Something's Cooking

by Joanne Pence

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  Surprise flickered in his eyes, then he laughed. “You’re new here?”

  “That’s right.”

  His eyes raked her body and then met her glance. “Maybe we can talk?”

  “Maybe. Later. I’d like to check out the scene, you know?”

  “She’s from San Jose,” Rachel said. Angie assumed this was an explanation of her hopelessly dated patois.

  The man nodded. “Okay, Star. Check it out. But anybody asks, you tell them to see Fish.”

  Angie gulped and forced a smile, and then moved away from the two, blindly heading toward the bar. It suddenly occurred to her that it might be considerably more difficult getting out of this place than it had been getting in. Her heart beat faster.

  The bartender handed her a Chivas Regal on the rocks. “It’s from Fish,” he said.

  Angie lifted the glass in the man’s direction and nodded her head slightly in thanks. He returned the gesture. She took a large sip of the amber liquid. It was just what she needed to calm her nerves. It went down smoothly, warming her. She moved away from the bar toward the band.

  Crane had to be here, he absolutely had to. She slowly wandered through the room, looking at the men, hoping that she’d see him. She didn’t.

  On the other side of the room, she spotted the rest rooms and went into the one marked Women. It was filthy and windowless—no escape here. She hurried out again and stood beside the door, trying to figure out what to do.

  Rachel came up to her and looked at the door next to Angie. “This is always such a hard choice, honey,” she said. Then, to Angie’s astonishment, Rachel walked into the men’s room.

  Angie found a chair and sat in it with a thud. She took a long sip of her scotch. What she had just seen explained everything about the strange way Rachel acted and sounded. But it also gave her an idea: with Crane’s high voice and small build, what better way to hide?

  Angie downed the scotch and then stood, feeling just a little wobbly. Slowly, she made her way across the room, scrutinizing every woman—or possible woman—in the place.

  It was the voice that gave him away. Angie knew she would recognize that voice if she ever heard it again, and she did. She turned around, stepping back into the shadows as her gaze fixed on the body with Edward G. Crane’s voice. It was him, wearing a short, red-haired wig in a shag cut, a glittery black and silver dress with a turtleneck and long sleeves, nylons, and high heels. Angie felt sick. She stumbled toward the bar and asked for another drink. It was too much, too crazy. She longed to be suddenly whisked away from all this and safe at home again.

  “You ready to talk yet, babe?”

  Her fingers tightened on the glass as she felt something press against her shoulder and looked down. Fish’s long, thin finger rested lightly on it, causing a chill to creep along her back. “Not yet.” Her voice was breathless.

  “You’re wasting time, you know. Fish don’t like that.” His long razorlike fingernail trailed from her shoulder down her arm.

  Her stomach curled, but she smiled, trying to hide the quaking she felt. She had to keep on his good side so she could sneak out of here when the opportunity arose, if ever. “Let me finish my drink, okay? I’ll come find you.” She took a big sip, feeling the whiskey’s fire all the way to the pit of her stomach.

  He gave her a long, hard stare and then gestured for the bartender to fill up her glass. He watched as she drank a little more. “Fifteen minutes,” he ordered and then walked away.

  Her hand trembled as she faced the bar, cold perspiration breaking out on her upper lip. The hard liquor was making her dizzy. She had to get out of this hellhole.

  When she turned toward the crowd again, Fish had disappeared. There must be a back exit, she reasoned, a means of escape.

  Squinting to see through the smoke and haze that filled the room, she spotted a door in one corner and prayed it didn’t lead to a closet. Now she just had to get to it. An empty table in front of the door gave her an idea.

  There were always any number of men looking at any woman standing alone at a bar. She checked over the men and made her choice—a small one, thirtyish, scruffy and dirty, clearly under the influence—a man she thought she could handle.

  She let go of the bar, swaying dizzily, and then approached him. She cast him a look guaranteed to rattle his teeth. “Me?” he mouthed.

  She nodded.

  He moved toward her as she slipped her arm in his. “Why don’t we go find a nice table for two?” she murmured.

  “Sure,” his diction was slurred. As he tried to walk he stumbled a bit, so she gripped his waist, and he slung an arm over her shoulders, pulling her close to him. She had to hold her breath to keep from gagging from the fumes of a long night’s bout of drinking.

  He threw his other arm across her chest as she tried to maneuver him toward the table and began to nuzzle at her ear. His hand slipped lower. She pushed it away, but he clutched her against him with far more strength than she had expected him to possess. Disgusting suggestions of intimacy were whispered in her ear, his hands moving freely over her body as she struggled to control him. Relentlessly, though, she managed to move him toward the back door.

  Suddenly, they were pushed apart. Fish figured out my plan, she thought. Stumbling, she tried to run when she was grabbed again, this time spun around so that she faced her assailant—Paavo. She nearly fell over, out of surprise and from the influence of the whiskey.

  Angie’s drunken friend, in the meantime, was loudly decrying Paavo’s legitimacy.

  “The lady made a mistake,” Paavo said quietly, palming a crumpled ten-dollar bill into the man’s hand. He staggered away without another word.

