by Liv Rancourt
“Mother.” Annette distracted him with a full-throated wail. “I was supposed to be her maid of honor.”
“Well, now you’ll have to find a different drama to star in,” Aunt Maude said acerbically.
“Mo-ther.” His cousin’s cry drove Russell to his feet.
“Is there anything else, Aunt Maude?” Russell used the calmest tone of voice he could muster, though after the bombshell his aunt dropped, it wasn’t easy.
“Yes, Russell.” Exhaustion riddled his aunt’s voice. “This afternoon when I’m at the train station, I’ll change your ticket and Susie’s so you can take the train directly to Detroit for the next run of shows. We’re scheduled to have four days at home, so if you and Susie take the train next Wednesday, we should all arrive in Detroit on the same day.”
Desire shimmered in Russell’s belly. Five, maybe six more days in Seattle. He just needed to keep Phyllis company, find Susie, and avoid Skip. Or find Skip and avoid Susie. Russell felt punch-drunk. “I think I’m going to change into shorts and sneakers and go jogging.” He tugged on his khaki pants. “And then I’ll figure out how to take the public bus to the hospital.”
Aunt Maude rose too. “You’ll need to clear out of here by today. Do you have money for a hotel?”
Russell pulled out his wallet. “About twenty dollars.”
“Well, here.” Aunt Maude handed him another twenty. “That’s for a hotel room and some food.” Her lips thinned, and she blinked once. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any more.”
She stuffed the bill into his hand, and he took it because he had the strong impression his Aunt Maude would burst into tears if he didn’t. If Aunt Maude cried, the world truly was going to hell. Russell stuffed the cash in his wallet and forced a smile. “I’ll just take a short run, then pack up my stuff.”
“We won’t be leaving here till noon,” she said.
The grim determination in the tilt of her chin reminded him of his mother, her sister. “I won’t let you down.”
In a way, he spoke to both of them.
Chapter 11
Russell spent the afternoon in the lobby of the Harborview County Hospital, where the recalcitrant sun dragged squares of gold across the linoleum floor. Despite—or maybe because of—his aunt’s sympathetic attitude, he reckoned the whole team was laughing at him.
Wondering if her request was really a way for him to save face.
After one more check on Phyllis, he went to the restroom and splashed cold water on his face. Blinking bleary-eyed in the old, crazed mirror, he smacked himself for making such a mess of things. He’d find Susie, and not just because his aunt told him to. He’d find her and convince her to talk to her parents. He’d find her because taking care of his friends was the sort of thing a man did. He’d find her because he didn’t trust Ryker, no matter what Skip said.
That wasn’t good enough.
He left Phyllis napping and checked himself into a hotel. The place didn’t look like much, and the smell of old socks and mold almost scared him off, but the hospital receptionist had said it was the cheapest place around.
The Seattle weather had finally warmed up, so Russell left his blazer and tie in the hotel room closet. Dressed in a pink-striped sport shirt and khaki slacks, he strode down the hotel’s hall, barely lit by faux Roman wall sconces between each doorway. Waiting for the narrow Otis elevator, he rehearsed his reasons for tracking Skip down.
Pretty simple, really. Skip was his only connection to Ryker, and he figured Demetrio at the bar was his best connection to Skip.
He maintained his confident act all the way to the street, when he realized he wasn’t sure where to go. They’d been down near the waterfront, but, surrounded by cars and ten-story buildings, the ocean was hard to find. The hulking carcass of Harborview County Hospital, however, waited just down the block.
Back in the hospital lobby, the daytime receptionist had gone home, her rhinestone brooch and cat-eye glasses replaced by a dumpy older man with four long clumps of hair spread across his glossy pate. “What can I do for you, young man?”
Smoke from his cigarette singed Russell’s nose. “If you could direct me to that big totem pole, that’d be swell.”
“You’re not from around here.” The old guy stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Lemme send you someplace a little nicer.”
“No, I’m...ah...” Russell scrambled for an explanation. “A friend of mine...my cousin, really...works near there in a tavern. I have to tell him about, ah, his mother.”
