The Night Watchman(28)

They had stopped in a zone that said No Parking at Any Time.

“I’m Earl. They call me Freckle Face. And that thing’s for other people,” he said when she pointed at the sign.

He got out, barged around to her side of the car, opened the door, and tried to coax her out. Letters of looping unlighted neon were fixed above a door. Log Jam 26. The place looked like a bar to Patrice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, knowing she’d made a mistake. “I don’t go into bars.”

“Me neither! This place isn’t a bar. No. It’s a camera shop.”

Patrice turned around, leaned into the backseat, and tugged her suitcase into her arms. She stood up beside the car holding the suitcase.

“I’m going now. How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe me nothing.”

His arm went around her and he tried to propel her forward. He would have had no luck except that another man, skinny with a black ducktail, was there suddenly. They held her elbows as she gripped the suitcase to her chest and together the two men swept her across the sidewalk. Through the doors. There was a grimy lobby, red carpeting. A dim space full of tables and chairs. A lazy muttering all around.

“Where’s the cameras?” cried Patrice.

In the center of the club, a lighted tank of water. Huge and glowing, it cast a false greenish light on the surrounding tables. All of this passed by as in a panic she was whisked across the main floor, where she thought she’d better stay. There was a mirrored wall reflecting bottles of liquor. A dark corridor like a trap. How had she found the scum so fast?

Patrice crumpled to the floor in a stubborn heap. The men tried to pull her up, but she made herself extremely heavy. Wood Mountain hadn’t told her how to deal with scum, just that she must find them. She forced the weight of her body to cling to the floor. “Let me go!” she yelled. With that yell, she triggered something in herself. An unguessed-of force. She reared up, swung her bag at the ducktail man. Connected. He bent over, grunting. A man drinking at the bar slid off his stool, walked crisply over to the scene. He was wearing a gray jacket and gray tie. His face was lean, yellowed, his eyes shadowed with sickness, glittering under the gray fedora he hadn’t taken off even to drink his drink. His pants drooped around his skinny legs.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sick.”

“I am not! They’re trying to kidnap me!”

“That true, Earl? She seems like a nice girl. What is your motive here?”

“Trying to give her the job!”

“Well, let her sit down, have a drink, like in a regular place. Talk it over. Don’t just drag her in. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s how we got Babe the other time.”

“You just dragged Hilda in here? You guys are apes.”

Freckle Face let go of Patrice’s arms, brushing them lightly as if in apology. Or to remove his behavior.

“It’s unbecoming, how you just dragged her in here,” said the drinking man. He nodded down to Patrice. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“I don’t suppose she would have come in here by herself,” said Freckle Face. “It’s not a clean place.”

“It is a clean place,” said the man in the gray suit.

“If you say so. But we need somebody tonight. And look at this girl. Don’t she look like a waterjack?”

“Just Babe’s size,” said the dark skinny man. “For the outfit.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“That’s about enough,” said Patrice. She stepped forward, tried to gather her wits, disguise her shaking. Again, she found that her own actions built up her own boldness. She slammed away the men’s hands, spoke loudly. “I’m here looking for my sister. I have to get back home in one week. He told me this was a camera store. I don’t go to bars. I don’t like men who go to bars. I want to go to a certain address. Find my sister. She’s in trouble.”

“She’s an Indian too?” the skinny little man wondered.

“Jeezus. The average IQ intellect around here is about thirty,” said the man in the beautiful hat. “Of course she’s an Indian, Dinky, she’s her sister.”

“Well I didn’t know,” said Dinky.

“Camera store?” The jaundiced man raised the brim of his hat. Freckle Face shrugged.

“I’m Jack Malloy,” said the man. He held his hand out. Patrice took it. The hand was cold and dry. Patrice was startled and looked more closely at him. He was definitely ill. Or maybe cold hands warm heart. Vera would have said that.

“Come. Sit down. Have a drink.”

“I don’t drink. I want to go to Bloomington Avenue.”

“Why the hell you want to go over there?” asked Dinky. “It’s all Indians.”

“You just beat the dummy record,” Jack said. “Get out of here. We have a lovely Indian princess we are trying to give a job to and you keep insulting her. Look, miss, you can have a soda pop. Billy in the back will make you a hamburger sandwich. On the house. All you have to do is listen to the job description.

“You are an Indian lady, right?” he said to Patrice. “Because you are a tad light, but . . .”

“From my father.”