Broken Shadows (10 page)

“Supergirl. What’s happenin’?”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Chapter Ten

Two days later, I was already regretting it.

I hadn’t touched a keyboard in a year and a half, and I sucked. Really sucked. I didn’t have to be a mindreader to see it in Malik’s face.

“You’ll get better,” he said. At least he hadn’t lied.

I’d spent the entire weekend practicing with the band. Malik was on bass, Paulie was on drums, and Erica, a Latina woman with a short cap of platinum blond hair and a nose ring, was lead vocals and lead guitar. She was good. Much better than any of the others, myself definitely included. She was a soprano, and she had range. I loved to listen to her.

By the third day, I’d gotten a little less shaky. The set list for the gig had a few covers, but mostly originals written by Erica and Malik. They had a style I liked—sort of Counting Crows in their mellow, minor key phase. Malik even played accordion on some of the songs, and Erica took out a harmonica. She tried to tease me into singing a couple of covers for the fun of it, but I steadily refused. I’d never done vocals before, and I wasn’t going to start now.

Paulie and I had settled into a routine, too. Before practice, he’d meet me in the alleyway behind Featherweight’s so I could neutralize his powers. James hadn’t come up with any new criminals for me to ground, so this was the only way I had to keep my own powers under control.

I was starting to get better at it. It took me less time now that I knew I could focus my gift. I could zero in on Paulie’s powers through the contact between our palms and pull the energy out of him in less than thirty seconds. It was a rush, probably for him, too, and it was gratifying to know I could control it. I took to discharging the energy on the old Dumpster, trying to keep it slow and controlled instead of quick and shocking. After our first few sessions, I learned how to release the power as slow heat instead of lightning-fast electricity.

My powers weren’t the only things I was learning to control. My fingers were getting back into shape too. By Wednesday, I could play Erica’s keyboard without thinking I sucked. So I started worrying about what I was going to wear.

Back home, when I’d played gigs with friends or gone out and played in the Quarter, it had never seemed to matter. I’d just put on jeans and whatever old T-shirt I had lying around, maybe something a little nicer if we were playing somewhere with a wine list. But I’d never actually worried about it. This time, in this city, it seemed important that I show up looking as if I halfway belonged.

My best option was still my good jeans and my favorite cotton V-neck shirt in faded red. High fashion, it wasn’t. I tried it on and looked in the full-length mirror in Jackson’s bedroom.

It was the only time I’d actually been in his bedroom. He’d left his bed unmade, and I wondered if he always did. His pajama pants were in a heap on the floor, and a discarded tie was draped over a chair in the corner. On his dresser was a picture of him, much younger, with another man about his age. They were smiling, wearing reflective sunglasses and short-sleeved T-shirts. It wasn’t a flattering shot—one of them was clearly holding a cell phone camera himself—and I wondered why he’d chosen it. A close friend, maybe? I stood contemplating the picture for several moments before I realized how much I was invading his privacy.

I shook myself and turned back to the mirror. I looked like I was ready for a long day of lounging on a futon. This outfit was never going to work. I’d been drawing a paycheck long enough to have a little extra cash, but whatever I got would mean an extension on how long I kept crashing at Jackson’s. For once, it felt worth it.

I decided not to think too hard about why I felt that way.

I hadn’t done much shopping in San Francisco. The dress code at the Center had been casual, so I hadn’t had to update my jeans-and-cotton-shirts wardrobe. I thought about my options for a few minutes, then I broke down and called Bridget.

I’d meant to only ask if she knew of a place to get good clothes cheap, but before I knew it, I’d agreed to meet her at the intersection of Church and Market for a shopping trip, and before we hung up, it had grown to include a late breakfast at a local bakery. Despite the fact that I was half-dreading the gig, I found myself excited at the prospect of going shopping with a girlfriend. It had been a long time.

I took the Muni, and Bridget was waiting just outside the underground station. She waved when she saw me, big and wide, as if she were trying to signal a rescue plane.

She gave me a tight hug before I could stop her. My cheek ended up against her neck, and heat flared at the contact point. I jerked away. It had been too long since I’d last neutralized Paulie.

“You have to be careful around me,” I said, wishing I knew how to stop it. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal. Come on—the café’s this way.”

