by Anne Baines
She turned and stepped into the ladies’ room. Delilah pushed into the handicap stall and sat on the toilet. She dragged up her shirt and checked the bandage.
It was dry and clean. No blood. She wished the wound would stop throbbing.
Time to figure out a plan. The bar wasn’t crowded by any means, but there were enough people, mostly men. Delilah liked men, especially men alone in bars. Her plan shifted, forming in her mind. She needed a ride, and she needed some cash. Any car she stole would have to be gassed up before she arrived in Atlanta and she didn’t feel healthy enough to go through with the routine of steal, ditch, steal.
Not tonight. She just wanted to get back to her stash, clear out, head some place far away. Maybe she’d go to New York, see about finding someone who needed something run across to Canada.
After sleeping for a week. And maybe seeing another doctor. Just in case.
Plus she still wanted to send money to Jake and her daughter. For a brief instant Delilah entertained the thought of heading across the country, going home to Oregon. Seeing her daughter, seeing Jake. His crooked smile, the way his cornflower blue eyes filled with life and joy when he laughed.
But Esther wasn’t really hers, any more than Jake was. She’d given her up to Jake and Nancy. Nancy wanted a kid and Delilah had no idea what she’d do with one. How she’d make a living. A baby might be good for some kinds of con jobs, nothing like single-mother sympathy after all, but for a get-away driver children just seemed like a liability.
And if the law ever got Delilah, well, the kid already had a grandfather locked away for life. Esther was better off with her dad and the woman he’d chosen over Delilah.
She was no kind of mother for a kid. Delilah suppressed the bubble of laughter that danced in her throat and threatened to rise with tears. She couldn’t even take care of herself. Here she was, maybe dying and totally broke in a bar somewhere in the boonies of Florida.
Fuck this. She was alive. She’d escaped that crazy killer, twice.
Delilah twisted the tennis bracelet still on her wrist. Then she removed the necklace and tucked it into her pocket. The earrings followed. They looked too rich for this place.
She had about ten grand stashed in her home in Atlanta and she could get more as soon as she saw Poppy at the pawn shop. Between the necklace, earrings, and bracelet, she guessed she was walking around with a good seven or eight grand on her. It was almost funny. Almost.
If she hadn’t been in so much pain, or so cold, or so damn scared of a man who couldn’t possibly know where she was.
Delilah stood up and pulled the pain killers out of her pocket. The choice to take one or not was a devil’s bargain. Either fight the pain and be fuzzy from the drugs, or suck it up and let the pain stab at her with tiny blades. She wanted a clear mind, but it wasn’t going to happen.
She took a pill. It was chalky in her mouth and she stepped out of the stall. A couple handfuls of water from the faucet cleared the worst of the taste out.
The bathroom door opened and the overly-tanned blonde waitress came in. She leaned against the little shelf beneath the mirror and pulled a small makeup bag out of one of her apron pockets.
Delilah smiled. This would work, this would be okay. She was in a bar, one of her natural hunting grounds. Suckers were born each minute and half of them regularly haunted bars.
“Hey,” she said to the waitress.
“Yeah?” The woman looked over at her. Took her measure.
“I’ve had a kinda rough night,” Delilah said. The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Delilah hurried on, “Could I maybe borrow a little lipstick, fix myself up? I just wanna have a good time, you know?”
The woman smiled, suspicion fading from her eyes. Asking for help usually got people over their initial fear of someone. Everybody liked to be a hero, and to feel superior to those around them.
“One of those days, huh?” The waitress passed her lipstick to Delilah.
Delilah shrugged and dipped her head, going for bedraggled and pathetic. She knew with her wet hoodie and the hollows under her eyes, it wouldn’t take much acting. A little hot water on her face and some lipstick went a long way toward making herself presentable.
Evie, as the waitress introduced herself, offered up some eye shadow and blush as well. Delilah suffered through five minutes of Evie’s whining about men, nodding occasionally and murmuring sympathetic nonsense sounds. It was good to let people talk. Let them think she cared. Trust was important, useful.
