Authors: John Lutz
She climbed in and gave him the address of Wild Red’s in the Village.
MUSIC was pulsing from inside, and when she opened the heavy wood door it was deafening. Raw sound tumbled out onto the sidewalk, as if it had weight and substance and might envelope her.
Wild Red’s was long and low-ceilinged, with a polished mahogany bar that ran the length of one wall and disappeared in dimness and a haze of smoke as if into another dimension. The place was decorated in a motorcycle motif, with wall posters of leather-clad riders slouched on sleek mechanical chargers. One of the riders was a smiling young woman, nude except for black leather boots with high heels, and with incredibly tattooed breasts. The front end of what looked like a real motorcycle was mounted on the wall behind the bar, as if it were a moose head. A plaque beneath it read “Harley-Davidson” in flowing chrome letters. Allie stood just inside the door and waited for the pungent smell of marijuana to hit her, but the only scent was a mingling of stale liquor and ordinary tobacco smoke.
The music was blasting from large box speakers mounted at precarious angles high on the walls, aimed sharply downward like weapons for maximum volume. The song was one Allie didn’t recognize, but it featured a strong steel guitar and a driving background beat.
Half a dozen people sat at the bar, two women and four men. One man was wearing a business suit, the other three had on leather jackets and boots. One wore leather pants to go with his outfit, and a long white scarf draped around his neck, as if he were a Kamakazi pilot living it up before his brief flight to oblivion. Maybe that was what it was all about, Allie thought.
The two women seemed to be together. The nearer of them was a hefty redhead and had on a tan windbreaker and jeans. Her thighs were so thick and muscular they visibly strained the jeans’ stitches. On her jacket was a gold pin, a miniature set of handcuffs. Her companion was a petite brunette with squared bangs and a face like a leprechaun, wearing a studded Levi’s jacket and baggy camouflaged fatigue pants. The pants were tucked into what appeared to be highly polished army boots. She looked like a tough orphan who’d been drafted by mistake.
There were a couple of people slouched at tables along the wall opposite the bar, mostly dressed in leather. They were drinking and talking softly. A man wearing what looked like a World War I flying suit, complete with leather helmet and dangling goggles, was dancing swing with a woman in a tight blue jumpsuit with BEYOND BITCH lettered on the back. The impact of their boots on the hard plank floor could be heard as an echoing beat under the music. Whatever the uniform at Wild Red’s, boots seemed to be in fashion.
Without moving their bodies a millimeter, the three men at the bar turned their heads and stared at Allie. She ignored them and walked over to the bar and sat perched on the end stool, near the door. There was an empty glass in front of the stool next to hers, and a wadded white paper napkin with lipstick on it. A similar red-smeared napkin lay on the floor.
The bartender was a wiry young guy with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Moving lightly, as if he had much more energy than weight, he came over and said, “Yes, ma’am?”
Allie told him she wanted a Scotch and water on the rocks.
When he brought the drink, he said, “Been a while.”
“From when?” Allie asked.
He looked puzzled. Then he put on a smiling but vacuous expression. Instant department-store mannequin. “Sorry. Thought you were somebody else. A regular.”
“Who would that be?”
“Well, I couldn’t really say. You know how it is, something struck a note in my mind.”
Allie said, “Has Allie Jones been in lately?”
The bartender smiled. “I don’t know many customers by name. What’s she look like?”
“Something like me, they say.”
He grinned, genuinely this time, crinkling the flesh around his eyes and making him look handsomer but ten years older. “Which explains why you looked familiar, I guess. Now I think I know the woman you got in mind. Not that you look a lot like her in the face; it’s more the way you carry yourself or something. Just … something, but strong. Your gestures and all. But like I said, it’s been a while, even if we’re talking about the same person.”
“Know anybody who could tell me where to find her?”
“Don’t know anybody who would, even if they could. This isn’t the kind of place that acts as a referral service, you know?”
“Sure.” Allie sipped her Scotch. It was surprisingly potent, or maybe she was lightheaded from all that had happened to her. The bartender wandered off to see if anyone needed a fresh drink. Glad to get away from her, she thought.
