Red House Blues Page 8

  Suzan threaded her way to the bar and climbed onto a high stool next to a guy in an intentionally torn sweatshirt. The bartender was a chunky woman with cerise hair, pierced eyebrows, and blue Celtic knot work tattoos on her hands.

  “Could I have a white wine, please,” she said automatically, too late remembering the problem of identification.

  “We only have beer and soft drinks. Wanna Coke or something?” said the bartender.

  Having dodged that bullet, she ordered a Coke and checked out her fellow Jax’s patrons. Black jeans and t-shirts sporting slightly pornographic graphics. She had made a good call on the appropriate garb.

  At her left elbow a guy wearing a wife-beater shirt was drumming the side of his schooner.

  “Are you with the band?” she asked.

  “Not the one playing tonight. They stink,” he said.

  “I’m guessing you’re a drummer,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t take it as a come-on. “The biceps, you know. My brother used to play drums. So, what bands do you play with?”

  “Pig Iron most recently. You know them?” She shook her head no. “They’re pretty hot right now. Sometimes Scalplock. They got a new CD but I didn’t play on that one.”

  Suzan couldn’t believe her luck. The first person she pumps for info plays for Scalplock. What were the odds? It can’t be this easy. Something is going to go wrong, she just knew it.

  “I think I’ve heard of Scalplock. Do they play here?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Hey, my name’s Sol. What’s yours?”

  “Ann. I came up from Olympia to catch some bands. There’s nothing worth hearing in Olympia.” With luck he wouldn’t question her on the Olympia music scene because she knew absolutely nothing.

  “I hear you. No innovation. Seattle is the only scene worth shit.”

  “What do you know about the band playing tonight? What was the name? I couldn’t read the card by the door.”

  “Spent Ammo. Not really a band. Just a dude with lame hardware and a chick who sits in on keyboards when she feels like it. Strictly amateur.” said Sol. “Hey, you don’t want to hang around here tonight. How ‘bout we go over to the Croc. They got wine over there.”

  Getting picked up wasn’t what Suzan had in mind, though she could understand how he might have gotten that impression. If she unloaded him now, however, she wouldn’t find out anything about Scalplock. This required a delicate touch.

  “Thanks, Sol. The Croc sounds fine but a friend of mine is meeting me here later. Maybe we can all go when she gets here.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “No really, it’d be fun,” she said. “I’m interested in these bands you play with. Are they going to play around here soon? I’d like to hear you play.”

  “I’m playing with Pig Iron next weekend at the Ballard Firedog. Should be worth catching. We’ve got a new dude fronting from Vancouver. Scalplock’s doing a set here at Jax’s tomorrow night but I won’t be playing.

  “What a shame,” she said. “I won’t be here next weekend.”

  She would, however, be coming back to Jax’s tomorrow night. Of that she was sure. Over on the drum riser the “artist’ called Spent Ammo was setting up his equipment. It appeared to be held together with miles of duct tape and pipe dreams. Dread swept over Suzan at the thought that she was now locked into making a show of waiting for her nonexistent friend while looking appreciative of the dubious entertainment. From all indications it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Plus, she hadn’t worked things through to the end of the evening. The idea of walking back down to Pioneer Square in the dark, maybe trailing Sol-the-stud, was an unsavory thought. She would have to spring for a taxi. Another bleed-out for the budget.

  Sol excused himself for the john about the same time Suzan spotted a small empty table near the front door. If she could grab to it while he was gone she’d be in an excellent exit position when Spent Ammo revved up. She ordered another Coke and made a beeline for the table.

  The noise level took a significant leap as Spent spit “test, test, test, test” into the microphone. Unfortunately the sound level seemed to satisfy him and he screamed a few overused obscenities into the mike and proceeded to hammer the keyboard in front of him. Presumably his female keyboardist hadn’t managed to get out of bed for work tonight. Simultaneously the milling, drinking crowd amped up its own volume, probably in an attempt to drown out Mr. Ammo. God, what on earth had Sean seen in this total dreck?

