“I hear that you had a visit to Tulles?”
Betty flinched. “Yes, it was very nice. I didn't know that you were there.”
“I wasn't, but when a human goes to an alternative haunt like that, word gets around.” Tetrametrius flicked his tail and said, “My dearest Betty, you know me, and you know that I am well on the up and up with information. Clarkin is, of course, very dear to me, but I feel that I must warn you away from him.”
“I don't think that what happens between us is of any interest to you,” Betty objected, but she stopped walking.
“I know we are both busy and you are watched, so I must speak quickly, and you will forgive me for sounding cold. Clarkin is married to his work. He was recruited at a very young age, and when the war stopped, he was rather lost for want of something to do. He's been in and out of tiffs with the law, most notably he was once court martialled for an altercation with your father.” At this, Tetrametrius paused as if to see what Betty's response would be, but she did not provide him with one, so he continued.
“He is more recently in Sanctuary than the rest of us, come here to retire and find a new path, or so he says. But the likes of him...he was meant for battle. He's got Olivia to keep him company, she's his old partner from days gone by, a most competent woman, if I hear correctly.”
Betty set her jaw and was determined to listen to his words with a stony silence, even as chilled disbelief coursed through her. His words left her cold, and worse, what hope she had had for the future was now dimmed. Her chest tightened.
“He likes to get out and have a little fun, of course, but it's nothing like it was during the heyday of the battle.” Tetrametrius smirked. “He is known through the ranks as the lioness charmer. Never met a woman who he couldn't flip onto her back.”
Chapter 20
“So you made my father pretty pissed?” prompted Betty, watching as Slim clinked a margarita down in front of her, the little umbrella inside the drink decorated with Santa's elf in a short dress and a sexy over-the-shoulder smile. Betty sat across from Slim at the bar, her heels resting on the stainless steel foot railing and her elbows propped upon the highly varnished walnut bar.
Slim eased on the padded stool next to her, his ice in the gin and tonic tinkling while he took a sip. At the far end of the bar, men younger than Slim still in their suits and loosened ties took turns at darts, crying out in mock or real agony when one of their number won the pot. This bar was on the fringes of the red light district and women in sleeveless tube dresses glittered through the smokey haze as they laughed with smiles too wide and eyes for only the fat cats and winners.
“The old man was not pleased with my tone when I told him what you and I do together, stays between you and I...”
Betty had a passing wonder if he was correct in his usage of I versus me, but knew that now wasn't the correct time to pursue the subject—supposing she were to ever pursue it again. For now she felt proud, and glad to have an accomplice to stand up against the general. At the far end, one of the glitzy girls went upstairs with her chosen man, and Betty gave pause that for once in her life she approved of the secrecy inherent in this sort of an establishment, whereas before it would have given her pause.
Now nothing seemed as dangerous as just living did. While she doubted it was anything remotely like an actual battlefield, this was the closest thing she would get to one.
Her eavesdropping on Clarkin made Betty much more receptive of the next time she was to meet with Slim. He'd sent her a letter, a card inviting her to after hours drinks, which Betty had accepted. Now she was here. They were supposed to be talking about work, but it was just conversation, a smoothly flowing chatter from one thing to the next.
Studying Slim out of the comer of her eye, Betty watched as Slim licked the gin from his upper lip, smooth and moist, not chapped like Clarkin's mouth. Though he'd shaved this morning, a rough stubble had grown on his jaw and she remembered she used to complain about it when he kissed her; she'd called it prickly.
“Yes,” Betty said, “so what sort of gasket did dear old papa blow when you said that?”
Slim raised his feet onto the rail and rolled his shoulders with a groan. “Ah, you don't want to hear of that old goat, do you?”
“James.” Betty prodded him with a fingertip and he grinned.
“Very well, if that's what my baby doll wants.”
She should have corrected him on that, telling him she wasn't his baby doll, but it wouldn't have done much good and she knew it, because she actually wanted to hear him say it.
“Right,” Slim said, snaring her fingers in a strong hand as a man made eyes at Betty. “The old goat. Well, you see, typically we provide reports of some kind and it always looks best if there are nice, fat comments in the notes section. But following our meeting the other evening, I neglected my duties in the comments section.”
“You left the notes section blank, and with the man's own daughter! The gall of you,” Betty interrupted, putting a hand up to her brow in a stage movement.
“Very much so,” Slim said, and his voice slid over her skin like a purr. It turned her thoughts to other things they could be discussing instead, but Slim continued, {And he called me into his office and let me know in no uncertain terms that he expected a full report on our progress. Seeing as he is my superior, I said Yes Sir, No Sir, Everything According to Plan Sir, You're a Lying Shitbag Sir.”
Betty laughed. “You didn't say the last!”
“Not in so many words. It wouldn't do to be court maritialled34 so soon after I found you again.” He kissed her hand and she shivered. “Nothing makes your officers furious quite like protocol abiding insubordination.”
“And is that the end of your heroism?”
