by Ken Douglas
“No, we never fight.” Maggie climbed up on the barstool Nick had vacated.
“The usual.” He set a rum and Coke in front of her. That’s what made him so good. He remembered you, remembered your drink. You didn’t have to order here, Richard knew what you wanted before you did and he had it down on the bar before you could raise your hand for his attention. He knew your limit, too. No drunks allowed in the Menopause Lounge.
“You read my mind.” Maggie picked up her drink.
“I got a good shoulder if you need it,” he said.
“I’m okay. I’m just gonna nurse this and wile away the time till Gordon gets here.”
“Alright, but you wanna talk, gimme a shout.”
“Thanks, Richard, I’ll remember that.” She sipped at the drink and Dick went to wait on a guy in a three piece suit who had just come in and sat at the opposite end of the bar.
She set the drink down, fished her iPhone from her bag and tapped on a contact.
“International Off Road Magazine,” Ron Cook, her boss, answered on the first ring.
“Somehow I knew I’d catch you there.”
“Maggie, you never call in on Saturday. What’s up?”
“I need some time off. A week, maybe two, starting now.”
“Kevin and Mike are both still on vacation, that’s gonna make it kind of rough around here.” Ron had a whine in his voice. He never said no, he just whimpered and acted hurt till he got his way. He didn’t want to give her the time, not now, and Maggie understood.
“I’ll do the Sara Hackett piece when I get back.”
“Enjoy your vacation.” All of a sudden he was Mr. Nice Guy. He’d been after her for over a year to do a story on Sara, till now she’d resisted. She hadn’t been ready, she still wasn’t, but she couldn’t hide from her fear, from Sara, forever.
“Thanks, Ron.” Maggie hung up.
She felt faint. She went into the restroom, splashed water on her face, then faced herself in the mirror. She closed her eyes and all of a sudden she was back in Borneo, the green jungle grabbing at her as she drove, foot on the floor with Sara shouting, telling her the road went left. Maggie cranked the wheel and saw the boy. She jerked the car to the right, lost control and the car slid into the child, killing him instantly. And she’d come apart. That was her last race. She’d walked away from the sport and now Sara, her navigator, was famous, one of the top drivers in a worldwide sport dominated by men, while Maggie worked at a magazine that wrote about it.
Nick, who at first loved the idea of being married to a race car driver, was glad she’d quit. He confessed to her that toward the end he’d been worried sick every time she shipped her car off to some exotic location. Well, he didn’t have to worry on that score anymore. Since that day, she hadn’t even driven above the speed limit and she probably never would again.
She’d told Ron racing was wrecking her marriage and he’d hired her on the spot. Her writing was good and she got along well with everybody at the magazine. They were a family, but at times she envied Sara. She’d been putting off doing the interview, not wanting to admit to herself that Sara was the star now, but those feelings didn’t seem to matter anymore, not with the baby coming.
Back at the bar, she saw Richard drop a couple of Buds in front of a young couple who looked like they’d just come in off the tennis court. They were sitting close, touchy feely, the way young lovers are. It had been a long time since she’d been like that with Nick in a public place.
Nick, what was he up to? He was an anchorman, not an investigative reporter. Maggie pictured the redhead. Nick said she had the fire. What did he mean by that? Maggie sipped at the drink. Bacardi Select, like butterscotch floating in Coke. Then she looked up, saw her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. God, she looked awful. She fought tears. What in the world had she been thinking? How could she ever have doubted Nick? She was the one who’d had the affair. The one who got pregnant. The one who was going to kill her baby.
Horace Nighthyde saw the sign above the door. “Millie’s Coffee Shop.”
“Come on.” He squeezed Virgil’s elbow, pointed him to the door. “We can’t stand out here forever.” The woman had just gone into the restaurant type bar across the street. They could sit and watch from a window table. Horace needed time to think, time to deal with Virgil, time to get himself together.
