Blood Memories - By Barb Hendee Page 0,15
He stopped at the sight of me. “Who’s your friend?”
“Just a friend.”
He shrugged and pointed to the pool table. “Hey, I got a game going. Come watch for a while?”
The idea of watching two unwashed bikers play pool didn’t exactly strike me as appealing. What were we doing in this place?
Maggie pulled me along while following him, but she whispered, “Not that one. He’s here too often.”
Something in her statement made sense to me. This must be a transient place, a lot of people coming and going. And for all his rough manners, I did notice that Ben revered Maggie. He didn’t treat her like a prostitute. He actually pulled a chair out for her, then went to the bar and bought us each a glass of cheap red wine before resuming his pool game.
“He’s nice,” I whispered.
She gave me an inquisitive look and then motioned slightly toward Ben’s opponent. “I don’t know that one. When they take a break, find out where he’s from.”
“Okay.”
I took a long look at him. He was tall—no visible tattoos—wearing a black T-shirt like Ben’s. His hair was long and kind of stringy, and his nose looked as if it had been broken about six times since childhood. He glanced over at me, and I smiled.
A lot of people in the place seemed to notice us. My usual game was to stay unnoticed until I chose a mark. This whole routine was uncomfortable and alien. It felt weird to have so many people looking at me.
“Does your bartender have a degree?” I asked Maggie while watching him draw beer as fast as his hands could move.
“Doctorate,” she said, nodding. “Classical mythology.”
Ben won the pool game. His opponent followed him to our table, and they both sat down. There weren’t really any formal introductions. Ben laughed a lot and always kept the conversation going. His face glowed whenever he looked at Maggie. Somewhere, somebody mentioned that his friend’s name was Gunner—I didn’t ask what it meant.
Soon, Maggie and Ben drifted off toward the bar. The night seemed to be moving along quickly.
“You been in Seattle long?” Gunner asked.
So far I hadn’t said much of anything, but instinct told me to drop back into my usual frightened, hesitant act. “No, just a few days. I didn’t have anywhere else to . . . Maggie’s been helping me out.”
He glanced over at her dress. “Has she shown you around much?”
“No, this is the first time we’ve gone out.”
“Really?”
That got his attention. I wondered what he was thinking. This actually wasn’t all that different from my own routine, just a little more glitz and a little more dirt.
“I pulled in yesterday,” he went on. “Came up from California. Got a buddy in Canada I haven’t seen for a while.”
“Passing through?”
“Yeah, don’t know anyone in town.”
“You just met Ben?”
“Uh-huh.”
I made a point of not looking at him and kept running my finger around the top of my glass as if I was nervous. He reached out and stopped my hand.
“You don’t like it very much in here, do you?” he whispered.
“No.”
“I’ve got a room a few blocks away. You want to just go there and talk?”
“I don’t know . . . What about Maggie?”
“She looks pretty busy.”
I didn’t say anything. He stood up and held out his hand. “Let’s just get out of here.”
My own hands are so little that when I reached up he suddenly seemed afraid to grasp one. “Okay,” I said, “but I’ve got to tell Maggie where I’ll be. What motel are you in?”
“Green Clover Inn, room eight.”
“Wait here.”
Maggie was sitting at the bar, laughing with Ben. The buzz in the place drowned out my words as I leaned over to her ear.
“Just a drifter. Green Clover Inn. Room eight. Ten minutes.”
She nodded very slightly without breaking her smile and turned back to Ben.
Gunner came up behind me and put his hand on my back. He talked to Ben for a few seconds, and then steered me toward the door. “You’ll feel better once we’re outside,” he said. “It’s pretty smoky in here.”
That was kind of funny since he was holding a lit Marlboro between his teeth.
The streets were busy outside. I stopped to put a few dollars in an open guitar case but didn’t talk much to Gunner—what a stupid name. At that point I didn’t want to talk.
“Is your friend back there trying to get you into her line of work?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m already in her line of work.”
“You don’t act like