Part 30 (2/2)
I took hold of his arm.
”Better not,” I said. ”See that big guy? That's her bodyguard. And, no. He's not wearing Kevlar. That's all Manny.”
Keelie ran to her bus and boarded. Manny and Tiara, deep in conversation, followed at a slower pace. Jax ran a hand through his hair, shook his head, and walked to a beige Camaro. I watched him get in and speed away, gravel flying from his rear tires.
I looked around. ”Hey. Where's your betrothed?” I asked Dixie.
”Over there. With his hero” She enunciated each word like she was spitting nails.
”Oh. I guess now is not a good time to ask if you've learned anything more about our mystery man,” I said.
”Your mystery man. And, as it happens, I do have a little something. It's something Frankie overheard and let slip.”
”Yes! Yes! What did Frankie let slip?” I grabbed her collar. ”What? What?”
”Down girl,” Dixie said, loosening my grip and straightening her clothing. ”It seems Manny DeMarco has siblings.”
I stared. ”He does?”
She nodded. ”A brother and a sister. He and his brother don't get along. Apparently this brother is the black sheep of the family.”
I stared. Manny's brother was the black sheep?
Oy vey.
The plot thickened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
”Did you know the word 'hoedown' comes, literally, from the act of putting the 'hoe down'-meaning to cease one's labor for a spell and enjoy the well-earned reward of a night of food, drink, music, and dance?”
”Fascinating, but when I think of a 'ho' down it's in a totally different context,” Van Vleet remarked.
Eww! I made a face.
Nursing a major case of the sulks, Van Vleet was drowning his sorrows in beer because he'd missed the ruckus at Roseman Bridge. We were presently bellied up to the make-s.h.i.+ft bar in the bogus barn, located in a whimsical, wild west cardboard town.
”Cheer up, Drew. Maybe if you're a very good boy, I'll enlighten you on the origin of the term 'hootenanny.'” I promised. Man, I loved my brilliant phone.
”I still can't believe you didn't upload that video,” he said. ”Talk about amateur hour. You blew it, stroker. When Stan Rodgers finds out you withheld that video-” He put a finger gun to my forehead. ”Bye, bye, Blondie.”
I winced. He was probably right. Maybe I was too much of a soft touch. But after viewing the video umpteen times, after hearing the pain and hurt in Keelie Keller's voice, seeing tears-real tears-pour down her cheeks, I just couldn't bring myself to air the clip. It wouldn't be any different from her airing Taylor's trooper true confession It just felt wrong. And two wrongs didn't make a right. Right?
”I'll leave the tabloid journalism to you, Drew,” I said. ”I'm looking for something a bit more...extraordinary than that,” I said, in my best British accent.
”Sucker,” Van Vleet said, and drained his gla.s.s of beer. ”I sure hope those scruples of yours keep you fed and clothed and a roof over your head when Stan Rodgers kicks your f.a.n.n.y to the curb. Oh, and don't make me wait in the morning. The earlier we start, the cooler it is.”
”I hear and I obey, my liege,” I said.
Van Vleet shook his head and moved off.
”Twerp,” I said, raising my gla.s.s to signal for another beer.
Winterset had certainly gone all out, even building a mock-up of a Wild West town on land donated for the night by a local farmer. Phony storefronts, including a general store and apothecary, blacksmith's shop, a bank, the sheriff's office, and a hotel, added to the old west atmosphere. A ma.s.sive steel outbuilding had been transformed into the ”Ya'll Come Back Saloon” complete with swinging doors, makes.h.i.+ft bar, and a stage for the band. Strands of twinkle lights-indoors and out-added a modern and magical touch to the venue. In one corner of the outbuilding, the requisite mechanical bull sat, surrounded by a mountain of foam mats to cus.h.i.+on the fall.
I grinned, watching as a half-soused, old enough to know better, skinny dude dressed in European Capri pants and a T-s.h.i.+rt with a picture of the Holliwell Bridge on the front, bowlegged it up to the bull and hopped on. Or rather, tried to. The guy kept slipping off and sliding to the ground. And the bull hadn't even been turned on yet.
I shook my head. City slickers.
”Now that, Miss Turner, is a poster child for liquid courage, if I ever saw it,” someone remarked, and I turned to find Jax Whitver on the seat next to me. ”And I should know.” He hiccoughed.
”What are you doing here?”
”Partying,” he responded.
”You'd better not let Keelie see you.” And her bodyguard, for that matter. ”She was pretty clear on wanting you to keep your distance.”
”It's a free country. You know. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” he said, obviously having partaken of liberal libations before arriving at the party.
”Aren't you concerned at all about escalating an already...explosive situation? Or,” I finally thought to wonder, ”was that dust-up rehea.r.s.ed, ch.o.r.eographed, and performed flawlessly.”
”I wish,” Jax said. ”Hey, barkeep. Another round for me and my lady outlaw here.”
He stared at my chest for an uncomfortably long time.
”Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway,” he read. ”Truer words. Truer words. Sometimes I'm scared to death, but h.e.l.l if I let anyone know it.”
I blinked. ”Scared? You? Of what?”
The mustachioed bartender set beers on the bar in front of us.
”Of losing myself,” he said, and picked up his beer. ”Losing sight of what's 'portant. Of who's 'portant.”
I winced. The poor guy was drunk and clearly hurting. Separately, I am ill-equipped to deal with either one of these conditions. Together? Fuggetaboutiit.
”I effed up,” Jax said. ”Bad.”
I winced. Drunk, hurting, and potty-mouthed.
”We all make mistakes. That's the easy part.”
He turned bleary, red eyes on me. ”Whazz the hard part?”
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