Inside the coffee shop, he took a quick look around. The place had an early American decor. The kind of restaurant that served biscuits and gravy for breakfast, more at home in New Orleans than Long Beach, but here it was, complete with waitresses in red gingham dresses. He saw a vacant booth by the window and went to it. Virgil slid in opposite him.
“Can I help you?” The waitress dropped menus on the table. Her silver hair was tinted with a blue rinse.
“Coffee,” Horace said.
“Yeah, coffee.” Virgil always ordered what Horace did, decisions made his head hurt.
“And two of these.” Horace pointed to a picture of a burger and fries on the laminated menu.
“What are you looking at?” Horace said as the waitress made her way to the lunch counter.
“Nothing.” Virgil took his eyes away from the waitress’s ass. Horace wondered if he’d ever had sex. Most likely not. For a second he wanted to ask, but he was afraid it would confuse Virgil and that was the last thing Horace wanted to do right now.
He looked out the window. He had a clear view of the entrance to the Menopause Lounge on the other side of the street. The thought of doing her made him want to puke. He couldn’t get those haunting blue eyes out of his mind. He had to do it eventually. He knew that. But it made him feel cheap, like less of a man.
If only she’d left it alone.
But she had to tell the cops what she saw. Striker said she’d been over to the police station looking at photos. They had a shit load of books down there, with thousands of pictures. Sooner or later she was gonna come across his. He was a lot younger when he’d been arrested, had short hair and no mustache, but the way they’d locked eyes in that stop-and-rob, Horace felt sure she’d recognize him.
Still, he hadn’t been able to kill her. Stalk her, yes. Kill her, no.
Horace shivered, blamed it on the air-conditioning. He felt good after he’d blown away the Jap, better when he found out who it was. Frankie Fujimori, a low life the planet could rotate very well without.
But when Striker told him he had to do the woman, he’d resisted, saying it wasn’t right, but Striker had threatened to bring in one of those Yakuza types his bosses at the construction company had hanging around all the time. Then Horace had to see it for what it was. A job, no more, no less. Besides, if he didn’t do it, it wouldn’t be no blonde those Yakuza fucks would be going after.
And when they came for him, there wouldn’t be a thing he could do about it. Striker had too many resources. He was untouchable. There was no going against him. So he’d stalked her, building his resolve, convincing himself he could do it. But when he was finally ready, she’d pulled a disappearing act. Now all of a sudden she pops up in the Safeway in the Shore. If he hadn’t seen her with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.
“It’s the woman you showed me in that newspaper, isn’t it?” Virgil said, interrupting his thoughts. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah, Virge, you were right. You did good.”
“I knew it.” Virgil was glowing with pride.
The waitress brought their burgers and fries. They ate in silence as Horace pondered the problem of the woman across the street. There was no way out of it. He was going to have to go over and see what was what, maybe do her in the bar if he got a chance. Maybe she’d go to the can. He could follow her in, cut her throat and be gone before anyone had a clue.
“She’s been over there long enough. I’m gonna go and serve the papers. I might be awhile, maybe a half hour.” Ma and Virgil thought he was a process server. He’d told them he worked for the DA and that his job was to f
ind and serve papers on difficult subjects, people who had the money and means to avoid a subpoena.
After all, he could hardly tell them what he really did for a living. He couldn’t tell anyone. It had started after he was arrested for a B and E all those years ago. Striker cut him a deal. Horace snitched on his friends and walked. But he was never free, Striker kept him on a short leash. When the man needed someone leaned on, he called Horace.
When a guy owed Striker money, a favor, information, anything, and didn’t deliver, Horace paid a visit to his wife and scared the shit out of her. It always worked. Horace had to give Striker his due, it was way better then breaking arms or busting heads. It was amazing how you could get a guy to do what you wanted by fucking with someone he loved.
Only once had he ever had to hurt anyone. Striker sent Horace after this guy’s kid brother, because the guy wasn’t married. But the bastard wouldn’t deliver, so Horace broke the brother’s arm. Fucker was kissing Striker’s ass the next day.
Horace sighed. Only once, till he’d blown away the dude in the stop-and-rob.