She sat there awhile, watching, waiting. The other drinkers were studiously ignoring her, she was sure. They had the instincts of herd animals. There was something about her not setting quite right with them, throwing the night slightly out of sync. Danger at the waterhole.
The blaring music stopped and a softer, slower song came over the speakers, a number by Sade with a hypnotic Latin rhythm. The two guys in leather swiveled down off their stools and started to dance. They were good. What they were doing looked like a slow, grinding cha-cha in perfect time to the syncopated beat. The gamine brunette in the fatigue pants and studded jacket stared openly at Allie, grinned, and stuck out her tongue and wriggled it. The guy in the business suit said, “Stop that, Laverne.” Laverne said, “Fuck you, Cal!” but not as if she were mad. They were friends, Laverne and Cal.
Allie got up and carried her drink over to where Cal sat with his elbows propped on the bar. He was slightly overweight, in his forties, and had very blond unruly hair and a pleasant moon face. Like a grown-up Huck Finn, Allie thought. Though it was unlikely Twain had ever imagined Huck frequenting a leather bar. Where was Becky Thatcher?
Settling onto the stool next to him, Allie said, “I’m looking for Allie Jones. Know her?”
Cal smiled. A beautific smile despite crooked teeth. “Not as I can recall. Wanna dance?”
“No, thanks. You ever heard the name before?”
“Allie Jones? Yeah, I think so, but I couldn’t be sure where. Hey, whoa! Aren’t the police looking for an Allison Jones?” Tumblers in his mind had obviously clicked into place. Without waiting for her to answer, he said, “Yeah …” Looked apprehensive. Then his open, pale features went as blank as if a lamp inside him had been switched off.
At first Allie was afraid her photo might have been in the papers or on TV and he’d recognized her. For a crazy instant she considered running for the door.
Then she realized he probably thought she was an undercover cop, searching for … herself. Well, that would make a kind of sense from his point of view.
She thought, the best defense … Said, “Still like to dance?”
“Uh-uh. Sorry, gotta go.” He turned away from her and dropped a folded five-dollar bill on the bar, then got down off his stool and walked outside, moving fast but trying not to hurry.
The two leather freaks on the dance floor had been snorting something from a white handkerchief while they swiveled their hips to the beat. Probably butyl nitrate. One of them had been watching what went on at the bar. He blew his nose in the handkerchief and stuffed it in one of his jacket’s many pockets. Innocent guy with a cold, that’s all he was. Sure.
Allie decided hanging around Wild Red’s any longer was useless. She paid for her drink and got down off her stool.
As she was walking past the two women at the bar, the redhead in the tan windbreaker said, “C’mon back sometime when you’re not lookin’ for that dumb cunt Allie. You don’t really wanna find her anyways; girl’s sicker’n sick.”
Laverne said, “Speakin’ of dumb cunts, shut the one under your nose.”
The redheaded woman smiled and shrugged. Allie nodded to her and went outside, wondering if the stares she felt would leave holes in the back of her jacket.
She was glad to be on the sidewalk. Breathing fresh night air.
She’d taken only a few steps when a man’s voice said, “Hey, Allie, you in the deepest shit, girl!”
She turned and was facing a husky black man with a full beard and a dangling gold earring. He’d been hurrying toward her, but now he stopped in midstride. A surprised, suspicious look washed over his blunt features. He frowned, calculating. There was something wrong with his face, a puckered scar beneath his left eye, almost like another, squinting eye.
He said, “Sorry, Miss, had you wrong,” and turned to walk across the street.
“Wait a minute!” Allie said, starting after him.
He shook his head without looking back. “Ain’t got a minute.”
He obviously knew Allie was wanted for murder, and thought it more than coincidence that a woman who so much resembled her—Hedra—had emerged from Wild Red’s. He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t know her and didn’t want her to link him in any way to the Allie Jones he did know.
“Dammit! Need to talk!” Allie called, as he picked up too much speed for walking and started to jog.
She began chasing him, and he glanced back and broke into a flat-out run, crossing Waverly diagonally. He’d decided she was trouble he could outdistance.
