by Liv Rancourt
The passengers in the Buick stayed silent till the cop car pulled away, then Skip met Russell’s gaze and held it.
“You really a lawyer?”
Even Russell’s half-assed grin was hotter than anything he’d seen in a good long time. “Close enough.”
Chapter 6
The next morning, Russell stood shivering on a platform above a crowd of people who were watching the outboard championships on Green Lake. Low-slung, ten-foot hydroplanes buzzed around a loop like a pack of angry lawn mowers, the sound’s intensity amplified as it bounced off the orderly Craftsman houses bordering the lake. The swimmers and dancers were surrounded by a raucous, snarling bunch of Seafair Pirates, men of varying ages dressed in shabby costumes spewing humor and abuse. Russell locked a pleasant expression in place till it hurt, suspicious the pirates had authentic grog in their flasks and not some tinted water substitute.
If they were willing to share, he might warm up, though even if the skies cleared and the drizzle stopped, he’d still be in a foul-weather mood.
One of the buccaneers jumped on stage, knocking the Aqua Dears askew. Russell got an arm around Susie’s waist before she tipped over the side.
“Thanks.” She settled back on her heels. “Almost gave the crowd a real show.” Patting at her lemon-yellow skirt, she made a face. “This color is awful enough without showing everybody my undies.”
Russell gritted his teeth and nodded as she whined about the outfit and his aunt, the noisy pirates and the noisier hydroplanes, a forcible distraction from reliving the evening before. He shrugged a couple of times to loosen the tension spiraling through his shoulders. Susie might be acting like she couldn’t remember anything, but he sure did.
“Come on, ladies, look happy,” Aunt Maude hollered from her spot near the front. “You want these nice people to buy tickets to our show, don’t you?”
“Not especially,” Susie muttered. She smoothed her skirt, her movements tense and jagged.
“Now come on,” he said.
The swimmers and dancers giggled and fussed, their matching circle skirts splashing yellow against the overcast sky. The air was so cool, Russell had to wonder why the organizers called this a summertime event.
When things quieted down between races, Susie stood on tiptoe and whispered in Russell’s ear. Her words came out as a ticklish blur.
He kept an arm around her waist, holding the platform’s wooden railing with the other. “What did you say?”
The boats’ grinding drone rose in pitch as they rounded the back turn and headed toward shore. She mumbled something else, and he tipped his head, questioning her with a glance. She pulled on him till they were facing each other. “I said...” She spoke slowly, emphasizing the words so he couldn’t avoid them. “I don’t think we should date anymore.”
Stunned, Russell loosened his grasp on her ribs. Around them, the crowd gasped as if they’d heard her, though really one of the hydroplanes had flipped. Russell knew how the driver felt. Susie’s words caught him by surprise, her meaning caught him far off guard, and her eyes pleaded with him. “Now don’t make a scene.”
“I won’t.” He eased away from her. “I’m sorry that you feel that way.”
“It’s for the best.”
He had to work to keep his expression neutral. Though he automatically lined up arguments against her decision, his pride wouldn’t allow him to engage her in debate. By ending things in the middle of a crowd, she’d guaranteed that. “I’m sure it is.” His pride also wouldn’t allow him to take her back. That certainty settled over him, weighing him down.
As if he’d heard Susie’s surprise announcement, one of the pirates aimed his squirt gun at them. Susie squealed and ducked behind Russell, and the blast plastered his sport shirt to his chest. Grateful for the excuse, he caught his aunt’s eye, gestured to his wet shirt, and left the stage.
Long steps turned into a jog and then a hard run. Russell’s oxfords weren’t built for it, but he needed the exertion more than he needed to keep his shoes clean. Cruising right past the bus, Russell headed for the road, uncaring which direction was the right one. He turned right, or maybe left, and settled into a steady, hard pace. The light traffic offset his heavy heart, but there was no way he’d outpace the emptiness at the pit of his stomach.
