“I’ll take care of Kevin,” he said firmly. And hoped that it was true.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Every other Saturday, Wickie had the night off, and it was an other Saturday tonight. Sam decided to remain in the bar anyway, watching, listening, picking up what information about Snow Owl he could, and giving himself a respite from Rimae, Bethica, and everyone else. He took over the piano bench, idly picking out a tune, nursing a beer along.
The Polar Bar wasn’t very well patronized for a Saturday night. Perhaps a dozen couples, half that many unattached men and women, all of whom already knew each other, sat around and talked. They noticed his playing and started to tip him for requests. The Polar Bar wasn’t a sophisticated, swinging pickup place. It was a neighborhood bar, where everybody knew his name.
He wondered if Wickie could play. If not, the bartender would have some explaining to do once Sam Leaped out. He’d done something like this before, Sam thought he remembered. He didn’t think he’d be involved in any car chases this time, though. At least nobody had waved a gun at him so far. But nobody was asking him to sing, either, and he distinctly remembered that he liked to sing.
He decided not to push it. The tastes of the clientele of the Polar Bar leaned toward country-western, and he did the best he could. Between old Marty Robbins tunes he sneaked
in some jazz, and nobody seemed to object.
He would have liked to really cut loose, but he didn’t want to call that much attention to himself. Maybe tomorrow, when the bar was closed, he could come back in and practice awhile. For now he ran unfamiliar hands over the yellowed keys and hummed to himself.
He’d spent a couple of hours that way when Rimae Hoffman leaned over him, chuckling deep in her throat. Wreaths of cigarette smoke surrounded her head, and Sam had to force himself not to make a face at the mixed smells of lilac perfume and tobacco.
“You keep surprising me,” she said, making no particular effort to keep her voice down. “You’re a man of hidden talents.”
“More than you could ever guess,” Sam responded, feeling a sudden need to watch where he put his hands.
“Oh, I’m finding out.” She expelled streams of smoke from her mouth and nostrils, looked around for an ashtray, and discovered Sam had moved it several tables farther away. She brought it back with her, mashing the cigarette down. “Bethica says you got into a fight with Kevin Hodge about that keg this morning. I keep telling you, baby, don’t bruise the paying customers.”
Sam shook his head, not sure what to say.
Someone else came by, stuck a dollar into a glass on top of the piano, and requested “Please Believe Me.” He sighed and did the best he could from the memory of the melody and unskilled hands, only having to start over twice. Rimae waited until he was finished, leaning on the piano and smiling at him, her hand curled around a glass. She wore bright red fingernail polish on short, workmanlike nails. Worn down instead of piled up, and styled in a casual flip, her teased hair was medium length. Her skin was dark, almost leathery with repeated tanning, her face lined by character and weathering.
She must have dyed her hair since last night, Sam thought. No gray roots showed now. Her makeup was less vivid than it had been the night before, too. She had character in her face, ironic humor in her bright blue eyes—not like Bethica’s, Bethica’s eyes were the soft blue of cornflowers while Rimae’s were crystalline, glittering, outlined in kohl and spiky lashes.
And she was watching him as if she knew something about him and it amused her. At least she wasn’t furious at him any more. The look in her eyes wasn’t angry, that was for sure. Speculative, perhaps. Possessive.
This was the time, he thought, that Al should pop in, making some snide comment about Rimae still having the hots for him. And she did, he could tell, even without the incident of the previous night. It was that look.
But Al never showed. He kept playing, not meeting Rimae’s eyes, until she finally laughed her throaty laugh again and took herself and her cigarettes over behind the bar to talk to the woman handling the Saturday-night shift. He sneaked a glance after her as she swayed away. It was a shame Al was missing this; black satin toreador pants, a concho belt with sandcast silver links three inches square, a white blouse with layers of frothy lace at collar and cuffs. It might have looked cliche, but it wasn’t. Conversation swirled around her and followed her as she greeted the patrons that she passed.
His hands rippled out a few bars from “The Girl From Ipanema” all on their own, and he shook his head in disgust and got up. He debated a moment about the tips in the glass, decided Wickie could probably use the money, took it and stuffed it into a pocket of his jeans. He could always count it later and leave Wickie a note of the total for tax purposes.
Smiling, he finished his beer in one long swallow and waved away the two or three voices raised in protest as he slipped out the front door of the bar, closing off the noise of it with the closing of the door. He paused to take a deep breath of the chilly night air, clearing the smell of tobacco smoke from his lungs, and looked around at the litter of cars nuzzled up to the building. Family cars, most of them. The
summer economy of Snow Owl didn’t lend itself to Jaguars and Mercedes.
He could smell steaks grilling somewhere in someone’s backyard barbecue, tangy in the mountain air. He followed the smell away from the noise and lights and cars until he found himself standing in the trees, pine needles crunching under the soles of his