  Paavo then turned to face Angie. He didn’t touch her. His stance remained nonchalant for the benefit of the roomful of people watching them, but his eyes blazed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was hushed, but tense and furious.

  “Nothing! I—”

  “Nothing!” In one fluid motion he had all but scooped her up and led her to the empty table.

  “Sit down before you fall down. You’re drunk,” he said, his teeth clenched as his hand clamped tightly on her wrist. “Look at you! These are pimps, junkies. How in the hell did you get in here?”

  “I didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re implying!” Her eyes smarted. “I was looking for you. I was worried about you, and scared!”

  “Keep your voice down,” he warned, his look softening as he listened to her words. He let go of her and then shook his head, angry again. “My God, woman, don’t you realize the danger?”

  Her head felt clouded and dizzy as she looked at him. She had found Crane—she had done it!—and now here Paavo was to help her get away, but he had turned on her like an adversary.

  He watched her wordlessly, his face stony, his eyes emotionless. She couldn’t bear it. She reached out to stroke his thin, noble face, but he caught her hand in a crushing grip and flung it back to the table.

  “We’re being watched,” he said, and she felt the glances upon them. “Let’s dance.”

  He grasped her hand, pulling her to the dance floor as the band played a slow, swirling cacophony of sound with a heavy metal beat. He took her roughly into his arms. She wrapped both of hers around his neck, a shudder of relief going through her body as she let herself melt against him. His expression showed irritation, almost pain as he clutched her. She felt the tension in his body as they danced, but also his desire for her.

  He pushed her away, keeping inches between them, while continuing the dance. “You know I should wring your neck,” he said.

  “Yes.” She paused. “But before you do, I found Crane.”

  His step faltered. “You what?”

  “He’s here. In drag.”

  “Drag? No wonder I couldn’t find him!”

  As they turned around the dance floor Angie pointed out which “lady” Crane was.

  “You�
�re sure?” Paavo asked, grimacing.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s been here each night. If only I’d known. Damn!”

  “We need to follow him.”

  “He—she—stayed till dawn the last couple of nights. I’ve got time to get you out of here first.”

  “That might not be so easy. There’s this guy called Fish who appointed himself my pimp.”

  Paavo let out a sardonic snort. Angie was not amused.

  “Let’s go.” Unsmiling, he put his arm around her waist and headed for the door.

  Fish met them halfway. “You leaving, Star?”

  “Just give me ten minutes,” she said.

  Paavo looked shocked. Then he nuzzled her neck. “That’s all? What do you think I am? I should get at least twenty.”

  “You don’t go nowhere with the lady till I say so.” Fish studied Paavo.

  “How much for you to say so?” he asked.

  Fish pursed his lips. “Fifty.”

  “For her? Ten.”

  “Forty.”

  “Twenty.”

  Fish looked slowly at Angie, head to toe, then back again. He shrugged. “Deal.”

  Paavo handed him the money. “Hey, that’s mine,” Angie reached for it.

  “When you come back, babe. When you come back.” Fish put the cash in his pocket and walked away.

  “Thank God we’re out of there!” Angie sighed with relief as they went through the exit to the alley.

  “I’ll get you a cab back to my place.”

  She hurried to keep up with his long strides. The cold, impassive inspector was back, and Paavo, friend and lover, was gone. She hadn’t heard from the inspector for a while—not since Bodega Bay, the last time Paavo had been deeply upset by her.

  The street glistened with dampness from the night fog and echoed with their footsteps. The brick walls of the alley took on an eerie shine above the layers of old exhaust smoke. The pungent garbage smell around them mixed with the saltiness of the night air.

  “Why are you angry?” she cried, running and stumbling, trying to ignore the way the scotch made her feel. She grabbed his sleeve to stop him from going farther.

  His look blackened. “I don’t like, and I don’t need, you putting yourself in danger to help me.”

  “If you were worried about me,” she cried, “then tell me you care! Don’t shut me out.”

  He looked at her and she dropped her hands, but her heart pounded. She didn’t understand what was wrong.

  “I do care,” he said.

  He turned away from her and resumed walking. She followed close behind, the echoes of her footsteps matching the hollowness within her body. She pulled off the wig, that stupid blond mess, and toyed with it. Her voice, when she found it, was tiny, childlike. “Really?” she asked.

  He spun toward her, gripping her shoulders, his face contorted with inner turmoil. “What are you trying to do?”

  “I just want to help you, to be with you.”

  “I don’t need your help. I want you to leave me alone!”

  “Paavo!”

  “I’ll get you a cab.”

  “I don’t want a cab!”

  “What do you want then? What do you want from me? I’ve got nothing to offer you, Angie. Nothing! Not much money, few friends, and little time to find any, either. I can’t even remember the last time I went to a party.”

  She was shocked. “I don’t want your money! And I don’t even like parties. What are you talking about?”

  His voice grew soft and his eyes, intense. “You can have anything you want, do anything you want. I can’t. Don’t make it harder on me than it is.”

  She stopped walking, unable to believe she had heard him right. Then she remembered something he had once told her. He had likened her to his sister, who had liked to go off and have good times. One of his few memories of his mother was of her getting dressed up and going away from him. And Angie, too, had talked to him about her dates, the theater, and using her money to run from any danger. But she had never dreamed how he would see it.

