“Can I help you?” I asked once he’d come to a stop beside me.
Hands on his knees, he panted for a few moments before speaking. “You can’t just walk in here, lady. You need to sign in at the…” He raised his head, and his eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh! Tess!”
I knew at once who he was. It was the second time I’d seen him that week. “Anatolya!”
He straightened up and pulled me into a hug. “Tess McBray! I don’t believe it. How long has it been, girl?”
“Since I’ve seen you, or since we talked? Because I saw you at The Fox rally the other day.”
He let out a whoop of laugher. “Seriously? What a small world. I wish you’d said hi.”
“It was a crazy day. You looked busy.”
Just like at the rally, I was struck by how different he’d grown up to be than I’d assumed. I’d figured he’d look just like his dad—a tall beanpole of a man, slaving away in the kitchen at the family restaurant. Instead, I was standing in the shadow of a burly giant. And even if he hadn’t been wearing the brown uniform of a security guard, I would’ve assumed that was his job. That or maybe a professional wrestler or a nightclub bouncer.
He pushed his cap back on his forehead and cast his eyes up and down my short frame. “It’s been a long fifteen years, huh? What’re you doing here now? Looking for a job? I could put in a word.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m looking for Bruce Fabiano.”
Anatolya furrowed his brow. “Bruce? He’s your brother-in-law, right?”
Good. He knew him. That would make this easier. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Why are you looking for him here?”
“Because he works here.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Anatolya said, shaking his head. His brown hair, pulled back into a long ponytail, slapped each of his shoulders as he did so. “Not anymore, anyway.”
Holy crap. He must’ve gotten fired since the last time I saw him. And when Bethany announced they have a baby on the way, the stress of not having a job and having to pay all those medical bills…
“When did he get fired?” I asked.
“Oh, he didn’t get fired. He quit.”
My eyebrows tried to join forces with my hairline. “He quit? When?”
“Gee, it must’ve been…” Anatolya looked up at the sky and pursed his lips. “About three years now.”
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Bruce had told me explicitly that he still worked here. He’d even said he was a supervisor now. Why was he lying? Was he working at all? How were they affording their house payments?
“It was before I started,” Anatolya went on, “but that guy is a legend around here. Everybody knows about him.”
“Legend?”
“Yeah. I don’t know whether to believe the stories or not, but everybody says he used to come into work drunk every day and stay out partying all night after his shift ended. Nobody knew when he slept, but somehow, he managed to keep up his production quotas. Guy was like a machine. That’s what they call it now, when you finish a shift drunk and manage to hang on to your job. ‘Pulling a Bruce.’”
I stared. Anatolya was talking about Bruce almost wistfully, his voice full of awe. Respect. Without intending to, I took a step back from him.
“Does that happen a lot?” I asked.
Anatolya shrugged. I found the gesture annoying, like he didn’t think showing up to work when you’re completely wasted was anything to get upset about.
“Happens enough to have a name, I guess,” he said. “Anyway, everybody had all this money on Bruce, betting on when he’d finally do something unforgivable enough to get fired for, betting on what he’d do. I guess he got a DUI and they figured that’d be it, since you can’t drive a forklift if you can’t even be trusted to drive a car. But then he marched in and quit a few days later.” Anatolya gave a low chuckle. “The chalkboard is still up in the break room off the main floor. Whoever was running that game hustled everyone good.”
“Do you have any idea where he went after that?”
Anatolya shook his head again. “No idea. Somewhere close by, I think. I saw him last month, and—”
“Where?” I interrupted. “Where did you see him?”
“At Bilgewater,” he said. “The bar on Blackfin Street. Pretty much everybody here goes there after the second shift.”
“Okay. And you saw him there last month?”
Anatolya nodded. “He was buying rounds of shots for everybody. Wherever he went after this, seems like it pays him okay. I’m kind of jealous, actually.”
Anatolya talked about Bruce like he was someone worth looking up to, and my jaw ached from clenching it.
