Читать книгу Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - H. Mel Malton - Страница 27

Hey, boys, those boobs would do that

even if they all just lined up

jump jump jumping the whole number.

—Shepherd’s Pie

Kelso's tavern is the oldest drinking establishment in Laingford—and the sleaziest. It’s housed in an old wooden former-hotel on the ridge overlooking the train tracks. Long ago, the ridge was a prestigious address, with its spectacular view of Lake Kimowan and the mist-covered, pine-studded hills on the horizon. Then, during the Depression, the neighbourhood started slipping and it hasn’t stopped.

Kelso’s still hops, though. It was boarded up like its neighbours for a long time after the hotel trade died, but a guy from North Bay bought it in the seventies, gutted it, painted over the windows and stuck a couple of neon signs at eye level. A big billboard in the parking lot says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.

Morrison had left the cruiser back at the station, which was, rather happily for the local constabulary, right next door to the Tim Horton’s.

“If a cruiser pulls up at Kelso’s,” Morrison had said, “the place’ll empty faster than a loose bowel. Er, excuse me, ma’am.” He snickered. I stared at him, memory flooding back from the night before, at the community hall in Cedar Falls.

“You don’t have a relative who’s a musician, do you?” I said.

“My brother Dave’s the lead for Baggy Chaps,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Baggy Chaps. Were they playing the Cedar Falls Harvest Dance last night?”

“Where Becker’s brawl was? Yup. So?”

“Nothing. Just wondering.”

I let Morrison come with me in the pickup, although it meant Lug-nut would have to sit in his lap. The dog really liked him. I guess he has a thing for cops, like I used to. Morrison did rather resemble Luggy’s big, brown pillow at home. The dog kneaded Morrison’s mammoth thighs like a cat would, then settled down with a sigh and moaned as Morrison played with his ears.

My palms were slick on the steering wheel. I felt like I was taking my Young Driver’s test all over again. I hadn’t felt that way driving Becker the night before, but then, there had been enough sexual tension to make the rules of the road absolutely secondary to the rules of the dance. No sexual tension with Morrison. I felt him watching my every move. I just prayed that he wouldn’t ask me to parallel park.

When we got there, it was ten-thirty, and the lot was half-full. Becker’s Jeep Cherokee was parked a couple of rows over, and I chose a spot well away from it. No sign of the pickup boys, thank God. I could feel the bass-rumble from the open door through the soles of my boots.

“Remind me why we’re here, again?” I said.

“To give Becker the money,” Morrison said. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Maybe. Look at me. No way I’m dressed for this.” I wasn’t wearing barn-chore clothes, but it was close. I had changed out of my rubber boots and overalls, but I hadn’t dressed to go dancing—either on or off the tables. I was wearing the kind of outfit that sometimes elicits homophobic comments from the kind of guys who go to places like Kelso’s. You know what I mean. I had on baggy jeans. Work boots. A flannel shirt and a baseball cap. It was the same thing I had worn in the Lumber-R-Us store the week before, when a guy behind the counter had said “Can I help you, sir?” When I told him I was a ma’am, he was so embarrassed he scuttled away and got someone else to serve me.

Sometimes, I get called a dyke. I think it’s because I don’t bother with makeup and I have short hair. It doesn’t bother me, in fact, it sort of makes me feel proud. I know that this kind of attitude is likely to offend genuine lesbians, but I can’t help it. It’s called “passing”—as in “you could pass for a lesbian.” It’s a form of fraud, I suppose. Still, I like to reserve the right to be non-gender-specific.

However, I was about to walk into Kelso’s Tavern in Laingford (GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS), and looking even remotely like a stereotypical lesbian could get me into trouble. I ditched the baseball cap, undid a couple of buttons of my flannel shirt and tucked it in. I caught Morrison looking, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Well?” I said. “I don’t want to get slugged.”

“I know,” he said. “Too bad about the workboots.”