“I could help,” Virgil said, shaking Horace back to the here and now.
“You did help, Virge. You spotted her in the store. That was good.”
The big guy was all puffy, eyes wide with pride. Horace smiled at him. Virgil was five years older, but followed Horace around like a puppy dog, as if he were the younger brother and in some ways he was. Virgil had a memory like a trap, but he couldn’t read. He was dyslexic and slow, no more than eight or twelve in some ways, an old man in others.
“So, how come I have to stay while you finish the job?” Virgil squirmed in his seat. “You wouldn’t have found her if it wasn’t for me.” His eyes were begging.
“Virgil, when I serve papers, I’m an officer of the court. I’m deputized, like a policeman. We can’t have civilians helping us. In fact, if my boss knew I was here with you while I was about to serve papers on the woman over there, he would fire me. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“No.”
“So, although you helped, we gotta keep it secret or I could lose my job. You gotta sit here and be good till I get back. It’s important you stay in your seat and drink your coffee. Hey, I got an idea.” Horace raised his hand, got the waitress’s attention. She came over. She had her notebook out, pencil ready to write.
“You got hot cherry pie with ice cream?” Horace said.
“Yeah.”
“Make it a double helping for my brother here.”
“Really?” Virgil was drooling now.
“And if he wants anything else before I get back, bring it to him,” Horace said.
“She sure is pretty,” Virgil said, after the waitress left.
“She’s older than Ma,” Horace said.
“Not the waitress, dummy. The woman across the street.” Virgil’s hands were shaking, Horace hoped it was nothing.
“I’m not supposed to notice things like that.” Horace shook his head. So that was it, Virgil was smitten. Probably had been since he’d seen her picture in the paper. Horace had been surprised when he’d seen it. He’d told Ma one of his subjects was on the second page. Of course, she couldn’t see it, but he’d forgotten about Virgil.
“What’cha thinking about?” Virgil asked.
“About how low a man can sink,” Horace said.
“Whatdaya mean?”
“Nothing,” Horace said, but it was something. He’d always considered himself a man with standards, principles, and now he was about to go against everything he believed in. He was going to kill a woman. It ate at him, but he didn’t see any way out.
“Pass me your switchblade under the table,” Horace said.
“Why?”
“In case I got to defend myself, why do you think?”
“Okay.” Virgil reached into his pocket, handed the knife over. Horace slipped it into his own pocket, was about to get up, when he saw the trembling in his brother’s eyes. Like Ma, Virgil got the fits, but if you were lucky and caught them in advance, sometimes you could prevent them.
“Hey, Virge, I think I’ll hang here with you for a bit and have some pie, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I can serve the papers later.” Horace raised his hand for the waitress again. He hated these fits Ma and Virgil got and was afraid someday he’d be afflicted, but so far it hadn’t happened. He didn’t understand them, what brought them on or what made them go away. They didn’t hurt Ma so much anymore, she’d learn to roll with them and she recovered pretty quick, but once one got a hold of Virgil, he’d thrash like a mad dog, then, when it was over, he’d sleep for a day. The trick with Virge was to catch it beforehand and calm him down, sometimes that kept them at bay.
The girl across the street just got a reprieve, but maybe not. She’d been in there awhile, maybe she’d be there awhile longer, maybe she’d still be there after Virge calmed down.
Chapter Three
Maggie took another look at herself in the mirror behind the bar. She made a comb of her fingers, brushed her hair back. Her lower lip quivered. She was about to cry again. She steeled herself against it.
“Maggie, I need some help.” Dick put a margarita down in front of the woman sitting next to her. “That old woman.” He nodded to a Japanese woman standing at the far side of the bar, next to the man in the suit. “She can’t speak English.”
“I’ll see what she wants.”
“And I’ll love you forever.”
“You say that to all the girls.”
“And I mean it, each and every time.”
Maggie smiled. Dick could always make her laugh. “Save my place.” She slid off the stool.
“I’ll have another drink waiting, on the house.”