The drugs were kicking in, flooding her system with relief from the pain. Delilah felt floaty and insulated, as though there were a thin layer of plastic between herself and the real world. Bubble plastic, like the kind used to ship packages and keep them from breaking. She imagined that if she reached out and squeezed the air there’d be a pop.
“Thanks, Evie,” she said when the woman’s rant wound down.
“Sure thing, honey. I got to get back to work. Good luck finding a little comfort. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t have no trouble.”
No trouble. That sounded nice to Delilah. She’d had nothing but trouble since she’d walked off that job and tried to make a little money on her own. Two days. Jesus, but it felt like forever. She wanted to turn around, swim backward in time and undo it all.
Delilah shook herself and the shocks of pain helped wake her out of her fugue. She’d almost gone maudlin there. Damnit. She didn’t have time for this. Money, then a car. Those were the priorities now.
She looked at herself in the mirror and unzipped her hoodie enough that most of the lacy bra beneath showed. Her short dark hair was tousled in a way that looked almost intentional, Evie’s lipstick was too pink for Delilah’s taste, but it looked good on her full mouth. With the green shadow and a light dusting of blush, she looked good, exotic instead of thin and sick.
It was time to go hunting.
Sixteen
Delilah hadn’t even noticed the old jukebox or the music playing on her first pass through the bar. Now the strains of a woman’s voice wafted from the jukebox, muting the conversations. There were two TVs flanking the bar, one tuned to a golfing tournament, the other to a local news channel.
The peanut smell mingled with something fresher, fried. Her belly gurgled, hunger nudging her through the painkillers. Delilah guessed this bar had a small kitchen, probably just a counter with a line of deep fryers. Fried and salty worked well to soak up booze and get people thirsty for more.
Sweet smoke from a clove cigarette drifted to her as she surveyed the room looking for a mark. She followed it out into the middle, pinpointing its source.
A middle-aged man with thinning brown hair sat alone at one end of the bar, smoking a clove. Djarums, she guessed. He wasn’t good-looking enough to be arrogant, but not so ugly he’d be suspicious of a woman coming on to him. Perfect.
She ran a hand through her hair one last time and walked over, taking the empty seat next to him.
“Want to be my hero?” she asked him. She noticed his keys were on the bar by his elbow, along with a twenty dollar bill. He had a couple of beer bottles and an empty shot glass in front of him.
“Hi,” he said, shifting to face her.
“Can I beg a clove off you? I’ve had one of those days.” Delilah smiled at him, putting just enough flirt into it to light up her eyes but keeping the down-on-her-luck persona she’d pitched to Evie the waitress.
Consistent characters were important. Tell the least number of lies to get what you want, that’s what Bennie had always said.
“Sure, I like being a hero,” the man said and he reached into his jacket pocket for a clove.
While he lit it and she sucked in on the hot smoke, Evie stepped up to them.
“Come on, Sam, buy the pretty girl a drink.” Evie winked at Delilah in what she probably thought was a subtle way.
Excellent. Delilah smiled at the waitress and took another drag. The smoke heated her up inside, tingling against her throat. She didn’
t smoke usually, preferring to keep her body whole and healthy, but this certainly seemed like a smoke ‘em if you got ‘em situation.
And she liked cloves. She and Jake used to park her Mustang at a lookout over the ocean off highway 101 and sit, talking and smoking cloves, watching the waves as the sun settled down into the sea. They’d kiss the sweet aftertaste from each other’s lips and laugh. Sometimes they’d sneak down onto the beach in the dark and make love on the old army blanket.
Those were the best times, bright glowing memories nestled in the happier parts of Delilah’s mind. The times before she got pregnant. Before Jake went straight and she realized he’d finally made a choice she couldn’t make with him.
“What’re you drinking?” The man in the bar brought her back from the fog of memories.
“Shirley Temple, with a shot of vodka on the side. Thanks.”
