Читать книгу Providence Island - Gregor Robinson - Страница 12

| Chapter 6 |

What did I actually know about Quentin Miller? That she was rich and thin and languid. She played tennis. She would go to Wellesley College in the fall. She stripped naked in front of people when she wanted to swim, thought nothing of it. Her pubic hair was blond. What I had seen — not seen — flickering through the leaves … it burned in my brain like a hallucination.

I was determined to know more. Getting to know Jack better, that would be the key. (This seemed natural to me, not at all devious.) And what Jack wanted was to find out something about Marjorie Applewood. Marjorie Applewood was sixteen years old, a farm girl, and, I thought, a bit moony since her father had died. I remembered the small bedroom where she had shown me her poetry, the bedspread pink and frilly, the stuffed animals on the bookshelf, the faint smell of barnyard wafting through the window, the scent of her body laced with sweet lilac perfume.

I asked Phil about her at the Shalomar the next night. He thought I was the one who was interested.

“Marjorie Applewood?” he asked. “There must be some mistake.”

“Miss Goody-Goody,” said Chicklet. That was what the boys at the high school called her.

“She’s just a little girl,” said Henri LaTroppe. Henri was supposed to have a girlfriend in Iron Falls. Her name was Dulcy, and she was thirty-two years old. “You need to get some action, buddy-boy? Charmaine Ault. Ask her. Ask her to the drive-in at Iron Falls.”

“We’ll hide in the trunk,” said Chicklet, “and whisper, tell you what to do next, where to put it.”

Henri signalled for the waiter. The table was covered with peanut shells and empty draft glasses. They had only served me because I had come in with Phil and Henri; Phil looked legal age and Henri was legal. Henri also knew the owner — fixed his cars for him — and he was friends with the bouncer, a smooth-faced Ojibway from north of Parry Sound who everyone called Spook. Henri said that he was part Indian himself, that he was descended from coureurs de bois, but nobody believed him. His father worked at the mines in Sudbury.

The Tap Room of the Shalomar smelled like a urinal. There were always a few old men there in the back, smoking and mumbling to themselves. Five bikers were at the table next to us, members of the local chapter of Black Heart Riders. Phil and Henri knew most of them, from the school in Iron Falls.

“Hey, Ray, you’re in luck. Look who just came in,” Phil said. He nudged me with his elbow and pointed through to the other room. The Shalomar was divided in half, a holdover from the days of the old provincial liquor laws. The Tap Room used to be the men’s beverage room; the Starlite Lounge had been for ladies and escorts. The rooms were separated by a couple of oversize double doors that were now always open. From our table in the Tap Room, we could see the bandstand, the snack bar with its jars of brown pickled eggs and pepperoni sticks, and the small dance floor in the Starlite Lounge.

“This is your big chance,” said Phil.

Charmaine’s purple tank top glowed under the neon beer signs. Phil waved her over. She pretended not to see him. Then I saw why: she was with Jack Miller, Radley Smith, and a couple of others from the Bellisle Club.

“Hey, aren’t those your new friends, Ray?” asked Chicklet. “The boys in madras?”

I looked down at my beer. I didn’t want Jack Miller or Radley Smith to see me here. Perhaps Quentin was with them. Perhaps she would be joining them.

From the next table, one of the bikers said, “Hey, Bert, isn’t that your old lady?”

“Eh?” said the one next to him. He wore a sleeveless vest, had pink eyes, acne scars, and a wispy moustache that was fringed with beer foam. You could smell their leather jackets.

“Char Ault. In there.” The first biker gestured with his glass toward the Starlite Lounge. “By the door. Sitting with a couple of faggots.”

“Fucking A,” said another biker, a fat pimply one.

“Shit,” said the one with pig’s eyes and the foamy moustache.

“Nice language,” said Phil, loud enough so that they could hear.

“Fuck you. Fuckin’ hayseed,” said Bert, the pig-eyed one.

“Temper, temper, Bertram,” said Phil, scolding with his finger, and speaking like a school marm. “You talk like that, I’m going to have to report you. Demerits.”

“Fucking cocksucker. Who you think you’re talking to?” Bert half rose from his chair. “And don’t call me Bertram, ’less you want your fuckin’ legs broken. Fuckin’ asshole.”

“What we need here,” said Henri, eyes glistening, “is a good fight.” He leaned forward, reached behind his back into his belt loop, and pulled out a knife. He spun the knife beneath the lip of the table, so that only those at the next table could see it. The blade glittered in the dim light.

Bert faltered and drew back, glancing around the table for support. He hitched up his vest, and I saw that under it he had a knife, too. The roll of his stomach padded the hilt.

Then the largest biker at the other table — he’d been silent so far, smoothing his long moustache and watching — said, “Cool it.” The others sat down.

“Fuck,” said Bert, still glowering at Phil as he lowered himself into his seat.

Next door, in the Starlite Lounge, the band started up with a twang of guitars and the rattle of snares. I watched Phil go for pickled eggs and potato chips, and then saw Jack Miller coming over to our table, as though he had been waiting for the chance.

“Ray, I thought it was you.”

I introduced him to Henri.

“I’ve seen you at the gas station,” Jack said. Henri just stared at him, didn’t say a word. Jack turned back to me. “Come on over, say hello.”

On the way across the room, he asked, “Did you find out anything? About Marjorie?”

“I’m working on it,” I said. I asked him why he didn’t just phone her. “It would be a lot quicker than waiting for me.”

“I tried once. Her mom said she was out. And I can’t leave my name. I was taking a chance as it was, calling her. Her mother works for us out at the island — she knows who I am.”

“I know she does,” I said. “I know Mrs. Applewood.”

“So I’m counting on you, Ray.”

“Marjorie really likes you, that’s what I hear.” I imagined this was the answer that he wanted to hear. He brightened at once.

Jack and his friends were at a big table near the stage. Besides Radley there were two others; I’d seem them at the Bellisle Club. One of them was dark and wiry and had his own Corvette Stingray parked in the club lot. The other was fleshy and blond. There was no introductions, no explanation of how Charmaine was with them. Boys from the Bellisle Club usually didn’t hang out with local girls, at least not publicly.

Charmaine had had too much to drink. Radley had an arm around her neck, dangling over her shoulder. From time to time, he casually squeezed her breast. She didn’t look as though she minded it, despite what Chicklet had told us. You could see her nipples through her tank top.

The band took a break and music began to play over the PA system. Jack and Radley were talking about sailboat races. Charmaine looked at me, eyes half-closed. I asked her if she wanted to dance. Radley looked away from his conversation for a moment, the merest hint of hostility in his eyes. He wore a thick gold signet ring on the hand that hung over her breast.

Charmaine said, “Sure, why not?”

I helped her up. She leaned into me, a little unsteady. Her breath was hot, alcohol and tobacco. On the dance floor, I asked, “Charmaine, you think you should be here?”

“Hey, you sound like my mother. I thought these guys were your friends.”

“That’s not what I meant. What about your buddy over there, in the Tap Room?” I nodded toward the bikers, but she ignored me.