The guy shifted the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, as if the motion would help him evaluate the truth in Russell’s excuse. “If you say so. Go out to Yesler Way and head downhill. You’ll find it.” He pointed off to his right. “You be careful, son. You look sturdy enough, but it’s a rough neighborhood.”
“Thank you,” Russell said, responding by force of habit. He headed through the modern lobby, making a right at the street. Yesler Way cut down a hill overlooking the waterfront, with a view of half the world.
“This city,” Russell murmured, “is the most amazing place on earth.”
The road leveled off after about a mile, landing Russell right under the totem pole. He retraced the steps they’d taken from Pioneer Place to the tavern, past the neon Seattle Hotel sign and the wrought-iron awning. Every step twisted the tension running up the back of his neck. He remembered the man selling peanuts and the coffeehouse for women. He remembered the stuffy little tavern where he’d been able to breathe.
Would Skip remember? Would he help?
The neighborhood hadn’t seemed too bad when he’d been here with Skip. Now, though, it looked as rough as the man at Harborview County had promised. On Russell’s right there were slices of deep-ocean emptiness between buildings, and the air was heavy with the stink of salty fish. Across from him, a man sat on the sidewalk, his knees bent, head down, and the neck of a bottle protruding from a paper bag in his hand.
Russell jogged across the street, stepping wide around the man with the bottle. Buildings blocked what was left of the day’s sun, and the shadows between them made the skin between his shoulder blades crawl.
A woman stepped out from an unlit doorway, and Russell’s heart bucked into his throat.
“Hey there, wanna date?” Her lipstick was sloppy, and a cigarette dangled between her fingers.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m looking for a friend.” Russell kept moving.
“I can be your friend,” she called after him.
“Sure,” he whispered.
He passed a coffee shop, and sure enough, only women sat at the little round tables. Another block down, he recognized the swarthy man who had greeted Skip by calling him Lawrence. Russell straightened to his full height under the man’s stern gaze.
“Hello.” He put on his company smile and extended his hand to shake. The man in the doorway didn’t take it immediately.
“You wouldn’t remember me.” Russell felt dumb. “I’m Russell. I was here the other night with Skip Johansen.”
“Demetrio.” The swarthy man thawed out enough to shake Russell’s hand. His fingers were soft and warm, and his grip slid away in an extended caress.
“Do you know Skip? You called him Lawrence.”
“You were his date.” The man crossed his arms, and the look he fixed on Russell was either cross or mocking or both.
“I need to find him. It’s important.”
The man chuckled, his lower lip thrusting out to lead the rest of his mouth in a smile. “It always is with you youngsters.”
“Is he here?”
“Haven’t seen him yet. He and Lou were here pretty late last night.” Demetrio must have noticed Russell’s disappointment. “I tell you what.” He gave Russell’s shoulder a heavy-handed rub. “If he comes in tonight, I’ll tell him you stopped by.” With another sympathy pat, the man waved Russell in. “Grab a seat by the bar. He might have a gig tonight and be in later.”
Russell
eased out of the man’s enthusiastic grip. Lunch had been a dry ham sandwich in the hospital cafeteria, which wouldn’t absorb a whole lot of alcohol, but a glass of whiskey and a bowl of pretzels could probably help him figure out what to do next.
“Good idea.”
Russell settled himself at a booth and signaled the bartender. In short order he had his whiskey and his pretzels, but they didn’t bring him any closer to figuring out what to do. He’d nearly finished his first shot when there was a commotion at the door. Three women walked in, screeching with laughter and greeting some of the men on their way down the bar.
They wore dresses and heels, lipstick and pearls, but their calves were too muscular, and the stocky one gripped her purse with hairy man hands.
The group’s apparent leader, a petite brunette in a lavender suit and white heels, swung down the narrow center aisle and stopped at Russell’s booth. Russell froze under her scrutiny, clutching his empty cocktail glass.
