The blaring music stopped and a softer, slower song came over the speakers, a number by Sade with a hypnotic Latin rhythm. The two guys in leather swiveled down off their stools and started to dance. They were good. What they were doing looked like a slow, grinding cha-cha in perfect time to the syncopated beat. The gamine brunette in the fatigue pants and studded jacket stared openly at Allie, grinned, and stuck out her tongue and wriggled it. The guy in the business suit said, “Stop that, Laverne.” Laverne said, “Fuck you, Cal!” but not as if she were mad. They were friends, Laverne and Cal.
Allie got up and carried her drink over to where Cal sat with his elbows propped on the bar. He was slightly overweight, in his forties, and had very blond unruly hair and a pleasant moon face. Like a grown-up Huck Finn, Allie thought. Though it was unlikely Twain had ever imagined Huck frequenting a leather bar. Where was Becky Thatcher?
Settling onto the stool next to him, Allie said, “I’m looking for Allie Jones. Know her?”
Cal smiled. A beautific smile despite crooked teeth. “Not as I can recall. Wanna dance?”
“No, thanks. You ever heard the name before?”
“Allie Jones? Yeah, I think so, but I couldn’t be sure where. Hey, whoa! Aren’t the police looking for an Allison Jones?” Tumblers in his mind had obviously clicked into place. Without waiting for her to answer, he said, “Yeah …” Looked apprehensive. Then his open, pale features went as blank as if a lamp inside him had been switched off.
At first Allie was afraid her photo might have been in the papers or on TV and he’d recognized her. For a crazy instant she considered running for the door.
Then she realized he probably thought she was an undercover cop, searching for … herself. Well, that would make a kind of sense from his point of view.
She thought, the best defense … Said, “Still like to dance?”
“Uh-uh. Sorry, gotta go.” He turned away from her and dropped a folded five-dollar bill on the bar, then got down off his stool and walked outside, moving fast but trying not to hurry.
The two leather freaks on the dance floor had been snorting something from a white handkerchief while they swiveled their hips to the beat. Probably butyl nitrate. One of them had been watching what went on at the bar. He blew his nose in the handkerchief and stuffed it in one of his jacket’s many pockets. Innocent guy with a cold, that’s all he was. Sure.
Allie decided hanging around Wild Red’s any longer was useless. She paid for her drink and got down off her stool.
As she was walking past the two women at the bar, the redhead in the tan windbreaker said, “C’mon back sometime when you’re not lookin’ for that dumb cunt Allie. You don’t really wanna find her anyways; girl’s sicker’n sick.”
Laverne said, “Speakin’ of dumb cunts, shut the one under your nose.”
The redheaded woman smiled and shrugged. Allie nodded to her and went outside, wondering if the stares she felt would leave holes in the back of her jacket.
She was glad to be on the sidewalk. Breathing fresh night air.
She’d taken only a few steps when a man’s voice said, “Hey, Allie, you in the deepest shit, girl!”
She turned and was facing a husky black man with a full beard and a dangling gold earring. He’d been hurrying toward her, but now he stopped in midstride. A surprised, suspicious look washed over his blunt features. He frowned, calculating. There was something wrong with his face, a puckered scar beneath his left eye, almost like another, squinting eye.
He said, “Sorry, Miss, had you wrong,” and turned to walk across the street.
“Wait a minute!” Allie said, starting after him.
He shook his head without looking back. “Ain’t got a minute.”
He obviously knew Allie was wanted for murder, and thought it more than coincidence that a woman who so much resembled her—Hedra—had emerged from Wild Red’s. He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t know her and didn’t want her to link him in any way to the Allie Jones he did know.
“Dammit! Need to talk!” Allie called, as he picked up too much speed for walking and started to jog.
She began chasing him, and he glanced back and broke into a flat-out run, crossing Waverly diagonally. He’d decided she was trouble he could outdistance.
He was bigger, faster. But Allie was desperate.
The man ahead of her could run; he had an easy, athletic stride despite his bulk. His arms swung loosely and rhythmically and his shoulder muscles rippled beneath his tight brown jacket. He gave the impression he had strength in reserve.
He cut around a comer, using some of that strength to run faster. Allie tripped over a raised section of sidewalk and almost fell. She stumbled forward half a dozen lurching steps before regaining her balance.
By the time she’d rounded the corner, he was well ahead of her. Pulling away. She was sure she was going to lose him.
But at the next corner a cluster of pedestrians waiting to cross the street slowed him down.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw Allie gaining ground, and elbowed people aside. Tires screeched and a horn blared at him as he interrupted the flow of traffic.
By the time she reached the intersection, the light had instructed the waiting throng to walk. She crossed the street at a run, bouncing off a heavyset woman who cursed at her. A female voice said, “Rude bitch!” Somebody laughed. Allie didn’t apologize or break stride, only ran faster.
She’d lost sight of the man, but she held her speed for the next block. Ahead she glimpsed a dark figure