“I left my pumps at home.” I tried to fluff out my hair. There isn’t much to fluff.

“You got any lipstick?”

I felt like I was about to go undercover. This was getting ridiculous.

“I’ll wet my lips at the door and keep my mouth open. Maybe giggle a bit. What do you think?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he said and eased himself out of the cab.

“Stay, Luggy,” I said to the dog. “If anybody tries to break in, bite their hands off.” Not that anybody would. Lug-nut was ugly and looked mean. He licked my face, then settled down. I don’t know how I ever managed without a dog before. They make you feel warm and fuzzy all day long.

There was a cover charge, and Morrison paid it. I just stood next to him and simpered, which earned me a peculiar look from the guy at the door, who stamped our hands with a rubber stamp and said “Have a good time” in the kind of tone that meant we probably wouldn’t.

As we headed into the murk, Morrison muttered “you don’t have to act like a moron, for Chrissakes. We’re not walking into a pit of rattlers.”

We walked straight into a pit of rattlers.

Maybe we should have paid more attention to the cluster of big, black motorcycles parked near the door. There were bikers everywhere. Leather-wrapped, either bearded or Nazishorn, rings attached to places I’ve only seen on livestock and oozing a negative aura which would make any New-Ager reach for his or her crystal in self-defence. Some of these guys made Morrison look like Michael Jackson.

I peered into the smoky gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of Becker. The sooner we found him, the sooner we could get out of there. I saw him at the end of a bar, talking to a ferrety man with glasses and a flat cap. I tugged Morrison’s arm and pointed.

“He’s over there,” I whispered, which was dumb, considering that the music was so loud it was altering my heartbeat. Still, Morrison got the picture and we started moving.

“Hey, honey. Wanna dance?” Someone grabbed my arm and I almost screamed. I turned to see who it was. He was shorter than me, with a grey beard which came down to his chest. From his right ear dangled an earring in the shape of a skull, and his grin revealed a set of well-kept teeth, which looked sharp.

“Uh, no, thank you,” I said, pitching my voice to sound as much like a bar-bimbo as I could manage. “Me and my brother here are looking for our cousin Marky who’s just got outta jail.”

I heard a snort from Morrison.

The biker’s grin faded. “Oh. Too bad. My name’s Grub, eh? Just asking. Hope you find him. Have a nice evening.” He grinned again and moved away. I stared after him in astonishment. This was a biker dude? Skull and leather and all? Have a nice evening?

We walked over to Becker.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said when he saw me. It seemed to be a customary greeting with him. He’d probably still be saying that when we both met again on the banks of the Styx.

“Hi, Becker. Nice to see you, too. How’s your eye?” He just glared at me, so I turned away from him and leaned over the bar to get the attention of the bartender, who had so many tattoos on his arms I thought he was wearing a denim shirt, until he got close.

“I just love your arms,” I said, quite sincerely. They were fascinating. Snakes and daggers and Japanese Samurai warriors warring with hearts and flowers and the names of a dozen women. He smiled.

“I guess everybody says that, right?” I said.

“Not many women do,” he said. “Mostly they look for names that aren’t theirs. What can I get you?”

“Two draft, please.” I forked over a five and got more change than I expected, which I left on the bar. I’m nobody’s fool. I handed one of the glasses to Morrison, who nodded his thanks, then I turned back to Becker.

“How’s it going?” I said, casually. The ferrety man had melted into the crowd and Becker was fuming. Before he could reply, the music suddenly cut out and somebody announced the floor show. The lights on the postage-stamp sized stage flared up and the announcer howled “Heeeere’s Candy!”

Candy strutted onstage dressed in black leather and chains, possibly a last-minute change in the program due to the guests of honour, who were currently hooting and breaking glasses in the front row.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Becker said to me. He turned to Morrison. “Why the hell did you bring her in here? Are you out of your mind?”

“She has something for you. I didn’t think it could wait, seeing why you’re here and everything.”