“Hey, maybe you really do love me.”
She moved through the crowd toward the Japanese woman. The middle of the day and the bar was full. A testament not only to the bartender, but to the food. When Dick and his partner bought the place it had been called Taco Town. They changed the name and decor, but kept the staff and the Mexican food, because everybody said the cook, Juanita Juarez, did the best Mexican this side of the border.
“Konnichi wa. Watakushi wa Maggie desu. Anata no onamae wa?” Good afternoon. My name’s Maggie. Yours?
“Oshima Tomoko desu. Nihongo o hanasu desu ne. Sore wa ii desu ne.” I’m Tomoko Oshima. You speak Japanese. That’s good. And she continued on in her own language. “My husband was supposed to meet me here, but I don’t see him.”
They talked for a few more minutes, then Maggie turned to Dick, standing behind the bar.
“What?” He had his hands spread wide, palms upward.
“She says an American friend, who works for Visa in Tokyo, said this place has the best Mexican food in the world. Her husband was supposed to meet her here after a business appointment, but apparently he got hung up.”
“Did you hear that?” Dick said to the couple in the tennis outfits. “Even in Tokyo, they know about the Lounge.” He was beaming. Then to Maggie, “Tell her I got a Japanese car. Wait, no don’t, I’d sound like an idiot.”
“You are an idiot,” someone said.
Laughter.
“Show her to a table. Tell her lunch is on the house, drinks too.”
“Hey, Dick, you never gave me a free drink,” someone else said.
More laughter.
“You didn’t come halfway around the world just to eat in my restaurant either,” Dick said, “so get hosed.”
Everybody was laughing now, Maggie too.
They took a table in the middle of the dance floor. The Lounge served a mean Mexican lunch, but when lunch was over and the tables were cleared away, the Lounge became the classiest pickup place in the Shore.
“You speak Japanese, do you read as well?” Tomoko had her purse on the table in front of herself. She was fidgeting with the handle.
“Yes.”
“Good, because I don’t, not without my glasses.�
� She took an envelope out of the purse and handed it to Maggie. “Can you read this? My husband left it at the hotel reception for me, but I lost my reading glasses somewhere in Disneyland yesterday.”
“KCS,” Maggie said.
“What?”
“Kanji Chicken Scratch. It means your husband has sloppy handwriting. It’s what my mother called my Kanji when I was a little girl.” She smiled, read the note. He says he had to reschedule the appointment. He wants to meet you here an hour later, at 2:00.”
“I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t. Actually it’s a good thing, for me anyway. I’m meeting someone myself, but not till 3:00. We could have lunch together, if you don’t mind. I really need somebody to talk to.”
“I’d like that.” Tomoko’s fingers were calm now. She was smiling.
“Do you know Mexican food? Or would you like me to order for you?”
“I’ll trust you,” Tomoko said. “And I’d like to have one of those margaritas.”
Gloria, Juanita’s daughter, was working the section they were sitting in. Maggie signaled her.
“Hola, mi amiga,” Gloria said
“Hola yourself.” Maggie laughed. Then ordered them each a taco combination plate. “Y dos margaritas, tambien.” And two margaritas also, she added.
“So, you speak Spanish, too,” Tomoko said. “Do you speak any others?”
“French, but Japanese was my first language. It’s my favorite. I like to think in it. It gives my thoughts clarity.”
“Your first language after English, you mean.”
“No, my mother was Japanese. It was first. My father was American. English was second. A close second, but second, nevertheless.”
“You don’t look Japanese.”
“I know, there’s a story behind that.” Maggie studied the woman, wondering how much to tell her. She’d probably never see her again and she desperately wanted to talk to someone. She’d start at the beginning, but she’d make sure she got to the end.
“In 1970 the Vietnam war was going strong. My dad was in the Marine Corps and he had an affair while he was stationed at Camp Pendleton. He told me he didn’t love the girl, but he was going to war soon and, well, you know how it is. The girl got pregnant, but she didn’t find out till after my dad met my mom, got married and shipped out.