  Caught up in the mystery of it all Suzan didn’t notice someone had drawn up a chair next to her until that person set a beer on the table and nudged her elbow.

  “Having fun, Sleeping Beauty? Nice jacket. Suits you,” shouted Marla over the din.

  “Checking up to see if the big-bads of Seattle have worked their evil ways on me?” Suzan shouted back.

  “Could be. That your friend?”

  At first Suzan thought Marla meant Sol until she remembered she had told her a friend of hers played at Jax’s. She’d have to keep better track of the lies.

  “No. He’s not here tonight.”

  Sol was elbowing through the crush, spotted her at the table and turned away when he saw she was with someone. Guess he didn’t want his imagined threesome after all, thought Suzan.

  She wasn’t sure she had traded up though. What was Marla doing, following her? Why? Was it concern for her welfare or something else entirely. Oh come on, you really have to keep the paranoia in check.

  Marla said something but Suzan missed it under the avalanche of noise.

  “What?”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here so we can talk!”

  Given the volume, Suzan figured she’d have to leave with her just to tell her she wasn’t interested. They got up together and pushed their way out the door into the street. A stiff breeze blew up from the harbor, carrying with it the smell of tandoori and clam chowder. Suzan zipped her jacket. It didn’t help much. Marla leaned back against the building and lit a cigarette, turning her head to exhale. She was waiting for Suzan to say something, and probably knew just what it would be.

  “So, where you here looking for me, or what?” asked Suzan.

  “Only in part. You mentioned Jax’s. The bartender is a client of mine and I always drop in to see her when I’m in town.”

  “ A client? You sell drugs or something?”

  “That’s low, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, exhaling a tendril of smoke. “I’m a tattoo artist. Do consultations and freelance work up and down the coast. Anything else you dying to know? I don’t have any secrets, which is more than we can say for you, I’m willing to guess.”

  Suzan didn’t like where this conversation seemed headed.

  “Back at the hostel didn’t we decide to keep our noses to ourselves?”

  “We did and I usually mind my own business. The business I’m in, I’m a pretty good judge of people but you are getting to be more and more of a puzzle. Even beyond the sleeping in the shower thing.”

  “How am I a puzzle?”

  “Well, there you go again, asking a question without volunteering anything about yourself,” she said. “See, that’s weird. Most people when they meet someone at least mention their names. You knew mine from Cliff, but you didn’t cough up your own. Why?”

  That was what was bothering her? She was waiting for an introduction? Talk about weird. Yet Suzan was a relieved to know it was something that simple.

  “I’m sorry, Marla. I didn’t realize I’d done that. I’m Ann. I’m up from Olympia for a few days. We okay?”

  Marla dropped the cigarette to the pavement and stepped on it.

  “Well, Ann, how ‘bout we new best buds catch a cup of coffee on the way back to the hostel? I know a place on Cherry.”

  Suzan took that to mean Marla was satisfied with her answer. She let Marla lead the way south on Fifth. As tired and chilled as she was, Suzan enjoyed the walk in the salty night air after the smog of Jax’s.

  Seattle was so differ
ent from Bellingham. Night in Bellingham after the stores downtown closed was relatively quiet and dark except for the intermittent streetlights and a collection of bars. It didn’t exactly roll up its streets at nine, but almost. Suzan found night in downtown Seattle dazzling, enchanting. They called it the Emerald City. Even the street trees, just budding out, were still dressed in sparkling holiday lights, as if the city was reluctant to put away its party bling. Display windows up and down the street glowed with bursts of neon and colorful merchandise. It was a fantasy city. A seductive place where it would be easy to lose track of reality.

  “Here it is,” said Marla.

  She steered Suzan around the side of a squat brick building and into the mouth of a narrow alley illuminated by amber light standards at each end.

  “Come on. It’s half way down”

  Down a shadowy ally? Suzan’s hackles raised.

  “I’m not sure I want to go after all. What kind of coffee shop is this, anyway?”