“Do you think I could find him there?”
“Maybe. You’d probably have better luck catching him there than here.” Anatolya shot me a grin. “And hey, if you’re going to be there later tonight, maybe I could buy you a drink? For old time’s sake?”
A tendril of dread crept into my stomach, surprising me. My mouth flapped open and closed a few times while I formulated a polite rejection.
“I’m actually going to head over there right now,” I told him. “Just in case the bartender knows where to find him or something.”
Inwardly, I cringed. It hadn’t been a yes, but it hadn’t been a no, either. Anatolya was apparently an optimist, because his expression relaxed into a lazy grin, and he shrugged again.
“Some other night, I guess.”
“Yeah. Well, see you around.”
Waving goodbye, I turned around and began walking back to the street. If Anatolya had noticed a difference between my warm hello and my frosty farewell, he didn’t say anything.
How could he not notice? I thought, cringing on the outside this time. You were a perfect ice queen. What’d he do to deserve that?
I didn’t have an answer. I’d always liked Anatolya when we were kids. Back then, I’d assumed we’d grow up and get married. I’d looked forward to the day when his Spiderman action figures would become our Spiderman action figures. But back then, I’d developed a crush on anyone I met.
Looking at him now, I felt no attraction whatsoever. It was a strange thing to realize, because not five minutes ago I’d been ogling his bodybuilder physique and thinking back to our childish romance beneath the trees. He’d grown up, that was for sure, but he wasn’t as good-looking as, say, Reed.
Reed. I shook my head. I wanted to think about Reed, to dwell on the little electric shocks that seemed to accompany every touch we shared. But there was a face in my mind that pushed out everything else, and as I imagined her, I saw her crying out in pain, holding out one hand to ward off Bruce’s attacks and using the other to protectively cradle the unborn child in her stomach.
My hands hardened back into fists of steel as I turned the corner onto Blackfin Street. I ached to find Bruce and show him what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a beating. Reed would just have to wait.
The stale stench of day-old beer greeted me when I pulled open the quilted door of Bilgewater Lounge. Bruce’s favorite haunt was a far different place from the chic, hipster-filled Tavern Bethany had dragged me to. Daylight filtered weakly through a few shallow windows near the ceiling, illuminating the mismatched selection of tables and chairs that filled the large room. Broken peanut shells littered the floor, crunching beneath my feet as I approached the bar. The place was next to empty on a Monday morning; only a few dedicated drunkards slumped against the scratched bar, clutching steins of flat ale.
There was no bartender in sight, so I chose a wobbly stool at the middle of the bar and waited. Two seats away, a man with red, piggish eyes lifted his head from between his folded arms and glanced at me. I must not have been the person he was expecting, because his eyes widened and he quickly lowered his head once more.
A soccer game was playing on a tiny television set, but the sound was muted. No music played. The whole place was eerily silent, and the thick layer of grime on the b
ar’s top made me gag. I pulled out my mittens and put them on. The thought of accidentally absorbing anything in this place and letting it become my skin was too disgusting to risk.
A middle-aged woman in a black leather halter top emerged from a closed door behind the bar. She scowled and headed straight for me.
“I think you’re in the wrong place, sweetheart.” She had the voice of someone who’d been living on cigarettes and whiskey for the better part of three decades. “You gotta be twenty-one to drink here, and we don’t have none of those fancy frozen cocktails.”
I bristled. “Oh, I’m covered, honey.” Reaching into my purse, I pulled out my driver’s license and held it in front of her face. “Had my birthday six months ago. I’ll take whatever you’ve got on tap.”
She grunted, produced a cloudy stein from somewhere beneath the bar, and poured me a beer. I’m not exactly an expert, but even I noticed she held the stein perfectly upright so my beer was mostly head, and that the glass wasn’t cloudy by design. Ick. Instead of commenting on it, I put enough cash to cover the drink and a healthy tip and said, “I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh?” She raised a penciled-on eyebrow. “You won’t find no sugar daddies here.”