She pursed her lips as if fighting a smile, then surrendered with a broad smirk. “The stories were right. You are all man, aren’t you, my dear?” She slipped into the booth across from him.
“Excuse me?”
“I am Lulu, and my ex-boyfriend is so gone on you, he can’t find his ass with both hands.”
The bottom dropped out of Russell’s gut. “What?”
The other two women leaned over his table, cooing and giggling. One, her brassy red hair rolled and pinned in a sleek chignon, snatched a handful of pretzels and popped them one at a time between her blood-red lips.
“Oh sweetie, don’t look so terrified.” Lulu reached over and rested her gloved hand on Russell’s.
Using his best manners, Russell turned Lulu’s attempt to fondle him into a handshake. “I’m Russell.”
Lulu wouldn’t let go, her grip tightening hard enough to rub his knuckles together. “I’ve heard all about you, and now I want to know what you did to hurt my friend.” Her voice was more strident than Ethel Merman on a high note.
Russell exhaled hard, rubbing his mouth with his free hand. He needed a shave, he needed Lulu to let go of his hand, and he needed to talk to Skip. “I don’t know your friend. I’m sorry.”
“Oh yes you do.” Lulu’s voice rose to a squeal, a blend of triumph and humor and maybe compassion. “You came here looking for him tonight.” She squeezed his hand again, hard. “Skip Johansen’s my very best friend, and before I tell you how to find him, I want to know what you did.”
Skip’s name choked Russell like a noose around his neck, so tight he couldn’t comprehend the rest of her message. He jerked his hand away from her and half rose in his seat.
The redhead snickered through her pretzels, and the chunky one guffawed, her beefy hands clutching her pearls. Russell lowered himself in the seat and closed his mouth, embarrassed to have been caught with it hanging open.
“You’ve really got him scared now, Lulu,” the beefy one said. Her voice was deeper than it should have been, but her smile was kind.
“This one’s a farm boy.” Lulu took hold of his hand again. “But Skippy likes him.” She popped open the clasp on her shiny gold clutch purse and drew out a pen and a little notepad. Her perfume distracted Russell, blending roses with the scent of incense from a Catholic church.
“Main 2471.” She slid the note across the table, keeping her fingers on a corner. “Skip’s telephone number.”
With two fingers, Russell tried to slide the paper to his side of the table, but she didn’t let go.
“If you’re not nice to him,” her voice dropped, getting meaner, “I will be very unhappy.” She lifted her fingers, splaying them out with a bubbling laugh and washing away most of the anger.
Russell tucked the note in the inner pocket of his jacket. “Thank you.”
“Now the girls and I have to go.” Lulu scooted out of the booth. “We’ve got a show tonight at the Garden. Come by later if you want to have some fun.”
“We can be lots of fun.” The redhead blew him a kiss.
Laughter carried the three of them out to the street. In a moment of quiet, the bartender brought Russell a second whiskey. Russell relaxed into the cushioned booth, gazing at the amber liquid, allowing the day to settle.
Lulu’s visit was the sweet finishing touch to the day’s difficulties. First Phyllis, then Susie, then Aunt Maude. He debated whether he’d reached his limit and should catch a cab back to the hotel.
Well, he couldn’t afford to be taking cabs anywhere. Instead, he reached in his pocket for a nickel, trying to remember if he’d seen a telephone booth out on the street.
***
The phone in Skip’s apartment rang twice in quick succession. His ring. Not the neighbor’s long single ring or the long-short from down the hall. His ring on the party line.
What the heck does Lou want now?
He rolled off the bed, catching himself right before he landed on the floor, and picked up the receiver.
“Skip? It’s Russell.”
The air left Skip’s lungs as if he’d been shot with a gun. He didn’t want to talk to Russell. He wanted to forget. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he marshalled some words of his own.
Behind the silence on Russell’s end, a car’s horn honked. Women’s voices. Street noise. He isn’t on a train. “What are you even doing? Where are you?”
“By the tavern, on Second Avenue and, ah...” The background noise got muffled, as if Russell had pressed the receiver against his chest. “Washington, I think.”