He was bigger, faster. But Allie was desperate.
Damn him
! She lengthened her stride, feeling the strain in her thighs. Tried to breathe evenly through her nose, the way she’d been taught in gym class in high school, so she could regulate the flow of oxygen to her lungs and wouldn’t get winded too soon.
The man ahead of her could run; he had an easy, athletic stride despite his bulk. His arms swung loosely and rhythmically and his shoulder muscles rippled beneath his tight brown jacket. He gave the impression he had strength in reserve.
He cut around a comer, using some of that strength to run faster. Allie tripped over a raised section of sidewalk and almost fell. She stumbled forward half a dozen lurching steps before regaining her balance.
By the time she’d rounded the corner, he was well ahead of her. Pulling away. She was sure she was going to lose him.
But at the next corner a cluster of pedestrians waiting to cross the street slowed him down.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw Allie gaining ground, and elbowed people aside. Tires screeched and a horn blared at him as he interrupted the flow of traffic.
By the time she reached the intersection, the light had instructed the waiting throng to walk. She crossed the street at a run, bouncing off a heavyset woman who cursed at her. A female voice said, “Rude bitch!” Somebody laughed. Allie didn’t apologize or break stride, only ran faster.
She’d lost sight of the man, but she held her speed for the next block. Ahead she glimpsed a dark figure swinging around an iron railing and diving down the steps of what appeared to be the entrance to a basement apartment. Like a hunted animal going to ground.
Allie sucked in a harsh, rasping breath that seared her lungs and ran hard for the iron railing. A throbbing ache flared in her right side, threatening to buckle her body and make her slow to a bent-over walk.
Keep running! Push
!
She swung around the corner rail, as she’d seen her quarry do, cutting her hand on a sharp spur of wrought iron. She lunged down two of the concrete steps and then stopped, gasping for air.
A Hispanic boy about fourteen was standing hunched in the shadowy corner of the entranceway. He had his narrow back to her, but his head was twisted around so he could see her, the glow from the street catching his smooth features. Allie could hear the spattering of his urine on concrete; she breathed in the ammonia stench of it. He continued to gaze insolently over his shoulder, light from above causing the white of one eye to glitter. “What the fuck you want, lady?”
She didn’t answer.
He turned his body toward her and stood with his feet spread wide, zipping up his pants. Grinned.
Allie bolted and ran across the street, then walked back the way she’d come. She looked behind her several times to make sure the boy wasn’t following.
After a few blocks, her breathing evened out and the pain in her side faded away. But her thighs still ached and her knees felt weak. She walked slowly, trying to collect her thoughts.
At least she’d met people who’d seen Hedra pretending to be her. Hedra using her name and clothes and mannerisms. Not the sort of people who’d talk to the police, though, even if they might be believed. Even if the police could locate most of them.
But what did it all actually prove? The police would think it had been Allie herself who’d frequented Wild Red’s, dressed and made up for picking up men, then, in less extreme clothes and makeup tonight, she hadn’t been recognized. Certainly that’s what a prosecutor would maintain in court.
And it sounded plausible, she had to admit. More plausible than
her
story.
Again, Allie found herself wondering if Hedra really existed.
THE next morning, in her room at the Willmont, Allie counted her money. She still had enough to meet her needs for a while, but even living as she was, Manhattan proved expensive. It was a city where money talked, growled, and laughed, and would step over you for dead. Even the air was expensive; a doctor would tell you that. Trading the computer for cash had been no problem; deal enough with computers and computer people, and you learn where hard and software might be bought and sold cheap and without questions. But stolen jewelry was another matter. She had no idea where to exchange it for cash.
From the brown envelope she’d stuck behind the bottom dresser drawer, she got out one of Mayfair’s gold chains, a thick, eighteen-inch one lettered 14 KARATE on the clasp. There was also an
M
engraved there; Allie assumed that was merchandise or manufacturing coding and not Mayfair’s monogram. And even if it was a monogram, so what? Plenty of people whose last names began with
M
. She hefted the tangled chain in her hand, closing her eyes as if that would heighten her sensitivity. It was surprisingly heavy and should be worth more than the others.