“I’ll have another beer, Evie,” the guy said.
Evie laughed and moved away from them, waving at the bartender.
“That’s cute,” he said. “I’m Sam.”
“Lia,” Delilah said, offering him her hand.
They awkwardly shook and she took in his lack of a wedding ring. His hand was warm and dry, dwarfing her thin fingers.
She asked him the basic questions as she waited for their drinks to arrive. The flicker of the TV above his head kept drawing her eye and she forced herself to focus on his eyes. Connect with the mark, make them believe.
His eyes were hazel and a bit small for his face, close together but saved from seeming beady by thick, almost feminine lashes.
Shit, but she needed to focus. The drug haze clouded her brain and she just wanted to sleep now that she was warm again. Delilah took another deep drag of the cigarette.
The bartender came over, set down a beer and a tall glass full of fizzy pink liquid. He then poured a shot of vodka, bottom shelf stuff Delilah was sure, and nodded to Sam.
So, Sam had a tab. That was good. She’d already guessed he was a regular since Evie knew his name. A tab meant he could pay up, which meant he had money on him. But she’d focus on that twenty first. Then maybe she’d set her sights on whatever was in his wallet, and finally, on the Camry he drove.
The keys beckoned to her but she forced herself to stick to script. Money first. Then car. Then she could flee, get back out onto the open road and say see-ya to Florida. Maybe forever. Screw this State anyway.
“Want to play a game, Sam?” Delilah leaned in, giving him a nice view of her perky breasts inside the thin blue lace of her bra. She bit into the cherry she’d pulled out of her Shirley Temple and twisted it off at the stem.
He swallowed. “What kind of game?”
“Stupid bar game. Here, give me that twenty and your empty bottle there.” She laughed, keeping it light, friendly.
Sam raised his eyebrows at her but did as she asked. Delilah took a deep breath, hiding it by letting the air slip slowly out of her lungs as she exhaled. She didn’t want to push this too much, too fast. That would ruin the con, break the rapport she was trying to build.
But she hurt and the bar was fuzzy from the drugs, her mind hazy and slow. She leaned into the cool metal rail edging the bar and prayed for the dexterity to pull off this simple trick.
“Okay, Sam,” she said with an exaggerated wink she hoped looked silly and fun instead of just stupid. “The way it works is this.” She put the twenty flat on the bar and balanced the beer bottle upside down on it. “We each try to pull the bill out without tipping over or touching the bottle. Winner keeps the bill and buys the next round.” She made sure to make a yanking motion with her hand as she explained. It was always good to give unspoken cues that might induce the mark to do the wrong thing.
“You’ve done this before,” he said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, okay, you got me.” She put her hand on his arm and leaned in again. “I’ll give you three tries. Come on, can’t you beat a girl?”
Sam shook his head. His face was flushed, a good sign. He shifted and examined the bottle. Then, carefully, he used two fingers to try to slide the twenty out. The bottle wobbled and then fell over.
“Any tips?” Sam looked sideways at her.
“Nope. That would be cheating.” Delilah picked up her shot of vodka and held it up in salute. “Try again.” She took the shot but held the alcohol in her mouth.
Sam set the bottle up again and stared down at it. With his attention elsewhere, Delilah slowly spit the vodka into her Shirley Temple as she faked chasing the shot with a drink from the sickly sweet cherry soda.
The bottle clattered to the floor as Sam failed again.
“Third time is the charm,” Delilah said.
“Sure.” Sam set it back up and this time almost got the bill out. He slid it carefully, letting the bottle stabilize after wobbling, but the bottle finally tipped over again.
“Let me show you how it’s done.” Delilah leaned in over Sam and set the game back up.
“Go on, Lia.” Sam took a long drink of his beer. “But you only get one try.”
Delilah flexed her fingers. Her hands were shaking a little, which was bad. Don’t fuck this up, she told herself. Losing here might be a good strategy, get the mark all confident that this was just a silly game, but she didn’t have time for a lot of games tonight.