She led me to a tiny bakery on the corner, too narrow and too crowded with tables for the number of people lined up at the counter. I ordered a cinnamon roll and a coffee, and Bridget got hot chamomile tea. She paid before I could stop her.

“Malik told me you’d been practicing with them,” she said as we made our way to a cramped table in the corner. “Are you excited?”

“More like nervous.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup. “It’s been a long time since I played for an audience.”

“Oh, I know you’ll be great.”

“Thanks.” I stared at my cup and wondered where her confidence came from. “So, has there been any news about Conner?” I hadn’t heard, but Bridget was a dowser. Maybe she’d picked something up.

She shook her head, and I was immediately sorry I’d asked. I couldn’t say I was sure he’d turn up, because I didn’t want to lie. “I’m sorry. I hope you hear something soon.”

“Me too.” She stared into the distance for a long moment, seemingly mesmerized by the window display of bread shaped like a pumpkin. When she spoke again, it startled me. “He said he was going to make some changes. Right before he went missing. And I was so angry—you have to understand, he owes me so much money, and he’s always losing his job and looking for a cheap place to live. I’ve heard him promise to change so many times. He told me he has a new ‘opportunity’ lined up and he’s going to pay me back.” She said “opportunity” with a level of disdain I’d never heard from her. “And I...” She sniffed, her voice growing thick. “I told him I’d believe it when I saw it. I keep thinking that if I’d just listened to him...” She swiped at tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

“No, no. It’s okay. You think he’s in some kind of trouble?”

“Conner’s
always
in trouble.”

“I’m really sorry.” I paused, wondering if I should reveal what had happened in the bar. I decided that if it had been my brother missing, I would want to know everything I could. “Listen, Bridget, I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but some guy came into Simon’s looking for him a few nights ago.”

She perked up. “Who? Did you get his name?”

“Uh, well...” I was already regretting bringing it up. “He, uh, he died. Right there in the bar. It looks like he OD’ed on something.” The stricken look on her face made me regret telling her even more. “I’m really sorry. I thought you’d want to know—”

“No. Don’t apologize.” Her voice was clear and firm again. Maybe she was tougher than I’d given her credit for. “At least now I know I’m not the only one looking for him.”

“I’ll keep my ears open,” I promised her. “If I hear anything else, I’ll tell you. If you want.”

“Thank you. Really.” She squeezed my hand. “I want to know more about your gig.”

I told her, if only to distract her, and we finished our drinks. As soon as we got up, three people pounced on our table.

“Ready for shopping?” Bridget said as the door shut behind us.

“No, but let’s go anyway.”

I followed her to what turned out to be a used clothing store. It was huge, taking up almost half the block. Handwritten signs were posted above all the racks. SEXY Summer CLEARANCE! Gotta-Go-To-Work Pants. Manly Men’s Dress Shirts! There was no coherent color palette, no stacks of identical cardigans. But there was a mannequin dressed in bright blue fishnets and a purple halter dress.

“Are you sure this place is going to have something my style?” I stared at the fishnets warily.

Bridget cocked her head at me. She was wearing skinny jeans and a pale green tunic with a Mandarin collar and tiny antique buttons. “Well, what are you looking for?”

“I don’t know.” I wasn’t all that into clothes, actually. “Something red?” I had this idea that I should go for something sexy and vibrant.

“A dress, a shirt...?”

“Dress. Definitely. I think.”

Bridget laughed. “You’ve never been shopping with a dowser, have you?”

“Um, no.” The only dowser I’d known back in New Orleans had been over twice my age and prone to wearing T-shirts that could have doubled as couch upholstery.

“Well, just watch.” She waggled her eyebrows at me and walked down the aisle marked Date Dresses, her eyes closed, her fingers trailing behind her over the hangers. Fabric swayed gently in her wake.

I followed uncertainly behind her, thinking it wouldn’t be wise to interrupt her, wondering if a “date dress” was really what I wanted. She paused and cocked her head, her outrageous orange hair bobbing, then she started up again. No one in the shop so much as glanced at her.

Finally, she stopped, her hand resting on a single hanger. She pulled it out of the rack. It was a tomato-red satin thing with muted gold embroidery and some sort of complicated lacing situation going on down the back. I never would have picked it up in a million years, not if it was the last dress on the rack. Bridget handed it to me.