  She ran to him, grabbed his sleeve, and made him turn and face her. He looked surprised as their eyes met. “I don’t want to leave you.” Her voice caught. “Nothing else matters.”

  “Because you’ve always had everything else.” He jerked his arm free and continued down the street.

  At the corner, he stopped beside a lamppost and stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, watching her as she neared him.

  She reached his side. The street was absolutely silent. The streetlamp cast its pale glow down on them. He said nothing as she stood breathlessly watching him, waiting, knowing he was carefully weighing her words and praying that he would believe her.

  “You won’t listen, will you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He reached his hand toward her, lightly touching her hair, and then rested it against the back of her head, its slight pressure bringing her closer to him. His lips brushed hers, he drew back, and then he kissed her again. His hand moved to her cheek as he lifted her face, holding it mere inches away, gazing into her eyes. His lips parted as if to speak, but he couldn’t. When he finally found his voice, it was husky, filled with tenderness. “Angel,” he whispered, “the well-named little Angel.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, put her arms around his shoulders, and lay her head against his neck. His arms held her close as he kissed her hair and forehead, his fingers running over her body and finally grasping her hair. He gently brought her head back, and his lips found hers in a long kiss, a real kiss.

  He broke it off and searched her face. “I’ve got to send you back to my place.”

  “There’s a couple hours until dawn.”

  Despite himself, she saw a hint of a smile in his granite expression. “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  “Your room?”

  “This way, m’lady, or—” his eyes sparkled mischievously as he draped an arm over her shoulders and tucked her against his side “—should I call you Star?”

  “A real comedian, aren’t you?” She scowled, snuggling beside him where she knew she belonged.

  He chuckled to himself as he led her to a cheap hotel and up the stairs to his room.

  “Will you stop laughing!” she said finally. “It wasn’t that funny.”

  “That’s not what I’m laughing about.”

  “No? What then?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll be insulted.”

  “Insulted? That’s nonsense. I never get insulted!”

  “All right,” he said. “Angie, for a hooker, your price is really cheap.”

  She let out a squawk of outrage, and he collapsed on the bed, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. She climbed on top of him. “Laugh at me, will you! You should be taught a lesson.”

  He laughed harder, rolling to his side. “By you and what army?”

  She tugged at him until he rolled onto his back. His laughter stopped, replaced by an all-too-sexy smile as she began to unbutton his shirt. “I should simply take that taxi you threatened to put me in,” she said. “But that would punish me, too.”

  He lifted his shoulders off the bed as she removed his shirt and undershirt, and then he lay down again. Still sitting on his hips, she ran her hands over his chest.

  “Leaving me would be a punishment to you, too, would it?” he asked, his fingers inching up her thighs to the hem of her miniskirt. “Hearing an admission like that’ll make me swell-headed.”

  “As I sit here, Inspector Smith, I can tell something’s getting swollen—and your head has nothing to do with it.”

  He laughed. “Ah, Angie love, whatever will I do once you’ve gone from me?”

  Her heart twisted as if it would break in two. She could feel her face crumble. She stood up quickly, needing to separate herself from him, to not look at him, not touch him, in order to regain control. She looked at herself in
the mirror that hung over the dresser against the far wall. With the clothes and makeup, she looked like a clown—an ugly, garish clown.

  He approached her, and she turned away, lowering her head so he couldn’t see her face. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. She felt lost as she allowed her head to loll back against his shoulder. He ran his hands over her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders, and then cupped her breasts as his breath blew hot against her neck.

  Her breasts grew taut and hard under his fingers, and she pressed back against him. He slid his hands along her sides, her hips, then under the brief mini she wore. Her body went weak. “I don’t want to leave you, Paavo,” she whispered. “Not ever.” Her eyes shut. She could feel his arousal pressing against her.

  “Soon you’ll be free of worry and fear, Angie. Free to do as you please.”

  She turned in his arms, keeping her arms tight against her sides, her voice low. “I know what I please. You. I love you.”

  “Don’t Angie.”

  “Paavo!” She touched his hair. Her hand went to his face, his bent nose, his lips. But his countenance was hard.

  “Don’t.”

  She squared her shoulders and moved away from him. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  He took her hands. “You have a million and one rich men after you. You don’t really want one poor cop.”

  She shut her eyes. “I don’t?”

  “You’ll forget about me in a matter of days—hours, maybe.”

  That stung. “You really think I’m so shallow, Paavo?”

  His eyes were so soft, so caring, her anger at him vanished. “You live in a sunny glow, Angie. I’d only cast a shadow over everything you know and love.” As he lifted the palms of her hands to his lips, tears filled her eyes. This would be goodbye, then. He had made up his mind. This was where it would end. Crane would be caught, and she’d be free to go back to the life she had led before this happened.

  She dropped her arms to her sides, and he slowly slid his hands down her arms until they caught her fingers and interlaced.

  She raised her face and he lowered his, tipping his head to one side so that their lips met. She closed her eyes, her tears spilling over, her fingers tightening on his until they ached. His kiss was soft, light as he traced her lips with his tongue.