  “You’ll see when we get there. It’s over on the left,” said Marla.

  A green neon sign head-high on the wall said Cuppajitters, a red arrow pointing down into a dimly lit stairwell.

  “Are you sure this thing is open?”

  “Yeah. It’s almost always open. Dude who owns it lives in a loft apartment upstairs.”

  “I suppose he’s a client of yours.”

  “Good guess.”

  What’s with me these days? The person I was last week or even yesterday would have said forget it, would have run headlong back out of that alley toward the light and not looked back, wouldn’t be in a dark alley with a total stranger in an unfamiliar city in the dead of night.

  “On second thought I’m going to give it a miss tonight, Marla. I’m pretty tired and it’s getting cold.” Suzan took a step backward, bumping into a trashcan that sent up a cloud of putrid fumes. Marla grabbed her arm to steady her. At least she hoped that was the intent.

  “I won’t let you wimp out on me now, princess,” she said, as she led the way to the stairwell. “Trust me, you’ll fuckin’ love this joint.”

  The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, emitting a shaft of warm light and the aroma of fresh ground coffee, followed by a couple of thirty-somethings obviously on a date. They excused themselves as they pushed past to alley level. They appeared vastly more normal than the Jax’s crowd. Could be this wasn’t going to be so bad. Marla nudged Suzan through the door into Cuppajitters.

  It was an intimate room with walls of sandblasted brick and fumed oak woodwork. Votive candles flickered on each of a half dozen tables. An antique mirrored back-bar filled the wall opposite the entry, turning the reflected candles into a blizzard of fireflies. It looked like a place people would go for a cappuccino after the opera. Mozart played softly in the background, punctuated by the whoosh of the espresso machine. The coffee house was full of people, leaving only a few empty tables. For some reason that reassured her. The patrons conversed softly, their voices a pleasant murmur. People obviously went here for that rare activity, a civilized conversation.

  She let her eyes adjust to the light as they waited for someone to seat them.

  “I was right, wasn’t I, Ann?” said Marla. “This is your kind of place.”

  “I have to admit, you were right.”

  “Ever heard of Seattle’s Underground? This is the site of one of Seattle’s first businesses. I think it was a saloon or something. Later on when they built the streets up higher to keep the whores from getting muddy, and the old first floors were left behind as basements. There’s a lot of these places but you have to know where to look.”

  “It’s amazing.”

  It reminded Suzan of the dream she and Sean had shared of owning a gallery. It would have been something like this place, she thought. It was to have been a place people could come to enjoy art and music, a place to be together and talk. A place of beauty and community.

  At least that was how she had envisioned it. She wondered now if she had after all been alone in that dream. She would never know. A shudder of loss slithered through her.

  A skinny African American kid swooped in with two menus, motioning them to a table by the wall. The menu offered desserts, pastries, and a staggering array of coffee drinks. After the Cokes Suzan had downed at Jax’s she didn’t need any more caffeine so she ordered a decaf latte. Marla ordered a complicated concoction incorporating soymilk and cinnamon.

  “Sorry you came? You don’t look too happy for someone who says she likes the place.”

  “No, in fact I envy whoever owns it. I once wanted to open a . . . well, it was going to be an art gallery but it would have been like this. It didn’t work out.”

  “Where?” asked Marla.

  “Where what?”

  “Your fantasy gallery. Was it going to be in Olympia?”

  “Sure, Olympia.”

  “Not in Bellingham?”

  Marla waited calmly.

  “How . . . oh.”

  “If you’re going to lie you probably should try to be consistent, sweet-pea. You put Bellingham on the hostel register.”

  And signed in as Suzan Pike. Obviously Marla knew that also.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Marla, I’m a pretty private person, you know?” said Suzan. “I’m down here looking into a few things that are strictly personal, so can we leave it at that? You’re very nice and so is this place and I’m enjoying myself but I don’t want to trot out all my little secrets, okay?”

