Part 10 (1/2)

”d.a.m.n!” I struck myself on the forehead. ”Scott's out of town. What was I thinking of?”

”So he is.” Vida frowned. ”Well, we have until Tuesday to cover the story. Unless,” she added with a tilt of her head, ”you want to go home now.”

”No. We can't.” The half-finished filet on my plate suddenly didn't look so appetizing. ”I'm negligent. We shouldn't have left The Advocate so stripped of manpower. Here we are, running around on what may be a wild-goose chase, and-”

”You know it's not.” Vida gave me a hard stare from under the cartwheel's brim. ”We've made considerable progress.”

”Ronnie doesn't think so,” I pointed out.

”But we have.” Vida put her fork down and rested her chin on her hands. ”See here, Emma, I'm the last person to slight The Advocate. Not to be overly dramatic, but we may be saving your cousin's life. If you feel so strongly about this ridiculous brawl, then I can return to Alpine immediately on the bus. There's one that gets into town at ten-twelve, as you well know. What do you think?”

I was torn. It was true that we had most of Monday and Tuesday to cover the story. But it was a big one by Alpine standards, and we'd have to be very careful so that none of the feuding partic.i.p.ants got mad and sued us. Milo would have the basic facts, but none of the details. Only Vida knew the full background.

”I'd prefer not going it alone here,” I said slowly. ”Hard news isn't your usual beat.” Indeed, Vida's rare front-page stories always contained the flavor of her House and Home section. If I let her write up this one, I'd have to edit it closely to make sure we didn't get descriptions of what the brawlers were wearing, where they'd gone on their last vacation, and what kind of peanuts had been served at the Icicle Creek Tavern.

”Let me call the bus depot,” I said, getting up to use the pay phone. I was wary of mounting charges on the cell. ”I think the bus makes at least one stop out here on Aurora.”

I was right. The local that went over Stevens Pa.s.s was due some ten blocks south in twenty minutes. We hurriedly finished our meal, paid the bill, and drove off in the Lexus.

”I really hate to see you go,” I said. ”What will you do for Easter tomorrow?”

Vida chortled. ”Inflict myself on one of my relatives whom I was trying to avoid. It'll be fine. I don't like leaving Cupcake alone this long anyway.”

Cupcake was Vida's canary. ”Edith Holmgren's feeding the cats,” I said. Edith was a widow who lived across the street and one door down. We had never been particularly friendly until I acquired Rheims and Rouen. Then I discovered that she owned seven cats, and apparently didn't become chatty with anyone who wasn't a cat lover.

”Edith.” Vida sneered. ”She enters those silly cats in the county fair every year. They've never won so much as an honorable mention. Scruffy animals, if you ask me. One of them is cross-eyed.”

We were five minutes early at the bus stop. I pulled into a pa.s.senger loading zone. ”I'll wait until you get safely on the bus.”

Vida started to say something, interrupted herself, and murmured, ”Of course. The hookers. And their pimps.”

”Right. Not to mention the drug deals going down on a Sat.u.r.day night.”

”Goodness. The city. I'll be glad to get home. So rea.s.suring.”

Since Vida's early return was triggered by mayhem, violence, and her desire to be in the thick of things, I had to suppress a smile. ”Alpine. So quiet. So harmonious.”

”Emma!” Vida turned sharply. ”At least the O'Neills and the Harquists are still alive!”

”I know.” I laughed, then saw what looked like the outline of an approaching bus. ”Here you go. I won't forget your luggage.”

Halfway out of the car, Vida glanced at me over her shoulder. ”You be careful. I mean it.”

”I will. Hurry, the bus has a green light.”

I could see a couple of hookers near the bus stop, looking tired and bored. A few yards away, a homeless man was propped up against a low concrete wall. Three teenagers carrying a very large and very loud ghetto blaster boogied down the street. This was not Vida's turf; I wasn't even sure it was mine anymore.

Just as Vida moved closer to the curb, a man approached her from the other direction. He appeared to be middle-aged, with a beard and wearing jeans and what looked like a gold 49ers jacket. He spoke to Vida, who rebuffed him with a swing of her purse. The man slunk away in the same direction he had come. He must have been panhandling. I let out a sigh of relief.