“Does it come with an instruction manual?”

“I’ll help you. Come
on.
”

Bridget pulled me to the dressing rooms, which turned out to be dim, curtained cubbyholes with tiny mirrors. I took the dress inside and tried to figure it out. I had to wriggle my shoulders to get into it, and I was terrified I’d rip it. After I got it on, I found a zipper running along the side and felt like an idiot. I tugged it into place and tried to re-tie the ribbons at the back, then looked at myself in the narrow mirror. I looked like the world’s fanciest flour sack. I craned around in the mirror, trying to figure out the lacing before giving up and walking out to the three-way.

Bridget was waiting for me. She frowned, then made a turning motion with her finger. I put my back to her and felt tugs around my waist as she pulled the ties into place. She clucked to herself while she did it.

“Here,” she said finally, grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me to face the mirror. “See?”

She looked so innocently pleased with herself, I couldn’t help smiling back at her before I even looked at the dress. But when I did, I stopped smiling entirely. My jaw dropped a little and I snapped it back up. I hadn’t looked at the price tag, but this thing had better be less than seventy bucks, because I had to have it.

It wasn’t that it was low-cut or too tight, but it was sexy. The ties cinched the fabric at my waist, and the simple scoop neck was sewn with little tucks that made me look bigger in all the right places. There was just enough fabric in the skirt to balance out my hips, and the embroidery ran down in delicate lines, accentuating my waist. I ran my hands over the fabric, feeling the slick satin and the rough texture of the embroidery.

“How did you know?” I’d never in my life found an outfit on the first try like this.

“It’s a dowser thing. Pretty cool, right?”

All I could do was nod.

* * *

We didn’t have practice the day before the gig, but I went to the speakeasy straight from the clothing store anyway, thinking I could make some progress on Simon’s books. I took the old wooden staircase into the storage room and hung my purse on a hook along with the dress. The girl at the register had covered it in a black plastic hanging bag with the name of the shop written on it in huge gold letters. Bridget had oh-so-casually let it drop that I was buying the dress for my first gig in the city, and the girl had given me a ten percent discount if I promised to snap a picture and bring it back. That had knocked the price down to just under a hundred bucks. I wasn’t feeling even slightly guilty.

The speakeasy was empty, so I went up front and started on my side work, slicing garnishes and restocking the chest fridge. It was nice to be alone for a little while, and I took my time with the lemons, cutting little notches in each wedge so they’d sit nicely on people’s water glasses. I’d moved on to the kiwi slices for Malik’s signature Green Eyed Monster Margarita when there was a crash from somewhere in the back.

I froze. Had a crate of stock fallen over? No—I heard voices. Raised voices.

“I can tell you’re lying, motherfucker.” Not a voice I recognized. Another crash, bottles breaking. My hand tightened around the paring knife.

Simon’s voice came then. I couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded panicked. I turned and made my way slowly into the warren of storage rooms in the back.

The front of the speakeasy was only the beginning of the space below Featherweight’s. There were at least half a dozen storage rooms and offices, plus a makeshift conference room where Malik said the local shadowminds held council meetings. From the sound of things, the voices were coming from one of the seldom-used storage rooms at the far end of the hall. I’d rarely been inside, but I knew the way. I walked down the dark, narrow concrete hallway, following the sound of raised voices to a room just past the curve.

The door was ajar. Through the crack, I saw Simon backed up against the far wall. Another man was facing him, his back to me.

Simon said something I didn’t understand, but his voice was high and frantic. He was scared. The guy grabbed Simon by the shirt.

I had to do something. By the time anyone could get here, this guy would be long gone with my boss. I made up my mind.

It was good thing the storage room was such a mess. I picked up a bottle of top-shelf bourbon from a half-empty crate on the floor. The glass felt cool and heavy in my hand. I held the bottle like a club and walked slowly, softly, toward the pair of them. They guy was getting in Simon’s face, yelling, saying there would be trouble if he tried anything. I couldn’t hear one word in ten above the rush of my own blood and breath. In the last instant, Simon saw me. His eyes widened; his attacker turned.