  “Well shit, that’s just it,” said Marla. “It isn’t okay, princess. You lied about your name. You lied about where you’re from but here you are. Thing is, I think you really do want to trot out your little secrets.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Oh? That’s not how it looks from this side of the table. Whatever it is you’re ‘looking into’, you’re not hot on going it alone. You’re afraid of something. I caught that right away. You reek of fear, and no one is better at spotting that than a tattooist. I’ve seen a zillion dudes, all guts and glory, piss their pants when I line out the needles and tubes and pull on the gloves,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “That’s what I’m seeing here ... you’re trying to bluff it but you are scared shitless.”

  Suzan didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “You’re not afraid of me,” continued Marla. “And I don’t think it’s the big city you’re afraid of so I’m thinking cops or maybe you’re running away from an abusive boyfriend. Well, what I’m saying is I know a bit about how to deal with that kind of hassle if you need back-up.”

  Was the woman seriously offering help?

  “Do you know how do deal with murder?” said Suzan. “Because that’s what I’m dealing with. So I doubt you can help me, but I appreciate the offer.”

  Even as she said it she knew she had gone too far. She had wanted to shock her so she’d drop the topic. All she wanted was for Marla to back off. First a nut-case herb woman thinks I need some kind of magic herbal force field and now the tattooed chick wants to play camp counselor. Ever since Sean left it seemed like everyone had ideas on how to take care of me. What, do I have an invisible brand on my forehead saying lost child?

  “Have to say that’s not what I expected, sweet-pea,” said Marla. “So, who are you planning to whack? Not me, I hope.”

  “Of course not.” God, what the hell is wrong with me? “Forget I said anything, Marla. It was a stupid thing to say. I don’t want to drag anyone else into this . . . trouble.”

  “You can’t drop a bomb like that and just let it sit there on the table like a turd. So spill.”

  You’re in it now, Suze. You’re involving a stranger when you turned down help from your best friend. How can this be the right thing to do? Yet it might be smart to get a reality check from an unbiased observer.

  “You don’t give up easy, Marla, I’ll grant you that,” she said. “I’ll probably regret it . . .”

  “As I’ll probably regret sticking my nose wher
e it doesn’t belong.” She smiled. “But I’ve regretted snooping in the past and it hasn’t stopped me.”

  “I have to admit it’s tempting to unload. Maybe a fresh point of view is what I need after all. I’m not sure how to begin.”

  “Tell me about this murder thing.”

  It was easier than Suzan expected to tell Marla about what had happened to Sean. It even gave her a feeling of relief to talk with someone who had never known him.

  Marla did, however, know Sean’s adopted neighborhood, could provide Suzan insight into the Seattle music scene he became a part of. She had street smarts, skills Suzan lacked. She found that Marla was a surprisingly good listener. They talked for another hour until Suzan was all talked out then walked in silence back to the Sea Turtle.

  After they had settled into their beds and turned out the light Marla told Suzan her own story, how she grew up in Seattle then moved to Oakland. She shared with her the tale of how she got her first tattoo and why. About her first long-term lover and how she learned a lot about abuse in those years. Around four they drifted off.

  * * *

  Suzan slept until nine and awoke famished. The adjacent bed was empty, Marla having presumably slipped out early for work. The first deep sleep I’ve had in I don’t know how long. She felt purged and clean.

  The first order of business following a quick shower was food and lots of cheap coffee, both of which she found at the McDonald’s a few blocks north on Western by the ferry dock. Her tray loaded down with a couple of McMuffins, a carton of orange juice, and a large coffee, she slid into a chair where she could watch the ferry traffic.

  Later maybe I’ll spring for a ferry ride across Elliott Bay to Bainbridge Island and back. Salt air meant home and comfort. It’s what comes of being a Navy brat, she supposed, and growing up on an island. It’s what comes of having so many Irish ancestors. Whenever she needed to think she headed for salt water. A beach, a boat, a dock - it didn’t matter just so long as she could feel the waves, smell the salt and sea life, hear the ocean pulse like a huge heart. Like a mother’s heart. Hear the gulls cry like babies.