She carefully rolled the edge of the twenty up and then kept rolling it until it hit the bottle. Keeping her fingers away from the bottle, she continued slowly rolling the bill, sliding the bottle along a bit at a time until finally the rolled twenty slid out from under the bottle.
“Just got to think outside the box,” she said, holding up her rolled twenty with a grin.
“Damn. You got me.” Sam smiled at her and pulled out another clove.
“I’ll show you some more tricks, they’re good for parties. After we get another round, right? My treat now.” Delilah took the clove from his fingers and took a drag before slipping it back between Sam’s lips.
His body was turned toward her now, his posture forward, his pupils dilated. All good signs. She had him hooked, now to reel the man in. The painkillers had kicked in fully now and Delilah felt all right. Fuzzy, but better. She was in her element now, safe and sound.
The TV above Sam’s head at the end of the bar, the one with a news channel playing, caught her attention for a second as a picture flashed onto the screen.
It was a driver’s license photo, blown up. And underneath it, the captions flowing past said things like “wanted” and “murder”.
It was Donna Utley’s license, blonde-haired Donna. Blonde Delilah. She stared up over Sam’s head at her own face and felt the world closing in again, tighter and tighter.
Seventeen
Delilah’s hands started to shake again. She glanced wildly about, imaging that every pair of eyes in the cozy bar had turned and focused on her. No one was looking at her except Sam.
He leaned toward her. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She smiled at him, wondering how he couldn’t hear the crazy pounding of her heart. Her eyes went back to the screen above his head. Her picture was still there.
“Something on TV?” Sam started to turn his head but Delilah quickly grabbed his arm and brought his attention back onto her.
“Nah, I just think the vodka has run right through me,” she said. She slipped the twenty into her pocket and got off the bar stool. “I’ll be right back, order the next round.”
“You okay?” Sam’s eyes narrowed. Damn, she was losing him.
Stop panicking, Dee. “Totally.” She leaned into him, letting her breasts brush his arm, and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “You have already made my night better.” With a hand behind his back, she gripped his keys and brought them off the bar in a quick motion, hoping her grasp was tight enough that they wouldn’t jingle.
“Back in a sec, hero,” she said and quickly stepped away from the bar, heading to the bathrooms.
Walking fast hurt, the muscles in her abdomen p
ulling on the stitches, but she couldn’t slow down. She had to get out. Peanut shells crunched beneath her sandals and she thought she heard someone call out.
Delilah didn’t look back. She walked right by the bathrooms and out the rear exit, glancing for an alarm again before pressing down on the bar to open the fire door. No alarm light, and no sound when she opened it.
Then she was out in the rain and open air. Free.
The rain was down to a misting sprinkle now. She pulled up her hood and picked out the ignition key for the Camry. There was a remote door opener as well, and she pressed it twice, watching for lights in the parking lot. There, not far from the door. Good.
The two men were still smoking and messing around with the motorcycle across the lot, but Delilah ignored them. She’d be away in just a moment.
She got into the driver’s seat of the silver Camry. Sam’s car was messier than she’d expected. Empty wrappers and coffee cups were scattered on the passenger side floor. The tree-shaped air freshener labeled “Applewoods” laid a thick fruit and Pinesol layer over the stale cigarette, coffee, and potato chip scent that greeted her as she adjusted the seat for a shorter driver. She’d adjust the mirrors once she was on the highway.
Key into ignition, lights and windshield wipers on. The gas gauge said it was three-quarters full and Delilah hoped that was true. That and the twenty might be enough to get her to Atlanta. Camry’s got good mileage generally. Another automatic transmission. Delilah sighed. Nobody drove a stick shift anymore. Lazy people.
She started up the car. The two men across the lot were moving toward her, waving their arms. What was this? She hadn’t checked the tires. If one were flat she was going to cry. Just break down and sob. Damnit.
Then she heard the shout and glanced to the side to see Sam coming at the car, fast. He had something in his hand. Something small and shiny. He slammed the thing against the passenger window.