“No. At the end of a quarter hour, he got all red in the face and told me that if I wasn't straightforward he would appoint another man as your interpreter and trainer. And so I said, Fine, fabulous, Sir! It would be all the better if another man did take charge, because then you wouldn't be so suspicious of my attentions. Oh that blew his top right off. He was shaking and quaking and positively infuriated and he didn't say a word to me, not for minutes. Then he ordered I was to stay on the case and told me he'd send me to Russia with fake orders if I ever sided against him again.”
Betty frowned. “You ought to be careful about getting him worked up.”
“There's no need to worry about me. I know his moods as well as you do.”
They stayed for a time, talking of this and that, every hour making her more and more relaxed, until Slim stretched his neck.
“We should be getting home.” There was a devilish gleam in his eye. “Your place? I've never seen the décor inside.”
“Oh,” said Betty, waking up from what felt like a trance. “I don't know. I mean, it's not clean enough for company.”
“Then I'll help you, but I doubt it's so bad. Come on, I want to make sure the house is safe, anyhow. You can kick me to the curb after, if you want.”
Back home, Slim had a fire going in the stove and a bottle of port uncorked, and they sat on her bed with wicked thoughts running through her head. He kissed her neck and throat as his hand travelled up her thigh. Then he stopped.
“What's wrong?” Betty asked.
“We always wanted a baby,” he said, pulling her near. “And I was thinking, I don't want to raise them in fear.”
Betty stilled, her thoughts suddenly returning with clarity cutting through her stunned body. “I agree.”
“I know you do, but...I hate seeing you like this.”
“Like what?” Betty asked and withdrew from his arms, confused.
“Living alone, scared to go outside, scared to come back in. You have a brave front, but someone's put the fright into you and I don't care for it.”
“And what would you have done, hmmm?”
“Make sure someone is listening to your show.”
Betty felt a bit of a chill. “Why?”
“Just compla
in about a fictional neighbour. A lady with a bird that screams all day, and the ambulance that comes by at three o'clock.”
She realized he wanted her to wave talk. Already. Pain hit first, then anger. Pretending to be terrified, Betty stood to add coal to the fire. But of course tonight had been an attempt to get her to wave talk. Hadn't it? But he was watching her closely, trying to see if she would do it.
“I'll find a way,” she murmured.
He looked visibly relieved.
He would have stayed the night but she wouldn't let him. She chased him away with fears of neighbourhood gossip, and when he was gone she leaned her head in her arms and counted her breaths, wishing the day was over, and that she knew who to believe.
Chapter 21
Betty nestled in her reading nook, a new term for a new chair situated by the fireplace and angled to observe through the living room windows, browsing through the black locust letters once more, trying to discern anything new from the same old lines.
She read through the whole stack and found no new references, nor any indication of awkward phrasing which might signal a code. Her lip quivered. Nothing new, nothing that jumped out from between the words and declared, This is who I am, this is who James is, and this is who Clarkin is.
Of course even if there had been such information, Betty doubted she would have trusted its source. Not that she was any less frustrated by the lack of information. Not long ago, she thought she'd taken the upper hand with both men, and now she felt she'd been the one who was played. Who was who, and what was what was now completely beyond comprehension.
As Betty put her letters aside to start uncoiling her hair from the foam curlers, she heard the birds outside banter noisily, as they tended to do every now and then, and then they went silent. Presently a shadow fell over the window of her door and there came a brisk knock. Betty jumped, thinking at first it was Slim or, worse, Clarkin.
“Hey there, Betty Cratchet!” cried a woman's voice from the other side of the door. “You didn't forget, did you?”
Betty rushed to unlock and open the door, finding Liza standing there with her hair pinned up on one side and a white poodle skirt about her hips. Earlier in the day, they'd agreed to go together to the Rockability club again, and Betty felt safer attending with a friend.
“No, I didn't forget. Help me with my hair curlers, will you?”
Liza stepped inside and began by cooperatively pulling on her hair.
“Hold still. This one's got a tangle.”
At the sight of the letters, Liza stopped and left Betty to contend with the last of her curls. Liza picked up a letter and flipped it over.
“You going to reply?”
Betty glanced at what she held—the one which had been on top, the one she'd been pondering over and over. That line read, I fear I have written too much without encouragement. Should you desire a longer association, leave the bouquet in your window box. Otherwise I will cease my attentions and abide by your wishes.
“I don't know.”
Liza put the letter back with the rest, stacking them neatly. “Want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Betty turned down the hall into the kitchen and bedroom. “The mysterious love letters, my decapitaria suitor, or my amorous former fiancé?”
“All of them, I suppose, but what I really wanted to know was what's made your temper so...explosive.”
Liza entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, not seeming to question the bed's position in the house as Betty dug in a cabinet for a bit of sherry.
“Oh,” Betty said. “I thought I was doing pretty good keeping it toned down.”
“All the more concerning, then,” Liza said, crossing her legs and jiggling her slipper on the edge of her toe.
“Well, I suppose you have your answer.”
Liza accepted the sherry but was briefly preoccupied with opening the library's stolen journal, her lips twitching in amusement at the illustration of a man dancing like a prowling cat. “Not true. You have provided the subject but little else.”