Two years. She’d waited out his last two years of law school, then thrown him over for some little greaser she’d known for a handful of days. Russell’s wet shirt slapped against his chest, and a blister started on his right heel, the familiar burn a welcome distraction. He kept running till exhaustion blotted out the shock. By the time he limped back to the dorm, guilt colored his bellyful of sadness. Guilt because he couldn’t be the boy Susie wanted, and another helping for his unaccountable relief.
But what the hell am I going to tell Mom?
***
“You can’t just leave.” Standing under the beam of a parking lot light, Maude tossed the clipboard back to Russell. She sported her usual poodle-do topknot, her flowered dress resembled green Jell-O with fruit in it, and she tried to herd him onto the school bus with the power of her glare.
“I’m looking for somebody.” Russell had decided to accept Skip’s invitation, and he was damned if he’d let his aunt stop him now. He raised both hands, willing her to calm down. “I’ll be right back.”
“We need to talk about the opening number first. Your girlfriend lost track of the beat, or didn’t you notice?”
Russell straightened his favorite tie, all but choking on his exasperation. The girls seemed to know he and Susie were done, but no one had given Aunt Maude the memo. After two days of pretending things were fine, he was going crazy to talk to someone who wouldn’t care. “So did Carole and Betty. I couldn’t honestly tell which one of them pulled the others off.” Several musicians slunk out behind him, heading into the parking lot, which made keeping his eyes on his aunt almost impossible. A muggy overcast thickened the air, but at least he could claim his sweat was caused by the heat and not by the nerves flapping around his chest like bats in an old barn.
“Maybe you’re the one who should talk to her.” Aunt Maude pinched her lips together as if it took physical effort not to say something nastier. “Right.” She pointed at him. “You tell her she needs to get on the stick.”
Skip picked that moment to walk by, sending tension zinging up Russell’s spine. His aunt drew a breath to launch another harangue, but he stopped her with a sharp nod. “Fine. I’ll talk to Susie.” He took a few steps backward, distracted.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I told you, I’m meeting someone. I’ll see you in the morning.” He was twenty-three, old enough to find his own way back to the dorm.
“I’m not sure...”
He didn’t hang around to hear what she wasn’t sure about.
The Buick was parked in the back corner of the lot. Skip set his trumpet in the trunk, locked the tailgate, and climbed in. Russell stopped by the passenger door, pleased by his shadowy reflection in the window. Dark suit coat over a crisp white button-down shirt and neatly trimmed hair; though there were many ways he could fail this test, appearance wouldn’t be one of them.
Still, Skip made him wait until the school bus rumbled past in a flash of red lights and overloaded gears. When they were alone, Russell wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, stifled the nervous bats in his belly, and opened the door.
“Howdy, stranger,” Skip said.
Russell rested his forearms on the roof of the car, his gaze drawn to the black slacks hugging Skip’s thighs. “Does your offer for a drink still stand?”
“Sure.” Skip raked a hand through the curls dropping over his brow. “We can go down to the Square.”
Russell dropped into the seat, smiling to cover the jitters. “Thanks.”
Skip loosened the narrow black bow tie that all the musicians wore and tossed it into the backseat. Russell fought the urge to chew on a fingernail, crack his knuckl
es, or otherwise twitch in his seat.
“Nice of Susie to let you off the chain for tonight.” Skip gunned the engine, his sly smile half-cocked in Russell’s direction.
Anger threatened to derail him, so Russell drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Susie and I broke up.”
Skip hit the brakes. “Really?”
“Listen.” Russell gave up and forced his right fist into his left palm, satisfied by the rat-a-tat pops. “Let’s not talk about it, okay. Let’s talk about...” Russell scrambled for something innocuous. “Does it ever warm up in this town? It feels like early spring back home.”
“The weather?” Easing the car out of the parking lot, Skip flipped the hair out of his eyes with a wide grin. “You’re going out for a drink with a new friend, and you want to talk about the weather?”
Russell barked a laugh, overcome by a reckless sense of joy. He’d been holding his cards so close for so long, even this little bit of freedom damned near made him giddy. “All right, then. I put myself in your hands.”
