there. She’d been lonely, and angry with him over something—probably another girl. I had thought I was the luckiest guy in the world.
I hesitated.
Norma. Irene’s daughter.
Those eyes.
I tugged up my jacket collar and walked on.
Yes, I’d go see Bert Niosi about a job next week.
Coleen Steele writes crime and mystery fiction from her home in Bowmanville, Ontario. Two of her stories were awarded Honourable Mention in the Writer’s Digest 2001 Writing Competition and she has been published in Storyteller magazine. Coleen’s fascination with film noir and old radio shows often creeps into her writing.
Who’s Sorry Now?
Her pretty backup singer, Lee,
She killed at twenty-two.
At thirty-one, the deed was done,
She killed Lee’s partner, Lou.
When she was barely thirty-four
She slew the third one, Tim,
And shortly after forty-one
The last singer followed him.
She did it all so carefully
And covered every clue
She’d get away with murder
And she would get what’s due
She’d get all the glory—
As last one left alive—
Until Lee’s cousin, the cop, showed up
And her career took a dive.
Now she’s got a hundred partners
And the spotlight’s on each night
But there’s no one she can sing to
And not one fan in sight.
And so the moral of this story
If you care to lend an ear—
When no one’s left to back you up
You land hard on your rear.
Joy Hewitt Mann
Two Little Girls in Blue
Sue Pike
You awake, Stu?”
Stu lurched upright in his chair, rubbing his hand across his face and finding to his horror he’d been dribbling down his chin. Worse still, there were tears on his cheeks. Damn. He must have been dreaming about Belle. Or Joanie, maybe.
“Guess I dozed off.”
“You remember you called me?” Franklin helped him to his feet and steadied him a minute until the blood made its way to his legs. “Something about the stove not working?”
“What? Oh, right.” Stu leaned on Franklin’s arm and pushed toward the kitchen. “The elements have been overheating something fierce. Last week after Joanie left, I nearly burned the place down just trying to heat some canned stew.” He grimaced. “Damned if it wasn’t one of her pots I ruined.”
“I guess we’ve all done that at one time or another. How is Joanie, anyway?”
If Stu closed his eyes, he could still picture Franklin and Joanie all those summers ago, Joanie in her blue cotton bathing suit, her blonde pigtails streaming out behind as she ran down the hill to the dock with Franklin close behind. He could hear their shouts again, part fear, part triumph as they swung out over the lake, clinging to the ropes he’d tied to a couple of big oak limbs overhanging the water. Out they’d fly, while he and Belle held their breaths, afraid the kids would hang on just a second too long and tumble onto the rocks.
“She’s okay, I guess.” Stu let go of the other man’s arm and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You mind having a look at those elements?”
“Already tested them while you were getting your beauty sleep.” Franklin grinned. “There isn’t a thing wrong with them. They seem to be working just fine.”
“Yeah, well. I guess I probably knew that. I just kind of hoped I could tell Joanie something else had caused that little meltdown.” He turned and looked out the window over the sink. He counted two pine grosbeaks on one feeder and half a dozen goldfinches nibbling safflower seeds on the other. There were shadows gathering down at the dock and thunder clouds building up over the far shore of the lake. It was the best time of day to catch a bass. He’d try that new lure Joanie gave him for his birthday.
He turned back from the window. “Thanks for coming, anyway. I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”
“Forget it.” Franklin frowned. �
��I don’t like to see you so worried, though. What’s got you all riled up, anyway?”
“Aw, it’s just Joanie. She and that—that fellow she lives with.” Stu sank into a chair in the breakfast nook and began shuffling the salt and pepper around. “You’ve met her new guy, haven’t you?”
Franklin chuckled. “Sure. I was at their wedding. Must’ve been ten years ago now. Remember?”
“Oh, right. Well, he’s some kind of geriatric psychologist, whatever in God’s name that means.” He shrugged. “Anyway, Joanie listens to every goddamned word comes out of his mouth, especially when it’s about me. Made me take some kind of memory test, and I guess I didn’t exactly come off with flying colours. Anyway, now they think I’d be better off in a seniors’ home with folks my own age.” He snorted. “Makes me sound like a little kid.”
“I sure don’t want to take sides here, Stu, but they might have a point. It’s maybe not such a good idea you being out here all by yourself.”
“I’m only here for the summer, and besides, there’s people in the other cottages.”
“A lot of these places have changed hands recently. They’re mostly weekend cottagers, and I’ll bet you haven’t met many of them yet. Knowing you, I’m not so sure you’d call on them for help, even if you did run into trouble.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, and if something does happen, you’re welcome to carry me out in a box.” Stu didn’t want to talk about it any more. He got up and took Franklin by the arm and pushed him toward the screen door. “You’ve got better things to do than stand around chewing the fat with an old fellow like me. And besides, I’ve got some fish to catch.”
Stu saw the younger man off then gathered his rod and tackle from the shed and made his way down the long flight of stone steps to the water. He was loading everything into the old aluminum rowboat when the Pilon kids from next door sidled onto the dock. They were dressed in identical blue bathing suits. The older one asked what he was doing.