Candy was doing some very interesting gymnastics and had appropriated a beer-bottle from one of the bikers. I stopped looking.

“What couldn’t wait until tomorrow? I was just getting some information from Jed Sheeney that could have wrapped that money-issue right up.”

There were shouts from the front table and I glanced over at the stage just in time to see the beer bottle disappear. I felt like throwing up.

“Isn’t that illegal, you guys? I mean, geez,” I said and knocked back my draft, which tasted like weasel piss.

Morrison moved over, so that my view of the stage was blocked. I can’t say I minded much.

“Yeah, Ms. Deacon, it is illegal. Like some other things,” Becker said, “but there’s no point trying to do anything about it. Know what I mean? Strippers keep these guys off the street, where they could do real harm. What’s so urgent? You still can’t keep out of it, eh?” He moved in a little and I stood my ground, reached into my pocket and brought out the money, which I held out to him. It occurred to me that, while Morrison had been worried about being seen to accept money in the Tim Horton’s, Becker had no such compunction about it in Kelso’s. He grabbed it.

“What’s this?” he said, taking off the rubber band and counting it.

“It’s John’s four hundred bucks,” I said. “The moneyissue you wanted to tie up. I found it in a bag of dog food I took from Travers’ kitchen when I picked up Lug-nut. Morrison said you were here trying to find out who John owed money to, and we thought it would help if you actually had it.”

He was turning it over and over in his hands, then he stashed it away in his leather jacket. It was a nice jacket. Made him look just like one of the boys.

“When did you say you found it?” he said and caught my eyes and held them. It wasn’t a look that had anything to do with his question. I didn’t know what he was asking, but I felt a vague fluttering of something that could have been optimism.

“I found it this morning, Mark,” I said, “just before I went over to give it to Francy.” I had a sudden flash of him naked. Ouch. Then it was juxtaposed with the memory of Fancy, hanged. I flinched. He was staring into me, and I suddenly realized he was wondering if I was high. The questioning glance had nothing to do with sex. It was that other thing. He would always wonder that, I decided. No matter where we met, no matter what the circumstances, he would always wonder.

“You found it before you found her, you mean,” he said. “And you didn’t tell us until now.”

“I meant to tell you, but I kind of forgot,” I said. Okay, so I’m sorry for trying to hit you for being a dink, I didn’t say.

“Good timing,” he said and turned toward the stage and Candy.

“I was kind of freaked out, Becker,” I said.

He didn’t look at me.

“I did find it just before I went over and found her hanging from a rafter in the kitchen,” I added. He still didn’t take his eyes from the stage. Boy, was I ever wasting my time. Nothing makes a woman feel more alone than the sight of a man watching a stripper. “I found it just before I phoned in a bomb threat and held up the convenience store in Cedar Falls.” Nothing. The police officer was fantasizing about being a beer-bottle, maybe. Illegal is as illegal does. I turned to Morrison.

“Something tells me this could have waited until tomorrow,” I said and found that my throat was a bit tight. He nodded. The ferrety man had reappeared from the washroom area and was making his way towards Becker. Becker glanced back at me for the briefest of moments, then pushed away from the bar and moved towards him.

On our way out, Grub reappeared in front of me.

“Leaving so soon?” he said. “You find your cousin?”

“Yeah, we did,” I said, doing my bimbo-impression again. “He’s the same asshole he always was. Jail didn’t change him none.”

“It never does,” Grub said. “Hey, if you ever need any accounting done, though, here’s my card.” He handed me a square of cardboard. “Miles Gruber, Chartered Accountant,” it said, and gave an address in Hamilton.

“You’re an accountant?”

“Yup. The bike’s a hobby, eh? Me and the boys come up here to get away. So, like, if you ever need your taxes done or anything, just give me a call. Take care, now.” Grub patted my arm affectionately and walked away, the chains on his boots clanking like Marley’s ghost.

Morrison and I grabbed each other and ran, giggling like schoolkids, the whole way out to the parking lot.