The big silver vehicle pulled in ahead of me. I couldn't see Vida get on, but a moment later the bus edged into traffic, and she was gone. To a far, far better place-at least I knew that's what Vida was thinking.

Now I had to go it alone.

AFTER VIDA LEFT, I felt lost. I sat in the pa.s.senger loading zone for a couple of minutes, vaguely watching the motley crew that plied Aurora. A patrol car slowed down as it came by, and I a.s.sumed the officers were going to check out the pimps and hookers. Instead, they all but stopped to stare at me. Then they picked up speed and drove on. Apparently, a well-dressed middle-aged woman in a new Lexus wasn't considered a threat to the justice system.

At last I headed off to cruise the bars of Greenwood. Ronnie had mentioned Freddy's, which was on a corner at a major intersection. There was parking in back, but I decided to find a spot on the street. The Lexus might be a magnet for rowdy drunks staggering out of the bar.

Freddy's was also a restaurant, the kind where you could get a tough steak and a shriveled baked potato after you'd managed not to pa.s.s out in the bar. They served hard liquor as well as beer and wine. I sat down at a table slightly larger than a silver dollar and ordered the first brand I could think of. Which was, naturally, Bud-weiser. This was no place for Seattle's famous micro-brews or exotic foreign imports. If I'd asked for a Harp's, they would have probably brought me a ukulele.

Naturally, I felt conspicuous. And nervous. To give my hands a task, I went to the cigarette machine and bought a pack of Winston Ultra-Lights. If Vida had been with me, depraved would have been the least of the adjectives she'd have used to describe me.

At going on nine o'clock, the large, utilitarian bar was about half-full. Twenty years ago Freddy's had been some kind of Masonic hall. I didn't know how many metamorphoses it had gone through since, but I doubted that any of the subsequent owners had spent much on decorating. Except for the usual neon beer signs and a couple of scenic paintings that looked as if they'd been done by the numbers-but not necessarily in order-the bar was strictly minimalist. I was already depressed, and I hadn't yet been served.

My waitress came toward me, walking as if her feet hurt. She was a dishwater blond on the plump side, probably about my age. The lines in her pale face showed the usual road marks of a life lived hard and unhappily. I took advantage of her mild expression of curiosity.

”Do you know Ronnie Mallett?” I asked, hoping I looked friendly.

She frowned. ”Is he the guy who offed his girlfriend?”

”Allegedly,” I replied. ”I'm his cousin Emma. Who did he hang out with around here?”

The waitress glanced around the room. ”See that guy with the long red hair sitting with the older bald guy? That's Morrie. He and Ronnie bowled together sometimes.”

”Good,” I said, spotting Morrie at a table near the jukebox. ”Anybody else?”

”Mmm... I don't think so. Wait-there's a guy at the bar-I can't think of his name. He's the one with the obvious b.u.t.t crack.”

Great. ”Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ”You've been a real help. I think I'll mingle, okay?”

”Sure. You running a tab?”

I shook my head and went for my wallet. Leaving a hefty tip, I decided to start with b.u.t.t Crack. Fortunately- I guess-the bar stool on his left had just been vacated.

He had an extra chin and no neck, but his face was pleasant enough when he turned to stare. ”Got enough room there, little lady?” he inquired.

It wasn't a great opening line, but given the circ.u.mstances, it sufficed. ”I'm good,” I said. ”How would you like to be interviewed?”

”Huh?” b.u.t.t Crack's broad face looked startled. ”Like on TV?”

”Not quite,” I replied. ”I'm a newspaper reporter.”

b.u.t.t Crack chuckled richly, then motioned at the bartender, a tall, reedy man with half gla.s.ses. ”Hey, Jack. This little lady wants to put me in the paper. What do you think of that?”

”I think she's crazy,” Jack shot back. ”Humor her.”

”I sure will.” With effort, b.u.t.t Crack turned to sit sideways on the bar stool. ”What do you need? My opinion of the war in wherever it is? What I think of Clinton and those broads in the White House? Who's going to win the pennant?”

”Let's start with a name,” I said, dutifully taking a pen and notepad from my handbag.

b.u.t.t Crack grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. ”Avery. Rhymes with savory. Avery McMillan.” He reached out a big paw, clutched my hand, and almost sent me to an orthopedic surgeon.