That was the kid. A wail full of shattered innocence that got to Ace like a dentist’s drill-kid suddenly figuring out, hey, my world is falling to shit here. That nothing’s for sure anymore. Something kids shouldn’t have to bend their minds around. Ace understood it perfectly from arguments in the house back in town. His eight-year-old son Tyler, and six-year-old Trevor…
Ace shook his head. He’d started losing to Darlene when he let her stick those foo-foo names on those boys and he never did catch up.
And then Ace got a look at the redhead.
Chapter Four
She came spinning through the door fast. Ace thought he caught a whiff of sulfur-but also roses-so he sat up and took a hard look as she wheeled around and confronted the dark-haired one, hands on hips.
“Back off, Janey…” Real strong no-nonsense voice.
The redhead was built, but not that built. And she was pretty-but not stun-gun pretty, to Ace. What struck him was her presence. Her stance, the tattoo on her shoulder, and the set of her eyes hinted at danger.
Not just trouble. Trouble in a woman was appealing to scavengers who like to nose around in weak, messy lives.
Uh-uh. Just lookit the way the energy pulses around her. Like a swarm of hornets.
He saw real danger in her too-intense green eyes-and Ace was thinking, Damn if a redhead couldn’t look like she invented anger. Eve, the first woman, was probably a redhead. This one was mad and fed up as a woman could be; short red hair frizzed out like static. She wore flared jeans with cargo pockets, this iddy-biddy white top with spaghetti straps and short at the waist, so her flat belly’d show. And sandals. Red lipstick; red polish on her fingernails and toenails starting to chip like she’d picked at it all the way from Minnesota. All that red hit his eyes at once, like warning flags. Clear across the room he could see the pale stripe of untanned skin on the third finger of her left hand where she had recently removed a wedding band. Her worn leather saddlebag purse caught his attention; gray quill leather he couldn’t place. And the way it seemed to overflow with too many things, Ace read the purse as a sign.
Like her life, maybe.
And then their eyes caught briefly in some fast barroom magic. Ace had to work at getting his breath. He felt the smile roll into his face, rubbing out the hangover. Figure the odds.
Damn.
You spend your life standing out under the biggest loneliest sky in the world and you’re just bound to get hit by lightning…eventually.
And, aw shit, her eyes were that kind of sticky hot that transfix a guy if he ain’t real careful. Damn if he didn’t feel the tug clear across the room. And he was sure he knew her just a little bit. Not real sure if you’re a saint in the kitchen, but I’d bet my last dollar you’re a whore in the dark.
Ace Shuster just had to go with it.
And it was like the feeling he woke up with this morning had climbed in the catbird seat and was driving him the way he’d pushed all that big iron for Irv Fuller’s dad all those years. The tug just kept getting stronger and more complicated with him ad-libbing a few self-dramatic flashes of redemption and rescue and deliverance. So he just had to stand up and clear his throat, like he was waiting on a formal introduction.
Goddamn, Red. I been waiting to meet you all my life.
The dark-haired one was inside now and read his face quick and fired a hostile look right through him.
The dark-haired one…
And for a moment Ace almost took a sensible step back because these women had all the right curves but he didn’t see an ounce of softness showing and that should be a caution-but his curiosity had the better of his common sense…
And then he thought, Uh-huh, like the guy said, the dark-haired one could be a lesbian. Maybe that’s what he was picking up? She was younger. Cleaner of muscle-no, strike that-more like colder, with permanent moody shadows burned right into her like beautiful bruises. Witch-black hair, styled short on the side, longer on top. No makeup, no purse; green designer fatigue pants and heavy black boots. And carrying a lot of metal, gleams of it notched the outline of both ears and pierced her left nostril. More at her throat, a coke spoon on a silver chain, Ace thought. He squinted and saw it was a little double-bladed ax.
“Girls, girls.” Gordy tried acting big and easy and gracious. Coming forward, the peacemaker.
“Girls!” hissed the redhead. “You see any fucking girls around here?”
“Mom!” The little girl made a face.
Gordy swallowed and said, mollifying: “Ladies.”
“I’ll settle for the ladies room,” said the redhead, raising her eyebrows.
“Ah, that door past the pinball machine.”
Ace eyed Gordy, who raised a reassuring hand. “No problem, I cleaned it this morning.”
Ace nodded and turned his attention to the kid, who was around six or seven, in beat-up tennies, shorts, a yellow T-shirt with North Shore printed across the chest. She was angular like her mom, with the same freckles and the same thick, burnt-crimson hair, but longer, pulled back in a ponytail. Dejected, she plopped down on a chair at the table and folded her arms across her chest.
The dark-haired one lit a cigarette. The kid waved her hand in disgust, got up, stalked across the empty bar, past where Ace stood and brooded at the pinball machine in the corner. She went up on tiptoes and studied the glassed-in bumpers and lights. Touched the flippers on the side.
Aware of Ace watching her, she asked, “What kind of video game is this?”
Ace was impressed. Cool kid. Staying focused through all this bullshit. He smiled. “Well, it ain’t a video game. This is what you call a machine. Got no computer in it. There’s springs and pulleys and stuff like that.”
The girl made a face. “Springs?”
“Yeah, you put in a quarter, pull that knob, and these five ball bear-”
“Kit!”
The dark-haired one hurled it with a sharp huff to her voice, almost like a snort, like when a doe warns a fawn.
The girl smiled tightly and stepped away.
“Not supposed to talk to strangers, huh? That’s good. Tell my own kids like that,” Ace said with a nod, leaning back.
The mom came out of the john. Her hands busy around her waist in a reflex, tucking in an imaginary shirt. The dark-haired one got up and approached her. “Well,” she said.
“There was a theater in town, maybe you two could take in a show.” Eyes darting. Still some mad in her voice, dismissive.
“While we’re taking in a show, where are you going to be?”
“Here maybe. I’ll hang out for a while. I need some time to think about things.”
“Things.”
“Us. You and me. I need some time to think about us,” said the redhead.
To Ace the words were barbed. Like big muskie lures swishing in the air. Whatever they had going had burst through normal restraints.
“You bitch,” said the dark-haired one. “I took time off work. I walked out on Debbie to play nursemaid to you. Now you’re sliding back into it.” She shook her finger in the redhead’s face. “Hang out here, huh? And drink, right?” She stuck a finger in the redhead’s face. “You’re the one who has to get drunk to tolerate sex with a man, remember.”
The redhead slapped the hand away. A crisp focused slap that cracked like a whip and brought Ace forward on the balls of his feet.
“No, please,” the kid cried.
The dark-haired one seized the redhead by the arm and yanked her toward the door. The redhead resisted, they began to shove each other. The kid screamed, got between them and both women tried to move her out of the way. Tug-of-war.
The kid came away wincing with red Indian burns on her arm.
The dark-haired one was coiled to hit back but Ace was up and moving, amazingly light on his feet for a man with a bellyful of hot hangover gravel. Going in, he noticed that the old guy at the bar had put down his beer bottle and stood, hands loose at his sides, watching in a certain way.