“Well, what’s your story, morning glory?” Skip dropped into the one comfortable chair, hunched over, propping his elbows on his thighs. Whatever the story was, he had a feeling he wouldn’t like it.
Russell took so long to respond, Skip tracked most of a conversation happening out on the street, something about a liquor store with beer on sale. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he tried again. “Russ?”
“I’m sorry. I have a favor to ask.” A rapping noise interrupted him. “Just a minute,” Russell said, though Skip couldn’t tell who he was talking to. Again the sound from the phone was muffled, with only broken phrases making it to Skip’s end.
“Sorry,” Russell said after a moment.
“You keep saying that.”
“What?” Stress zinged over the line.
“Sorry.”
“I’m so... Wait.” Russell chuckled, and Skip finally took a breath. His whole body buzzed with tension. It was only about six o’clock, plenty early enough for...all kinds of things.
“I was wondering if, well, could you meet me down here for a drink? Please?” Russell sounded cool, the way he’d sounded when he told off Officer Murphy after the jam session.
Must be nervous. Skip’s resistance softened, but drinks at the bar would surely end up further than he wanted to go. “I’ll pick you up, and we’ll go get a burger somewhere.” He’d just been lying around feeling sorry for himself, anyway.
“I would offer to pick you up, but—”
“You left your rocket at home.”
The rapping sound started again. “There’s a guy who might die if I don’t give him the phone booth.” Russell sounded irritated, and Skip had to smile imagining Mr. Midwest’s glare.
“Be careful. He might want to do perverted things to you.”
The silence between them got real heavy real quick. “But I don’t want to do perverted things with him.”
The weight on the final word left Skip with little doubt about his meaning. He didn’t know why Russell was still around, but real quick decided not to look a gift horse in the muzzle. “Walk out of the Square.” Skip wasn’t one bit ashamed of the roughness in his voice. “Toward the totem pole. I’ll be down there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter 12
The car. Black and bulky. Cracked vinyl seats sucked Russell in. Skip’s profile caught light and shadow from oncoming traffic, a half grin softening the lines. He drove with one hand on
the wheel, the other arm cocked so his elbow rested on the open window. Pioneer Square was behind them, and after about two blocks, Russell lost any sense of landmarks and location. They drove along quiet streets, past office buildings and shops, stiffness working its way down Russell’s spine and tying his shoulders in knots.
Skip pulled to a stop at a red light, his raised brow catching Russell’s eye. “So you’re still in town.”
“Where are we headed?” Russell spoke over top of Skip’s comment, too nervous to stop himself. The last time those lips had been so close, they’d been wrapped around his cock.
“There’s a place over in Wallingford.” From the heat in his voice, Skip might have been thinking the same thing. “I’ll buy you a burger, but only if you tell me what’s going on.”
“What?”
“Dick’s Drive-Inn. You know, hamburgers. Don’t they have those in Montana?”
Russell snorted. “It’s Minnesota.”
“Isn’t that the same place? I flunked geography.” Skip’s grin gleamed through the semidarkness, halfway between a promise and a dare.
Russell adjusted his jacket, afraid to look in Skip’s direction. That hint of flirtation had sidetracked his hunger and bolstered his resolve to keep his mind on business. “You asked why I’m still here.”
“I am a little curious.” Skip eased the car to a stop and stretched out his arm, draping it over the back of the seat, fingertips resting lightly on Russell’s shoulder. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”
Russell took a deep breath, made a fist with his right hand, and pressed it against his left palm. One knuckle gave a loud pop. Part of him wanted to stop, to talk, to clear the air before driving any further down this path to the unknown.
The rest of him wanted Skip alone in a dark room with the door locked.
Flexing his fingers, he forced that thought away. “This is awkward, you see, because it has to do with Susie.” He’d had all day to rehearse his lines, but he still got snarled up. “She...” He squinted into the setting sun. “She ran off with Ryker, and my aunt asked me to find her and bring her back to Red Wing.”