“Liza.” Betty hesitated then sank into the chair opposite. “It's complicated.”
“It's really not.”
“I don't know what any of them want. The letter sender has been including messages and Clarkin said he wouldn't be beyond killing 'a pretty voice', which matches me awfully suspiciously.”
“Or that one gal at Alpha.”
Betty rolled her eyes.
“And what of the Thin Man?” Liza asked.
Betty narrowed her brows as she put the moniker to the face. “You mean James.” She took a long drink of sherry, which ended up being all of it in one swig, a distant burn down her throat. “I've got to at least pretend to go along with him.”
“You mean you're not pretending now?” Her tone was as cold as her eyes and she stopped herself from putting a hand on her hip.
They sat with only the table and a wall sconce between them, but with the haze of oil smoke, it seemed a gulf impassable.
Then, Betty started to talk, needing someone, anyone, to confide in. All at once, she enjoyed having another soul in the house, someone's presence other than her own to fill its modest rooms. When milling around Sunny Glenn, Betty had brief bits of conversation—getting groceries, visiting the library, walking in the park—but nothing broke up her solitude like this, to have a person in her isolated home. Sometimes she would look out a window and realize neighbour kids were coming home from school while she had scarcely said two words the entire day.
So Betty talked. How much sense it made, she didn't know. But by the end, her throat ached, from emotion rather than ill use. She was, after all, a show host.
A brisk rap-tap-tap came at her door, breaking through Liza's consideration, and Liza sighed. “Our ride is here.”
Betty nodded, wondering what was on Liza's mind, and followed her to the door.
Standing by the flower pot with the now snow bitten sunflower stood Welch, a bright red hot rod with tiger stripes behind him.
“Lovely evening, my dears.” His grin was true and warm as he looked at them. “Shall I escort you to the ball?”
Betty saw he had his hair slicked back and he wore a tight shirt across his chest.
“Come on, Dick, let's make her day a bit brighter!” said Liza, and the three of them set off towards the red car.
Betty didn't care so much for some of the music they were playing, a new person manned the song selection, and whoever it was had a taste for drums and heavy brass instrumentals which felt like the musical equivalent of boxing one's eardrums. She found a quieter place in the hall for a time, but soon enough became sweaty and was crowded out of her place by others seeking a reprieve. So Betty bought a pop from concessions and a bag of caramel corn, and she took it outside where it was brisk but not uncomfortable.
Halfway through her soda, the side door opened, letting a tiny army of suspender-clad men into the night, along with the blare of drums.
The door clunked shut and cut off the music, and one of them said, “Now what were you saying? Something about the cuckoo?”
Betty sank backwards, trying to blend in with the tin trashcans in the street. It wasn't a brilliant hiding place, but she wasn't even sure if she should be hiding at all.
“Tom wasn't it,” said a soft voice.
“Of course not, the humans wouldn't listen to a crow, no matter how cozy he was with Legrand.”
Betty's breath stilled at the mention of Slim and Tom as friends. She gripped her arms to keep from fidgeting; the shadows were pale and it would be easy to be seen if she moved.
“But then who?” a new voice asked. “It's got to be some being whose in snug with the Thin Man.”
“Or who was,” another corrected. There was an instant of quiet, then the soft voice said, “No...you don't think?”
“We can't prove it.”
“No, we can't. We just know who it ain't.”
Someone lit a cigarette, one with a faint blueber
ry scent which reminded her of Slim.
“I don't feel good about tonight. It don't seem right.”
“I'm with 'im on this,” said another.
There was a round of agreement, and some muttered comments back and forth. Then a man came around the edge of the building and waved keys in his hand.
The cigarette hissed when it hit a damp spot on the ground, and the speaker stamped it out. “That's not your job to feel good about it. Either you got evidence or you don't. We have our orders. So do you lot have anything new, besides tummy aches?”
No one replied, and Betty felt an unexplainable wave of anxiety.
“Fine. Then let's move out. Waste of time talking if none of you know anything new.”
One by one their footsteps left the side of the building, but Betty remained where she was until she heard a car turn over and leave. Then she slipped back inside, unable to make heads or tails of what she'd just heard even though she tried to understand the conversation over and over again.
The final song faded away, humming through the bleachers and stopping the few weary dancers at last, giving way to drunken staggers as people shoved for the exits. The concessions stand had closed an hour ago, and now a pair of managers made their way through the building, their keys clinking as they locked up all the doors.
Betty heard sighs and happy chatter as the crowd around her issued forth into the night as one protective pack, and for once she felt a warm sense of belonging someplace when she was so used to living in obscurity.
With Welch and Liza by her side, she'd fallen into step as one of the community, just another body writhing in the beat, shaking hips to shame the upstanding citizens in the rest of Sanctuary. Betty released a sigh of contentment and found her friends parting from the group to head to the car.
“A good night,” commented Welch as he opened the car doors, then craned his head back to examine the stars. Fog drifted into the street from a laundromat and dry cleaners, but up in the air, everything was clear and the moon shone brightly, almost outshining the twinkling stars.
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