“I’ve gotta go. See ya.” Stephanie jumped from the barstool, wiggling her ass for Nick when her feet hit the floor.
“Kinda young,” Maggie said as the redhead flowed out the door.
“Journalism student at Cal State.” Nick gave her his sloppy smile, ran a hand through his shocking white hair.
“Pretty,” Maggie said.
“She has the fire.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like she’s totally focused, energy all flowing in one direction and Heaven help anyone who gets in her way.”
“And where’s all this energy flowing to?”
“A network anchor desk someday. I’d bet on it. But right now it’s flowing toward a group of high school kids who are selling big time drugs over at Wilson High School. She’s gone undercover to make a drug buy. We’re doing the story this afternoon, filming the bust live.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. I was going to tell you later, after it was over.”
“You were gonna stand me up?” She looked into his eyes.
“Gordon’s coming in at 3:00. He was going to keep you company till I got back. I’m sorry you came in early, I wanted to surprise you with the story on the idiot box up there.” He pointed to the flat screen mounted above the giant mirror behind the bar.
“Surprise?”
His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Nesbitt.” He listened for a few seconds, then, “I’ll be right there.” He slid off the barstool.
“You’re leaving?”
“Gotta go. I’ll be back to watch the Six O’Clock with you. Don’t dance Gordon’s legs off.” Then he was out the door.
“You two not fighting, are you?” It was Richard McPartland, AKA Skinny Dick, the bartender. He was a wisp of a man, thin but wiry, strong the way ex-cons are. He was bald, with saucers for eyes and a smile that opened up under a thick white mustache. He was sliding into sixty and had spent most of his adult life behind bars for this or that, he’d say, but he’d been going straight for the last five years and was the best bartender on the Coast. Ask him, he’d tell you.
“No, we never fight.” Maggie climbed up on the barstool Nick had vacated.
“The usual.” He set a rum and Coke in front of her. That’s what made him so good. He remembered you, remembered your drink. You didn’t have to order here, Richard knew what you wanted before you did and he had it down on the bar before you could raise your hand for his attention. He knew your limit, too. No drunks allowed in the Menopause Lounge.
“You read my mind.” Maggie picked up her drink.
“I got a good shoulder if you need it,” he said.
“I’m okay. I’m just gonna nurse this and wile away the time till Gordon gets here.”
“Alright, but you wanna talk, gimme a shout.”
“Thanks, Richard, I’ll remember that.” She sipped at the drink and Dick went to wait on a guy in a three piece suit who had just come in and sat at the opposite end of the bar.
She set the drink down, fished her iPhone from her bag and tapped on a contact.
“International Off Road Magazine,” Ron Cook, her boss, answered on the first ring.
“Somehow I knew I’d catch you there.”
“Maggie, you never call in on Saturday. What’s up?”
“I need some time off. A week, maybe two, starting now.”
“Kevin and Mike are both still on vacation, that’s gonna make it kind of rough around here.” Ron had a whine in his voice. He never said no, he just whimpered and acted hurt till he got his way. He didn’t want to give her the time, not now, and Maggie understood.
“I’ll do the Sara Hackett piece when I get back.”
“Enjoy your vacation.” All of a sudden he was Mr. Nice Guy. He’d been after her for over a year to do a story on Sara, till now she’d resisted. She hadn’t been ready, she still wasn’t, but she couldn’t hide from her fear, from Sara, forever.
“Thanks, Ron.” Maggie hung up.
She felt faint. She went into the restroom, splashed water on her face, then faced herself in the mirror. She closed her eyes and all of a sudden she was back in Borneo, the green jungle grabbing at her as she drove, foot on the floor with Sara shouting, telling her the road went left. Maggie cranked the wheel and saw the boy. She jerked the car to the right, lost control and the car slid into the child, killing him instantly. And she’d come apart. That was her last race. She’d walked away from the sport and now Sara, her navigator, was famous, one of the top drivers in a worldwide sport dominated by men, while Maggie worked at a magazine that wrote about it.
Nick, who at first loved the idea of being married to a race car driver, was glad she’d quit. He confessed to her that toward the end he’d been worried sick every time she shipped her car off to some exotic location. Well, he didn’t have to worry on that score anymore. Since that day, she hadn’t even driven above the speed limit and she probably never would again.
She’d told Ron racing was wrecking her marriage and he’d hired her on the spot. Her writing was good and she got along well with everybody at the magazine. They were a family, but at times she envied Sara. She’d been putting off doing the interview, not wanting to admit to herself that Sara was the star now, but those feelings didn’t seem to matter anymore, not with the baby coming.
Back at the bar, she saw Richard drop a couple of Buds in front of a young couple who looked like they’d just come in off the tennis court. They were sitting close, touchy feely, the way young lovers are. It had been a long time since she’d been like that with Nick in a public place.
Nick, what was he up to? He was an anchorman, not an investigative reporter. Maggie pictured the redhead. Nick said she had the fire. What did he mean by that? Maggie sipped at the drink. Bacardi Select, like butterscotch floating in Coke. Then she looked up, saw her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. God, she looked awful. She fought tears. What in the world had she been thinking? How could she ever have doubted Nick? She was the one who’d had the affair. The one who got pregnant. The one who was going to kill her baby.
Horace Nighthyde saw the sign above the door. “Millie’s Coffee Shop.”
“Come on.” He squeezed Virgil’s elbow, pointed him to the door. “We can’t stand out here forever.” The woman had just gone into the restaurant type bar across the street. They could sit and watch from a window table. Horace needed time to think, time to deal with Virgil, time to get himself together.
Inside the coffee shop, he took a quick look around. The place had an early American decor. The kind of restaurant that served biscuits and gravy for breakfast, more at home in New Orleans than Long Beach, but here it was, complete with waitresses in red gingham dresses. He saw a vacant booth by the window and went to it. Virgil slid in opposite him.
“Can I help you?” The waitress dropped menus on the table. Her silver hair was tinted with a blue rinse.
“Coffee,” Horace said.
“Yeah, coffee.” Virgil always ordered what Horace did, decisions made his head hurt.
“And two of these.” Horace pointed to a picture of a burger and fries on the laminated menu.
“What are you looking at?” Horace said as the waitress made her way to the lunch counter.
“Nothing.” Virgil took his eyes away from the waitress’s ass. Horace wondered if he’d ever had sex. Most likely not. For a second he wanted to ask, but he was afraid it would confuse Virgil and that was the last thing Horace wanted to do right now.
He looked out the window. He had a clear view of the entrance to the Menopause Lounge on the other side of the street. The thought of doing her made him want to puke. He couldn’t get those haunting blue eyes out of his mind. He had to do it eventually. He knew that. But it made him feel cheap, like less of a man.
If only she’d left it alone.
But she had to tell the cops what she saw. Striker said she’d been over to the police station looking at