“Please.”
They both laughed. Skip kept a lazy grip on the wheel, guiding the big car to their mystery destination. Russell relaxed against the cracked vinyl seat and shot shy glances in his direction. He knew he was doing wrong, but couldn’t help himself. With every aw shucks smile, Skip worked his way further under Russell’s skin.
They talked about music and musicians, driving through downtown Seattle and into an older neighborhood, close to the ocean. The streets were lined with worn shops, brick apartments, and rooming houses. Taverns seemed to mark every corner of every block, and the streets were crowded, mostly with men who looked even more worn out than the buildings around them.
The roughness of the neighborhood tightened Russell’s anxiety till he could almost hear the whine in the back of his head, high-pitched and brilliant.
Skip parked the car on a side street near the water and opened the car door, as relaxed as if they were going into church. “Let’s agitate the gravel.”
The road was paved with cobblestones, and the air smelled of saltwater, roasted peanuts, and piss. Russell turned his ankle on his first step out of the car. He clutched the door handle, managing to keep himself upright.
“Most guys down here have to drink a bit before they start falling down.” Skip’s tone was dry enough to make Russell wonder if he was joking or not. All around them were the kind of men who drank a bit before they got out of bed, if they even had beds to sleep in.
Russell brushed himself off, straightened to his full height, and edged closer to Skip. If any of these derelicts tried to make trouble, he’d show them how a Midwest boy could fight. “Where are we, anyway?”
“This is First Avenue.” Skip nodded at the busy road ahead of them. “Off there”—he pointed to a triangular patch of grass on the left—“is Pioneer Place.”
Out on the main street, the city blurred, as big and busy as Minneapolis, much bigger and busier than Red Wing. Black cars crawled along the cobblestone streets like chrome-trimmed insects. The sidewalks were busy; flashy Negro men in cuffed trousers and jewel-tone jackets, drunk and dirty vagrants clustered in empty doorways, and glossy women whose profession was painted in bright red lipstick and short skirts.
Skip strolled through the crowd, seemingly oblivious to the potential for danger. He smiled and nodded at the lowlifes and the winos, and it was all Russell could do to keep his fists shoved into the pockets of his trousers.
A wrought-iron pergola dominated the little square Skip had called Pioneer Place. Opposite the pergola, a totem pole rose twenty feet in the air. Right above the pole, a large neon sign advertised the Seattle Hotel. A light shone from below, highlighting the landmark’s weird bird and animal carvings.
Sweat rolled down the small of Russell’s back, the result of the humidity, his tension, and his proximity to another man. Skip’s self-confidence prodded at Russell, challenged him. Russell prided himself on his honesty, but right then, he was happy not to be on the witness stand. If the judge asked him why he’d agreed to Skip’s invitation, no way could he have told the truth.
“You know, back home, people think you all live in teepees out here.”
“Well, it’s not New York, but this is a city.” Skip’s brash grin drew an answering smile from Russell. “The mayor and his cronies try to dress things up and call the whole neighborhood Pioneer Square.” His fingers brushed Russell’s sleeve. “But it’ll always be Skid Road. You can pretty much buy anything down here, but you might just lose your shirt doing it if you aren’t careful.”
Russell stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. “You’re the one who doesn’t seem to notice we’re surrounded by hoodlums.”
“Come on,” Skip said, poking him in the chest with a whisper of a wink. “I won’t let anything bad happen.” He tried to poke a second time, but Russell skittered away. “Besides, no one’s going to mess with a big strong boy like you.”
“So if there’s a fight, then”—Russell gently bumped Skip with his shoulder—“you stand aside and let me win it.”
“Hey, now. My mother taught me not to boast.” Skip punched him in the arm.
He could have caught him in a wrestling move right there. “I’m not boasting.”
“That’s right.” Skip’s laugh was quick and appealing. “I’ve seen you fight before, big boy.”
They walked along the edge of the triangular park, past an old blind man selling peanuts from a cart, and along Second Avenue, where they passed a surprising number of men dressed in business suits and ties. Skip shook hands with a few of them, and Russell felt even more intimidated.