There was no question about it. She was trying to get a rise out of me. What the hell have I done to her? I wondered. Besides being twenty years her junior? I wanted to make a comment about her leathery skin, but decided to save that for after she’d given me what I needed.
“Bruce Fabiano,” I told her. “Seen him lately?”
The bartender’s eyes flashed, and I expected her to nod and tell me they were good friends or something. Instead, she shook her head and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. She poured herself a shot, tossed it back, and went back to glaring at me. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m his sister-in-law.” I decided to blur the truth a little bit. “I just moved back to Weyland, but I don’t know where he and my sister are living, and I can’t get ahold of them by phone. I remember him saying he likes to come here. Do you know where I can find him?”
Two stools down, Pig Eyes started coughing. He jerked his head up and barked into the air, not bothering to cover his mouth. Bits of spit erupted into the space above him, glistening in the weak light from the windows.
I scooted over a stool, not bothering to be subtle about creating more distance between myself and the viral volcano, and left my beer where it was.
Once his fit had subsided, he pulled out a white square of fabric and spat greenish mucous into it. With an apologetic wince at the bartender, he stuffed his handkerchief into his jacket pocket and lay his head back down.
The bartender poured herself another shot, apparently unconcerned by the billions of germs that were now floating down onto her collection of glassware. “Sorry, sister. Can’t help you.”
“Do you know anybody else I could ask? I’m really desperate.”
She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest.
“You don’t know anything that could help me?” I pressed. “Who he drinks with when he’s here?”
“Nope.”
Her mouth was set in a hard line of finality. My tip apparently wasn’t enough to get her on my side, and I regretted spending so much on my fox attire at the rally. If I were rich, I could’ve pulled twenties out of my pocket—one bill after the other—until she decided it was enough money to just tell me where that dick Bruce was hiding out.
I didn’t get it. Was she playing dumb? She definitely knew who Bruce was. I could feel it. And this place was a dive; I didn’t imagine hundreds of different faces passed through here every night.
There must be regulars, I thought. Drunks like Pig Eyes down there who call this place home.
That was it. I wasn’t going to get anywhere with the cranky bartender, but maybe I could find somebody here when it was more crowded. Maybe one of Bruce’s former co-workers would be here later, and I could get some information.
Not bothering to taste the germ-ridden beer fizzing away on the bar, I slid off the stool and headed for the door. This isn’t a dead end, I told myself. Tonight, I’ll get some answers.
The difference between Bilgewater during the day and Bilgewater at night was… well, night and day. Heavy music poured out the open door of the bar so loudly that I could hear it before I even rounded the corner from the train station. The sidewalk in front of the bar was crowded with smokers, so I traded in the stink of the fish port for the burn of tobacco.
The bar was busy enough in the evening to need a bouncer, and he looked back and forth between my ID and my face fourteen times before letting me inside. I’d changed into the same low-cut blouse I’d bought for my ill-fated date with Will. I might not have enough money to bribe anyone into talking, but I was young and reasonably cute. That had to count for something, and I hoped somebody in there would get flirty enough to share some information with me.
Once the bouncer decided I was, in fact, the same Tess McBray who was listed as twenty-one on the ID card, he stepped aside so I could pass through the door and squeeze my way into the packed space. Behind him, the bar was full of dock workers and Belladonna employees, all looking to unwind after long shifts. Colorful spotlights played across a dance floor in front of a low stage, where a rock band was blaring something loud, fast, and full of shrill guitar solos.
I checked the bar and was relieved to see that the surly woman from earlier in the day was gone, replaced by a trio of paper-thin girls around my own age who probably made more in one night of tips than I did in an entire week at the call center. I chose one of the few empty seats at the bar, ordered a Stella—in a bottle, for safety—and took off my coat, hoping my exposed shoulders might act like some kind of beacon.
To my complete and utter shock, they did.