They passed women too, as ordinary as the men in business suits, mingling with the drunks and beggars. Russell had suspicions about one pair of women who walked along beside them a ways before disappearing into a small nightclub.
“In here?” he asked, gesturing toward the club’s door.
“Nah, the girls would kill us.” Skip again used that dry, half-joking tone. “It’s there.”
They approached the battered doorway. A short, swarthy man stepped aside to let them in. “Lawrence,” he said, wrapping Skip in a back-thumping hug.
“Lawrence?” Russell asked.
Skip ignored him and kept walking into a long, narrow room. Booths were crowded along one wall across from a heavy marble bar. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking out the view of the street.
Somewhere a radio played a stripped-down version of “Caravan.” Before they’d gone too far, an older, big-bellied man greeted Skip with an over-affectionate kiss on the cheek. Surprise yanked a gasp from him before he could stop it, and Russell looked around to see if he should be embarrassed.
No one cared. All the customers were men.
Chapter 7
The tavern was comfortable, warm, touched with the familiar scents of fries and stale beer. Skip waved to acquaintances, amused by the swell of interest in Russell. This place had a select clientele, and if Demetrio the doorman didn’t recognize someone, they weren’t getting in.
If the characters in this bar were Skip’s extended family, then Demetrio was his favorite uncle.
He claimed a booth and tipped his head in the direction of the bartender.
“Lawrence?” Russell dropped onto the seat across from him, chin cocked like he was ready to take a punch.
Over the years, Skip had learned how to balance a friendly smile with a steely attitude, so he rarely ran into trouble on the street, but he sure liked this bulldog side of Russell. He flashed him a grin meant to reassure. “You could take your jacket off, at least.”
Russell unwound enough reach for his buttons.
Leaning forward on his forearms, Skip was amused and a little concerned. “Don’t make too much of a show, or you’ll have half the guys in here offering to help.”
Russell loosened his tie with a smile that gave Skip hope. He’d come on strong, maybe too strong, but his date hadn’t run. Worth a shot to
see where things would go. He really wanted to know what kind of man sat on the other side of the table.
Maybe a little teasing would loosen Russell up. “Do you always dress like a lawyer?”
“Do I?” Russell gave an awkward laugh and shrugged out of his jacket. “Guess I’m just practicing.” He paused when the bartender approached them. “Whiskey?”
“I’ll have one too.”
The grizzled old bartender laid down cocktail napkins and let them alone.
“So what kind of place is this, anyway?” Russell asked. The vibration of his shaking knee traveled under the table, though his hands rested quietly.
“The kind of place where no one asks your last name,” Skip said. “And if you stare at someone too long, they’re likely to take you out back and get down on their knees.” He stifled a grin at the color staining Russell’s cheeks. The boy from Red Wing knew what Skip was trying to say, all right. “Or get you down on yours.”
Russell stiffened, his gaze locked on the tabletop. Uh-oh. Better downshift to a different subject. “So, you got family?” Skip asked.
With a sharp inhale, Russell came up with a smile that looked forced. “Two brothers and two sisters, all older than me.”
The bartender interrupted their conversation, setting their cocktails on the table. After taking a healthy swallow of whiskey, Russell lowered his hand, brushing his knuckles against Skip’s fingers. The contact juiced Skip good. He’d have been happy to sit right there all night as long as Russell wanted to hold his hand.
“So you’re the baby?”
Russell grimaced. “I suppose.”
“Are they all back in Red Wing?” Brothers and sisters were a novelty Skip didn’t know much about, so he was sincerely curious.
After another swallow of whiskey, Russell eased back in his seat. “Mostly. Robert’s the oldest, and he runs Dad’s farm supply company.” He spun the whiskey in his glass. “Then there’s Dumpling; well, her real name is Regina. She and my other sister Rayanne used to swim with the Aqua Dears, and since I always got dragged to their practices, I learned enough to coach. They’re both married and have kids now, though.”