Moments after I took my first sip of the beer, a man squeezed between me and the crowd to my right. I glanced down at his gray twill shirt, which had Belladonna’s blue fish logo and the name “Ian” embroidered over the pocket.
Bingo.
“Hey, gorgeous. Meeting somebody?” Ian shot me a lopsided grin and leered at me through heavily-lidded eyes. He was shouting, but I could barely hear him over the music.
I tilted my head and smiled at him. “Close,” I shouted back. “Looking for somebody.”
“I’ll save you some time, sweetheart. Whoever he is, he ain’t here. Now me, on the other hand…” He rested a hand on my knee.
My grip around my beer bottle tightened, and I gasped as I felt my fingertips begin to absorb the cold glass. I squeezed my eyes shut until the sensation subsided. The last thing I needed right now was to turn into something as fragile as that. The second-to-last thing I needed was this lecher misinterpreting my gasp for pleasure… which, of course, he did.
“Feeling okay, there?” he said, winking at me. “If you’re tired, I know a place you could lay down.”
Trying to play it casual, I crossed one leg over the other and dislodged his hand. Forcing a laugh, I waggled my fingers at him. “Oh, you dog.”
“Seriously.” Ian leaned toward me. His breath smelled like onion rings. “Why don’t you and I get outta here?”
His hand found his way to my knee again, and I gritted my teeth. Losing all patience for playing some kind of coy long game, I cut to the chase.
“Actually, I have something I need to do first,” I told him, allowing him to touch my leg for the time being. “Do you know Bruce Fabiano?”
He sneered and yanked his hand off me. “Don’t tell me you’re one of his girls.”
One of his girls? What the hell does that mean?
I forced another laugh, hoping to cover my ignorance. “He’s my brother-in-law. I can’t seem to get a hold of the mutt. Know where I can find him?”
Ian narrowed his eyes. His gaze was suddenly sharp, and his sloppy drunk exterior was gone. “What do you want with him?”
“I want to see him. And my sister.” I used the same white l
ie I’d told the bartender earlier. “I just moved back here and haven’t been able to connect with them.”
“Can’t help you, kid. Now get out of here. This isn’t your scene.” Ian pushed himself back from the bar and slipped into the crowd.
I stared after him. What had just happened? Like the bartender, he obviously knew Bruce but wasn’t willing to share information about him, not even to family. Did they sense I was lying, or think I was lying about how I knew him?
Turning back to the bar, I sipped at my beer and mulled over everything I knew about Bruce. Aside from his drinking problems and the way he treated Bethany, it didn’t add up to much. And speaking of math, how was he paying his bills without a job? Did he gamble? Maybe he owed somebody money, and that’s who Ian and the bartender were afraid of. Watching myself in the mirror on the back-bar, I decided it wasn’t likely. I looked like a little kid wearing her mommy’s clothes and makeup. No way would anybody think I was tough enough to be working for a loan shark.
Whatever I was doing, it wasn’t working. Not fast enough, anyway. While I sat here nursing a beer and trying to figure out how to flirt answers out of somebody, Bethany was in trouble. I didn’t have the time for subtlety.
In the mirror’s reflection, I scanned the crowd. I couldn’t pick Ian out in the packed space, but there were a handful of guys wearing the same light gray work shirts, all sitting at a large table to one side of the stage. I watched the group until one of them got up and headed toward the restrooms.
Slipping off my barstool, I followed him down a long, narrow hallway. The music from the stage was muffled somewhat, but the pounding bass continued to rumble in my feet. He stepped into the men’s room, and I waited for him in the green light of a glowing EXIT sign halfway down the hall.
The song ended and I heard the singer mumble something to the crowd. Cheering. Laughter. Then, the band struck up again. I kept waiting, staring at the faded blue sign on the men’s room door. That song ended, too, and the Belladonna employee still didn’t come out of the bathroom.
Solstice Survivors_Book 1_Superhero Syndrome Page 13