Whistle Pass (16 page)

“Yes, thank you. No pie. Just coffee.”

The waitress turned to the coffeemaker. Gabe glanced at the sorry excuse for a human being staring back at him from the mirror. What kind of man would even consider saving himself at the expense of a friend? He blinked twice. Charlie Harris wasn’t a friend. His heart thumped against his chest, the knot wrenched even more pain from him. Charlie Harris was a man he was falling in love with. Gabe scowled at his reflection. Not “falling.” He loved Charlie Harris.

A din of muffled voices assaulted his ears. He looked beyond himself in the glass. There were customers in the restaurant. In fact, nearly every seat was occupied. A tight grimace crossed his lips, as he hadn’t noticed the people when he entered.

A cup of coffee appeared between his hands. Steam floated from the quivering black liquid.

To his right, several seats and patrons away, a coin bounced on the linoleum countertop. It spun and rolled on its edge. Gabe idly watched the dime as it settled to one side, then fell flat.

“You win,” a surly voice growled.

Surreal spikes of pain jolted through Gabe. Charlie Harris slid off a stool. Gabe bolted out the exit.

He fumbled with the key at the entrance to his apartment building.

“Gabe? You okay?”

He jammed the key into the lock and twisted his wrist. The door opened with Charlie inches away. Gabe slammed the door closed and ran up the stairs two steps at a time. He managed to open the door to his room.

Gabe leaned his back on the wooden door. He slid to the floor and drew his knees up. Wrapping his arms around his shins, he pulled them in tight, buried his head against his knees, and cried.

R
ELENTLESS
knocks at the door woke Gabe. “Go away,” he snarled from the bed.

“Gabriel Kasper, you open this door right now.”

“Betty?” he stuttered and sat upright. “I—I mean, Mrs. Brewer?”

“Yes, it’s Betty. Now open this door, young man.”

He cringed. She was using her I-am-so-disappointed-and-furious-with-you tone. He rolled off the bed and shuffled across the floor. Taking a deep breath, he turned the doorknob. She pushed her way past him. An odor of warm custard and baby powder trailed the elderly but energized woman’s movements.

“Why don’t you get a bigger apartment? How about one with a kitchen? You can afford one, you know.” She plopped down on the couch and unwrapped the aluminum foil covering the bowl in her hands. From her coat pocket, she produced a spoon. Betty glowered at him. “Come eat this while it’s warm.”

Gabe crossed his arms but did as told. He sat beside her and accepted the bowl and spoon. The smell of baby powder stayed with her. The aroma of custard drifted up from the bowl in his hand.

“I’m not really hungry.” He knew the point wouldn’t be acceptable
to her and scooped a spoonful of the thick custard, making sure to include some of the cinnamon dusted across the top.

“So I heard.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Who tattled?”

“Gert at the restaurant called me.” She patted his thigh. “When you didn’t want fried chicken, she knew something was wrong.” Betty reached up and gently touched the bump on his noggin. “What is going on with you, Gabriel?”

He savored the flavor of the warm homemade dessert, allowing it to drizzle down his throat. The custard warmed his belly. Her attention warmed his soul.

“Nothing. I tripped and fell on the sidewalk.”

She meticulously brushed his hair with her hand while she studied his face like a surgeon. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“You’re not telling me the truth.” She pulled his head to her and kissed the owie. “Talk to me, Gabriel. What is troubling you?” Her eyelids went to half-mast. “Is it that Mr. Harris in 412? Did he do this to you?”

“No!” he blurted out before he could stop the exclamation. His face and ears burned with embarrassment. He sucked on his lower lip.

Betty took control of the spoon, refilled it, and eased a bite between his lips. He chuckled at her and at his willingness to allow her to mother him. He sloshed the custard into liquid before swallowing. She prepared another spoonful but paused.

“So, who did this to you?”

There would be no avoiding her. She’d never leave until he answered.

“Perkins.”

Her cheeks went crimson and her nostrils flared. “I’ll slap that boy into next week. He has no business manhandling you. Why did he hit you?” She thrust her hands together, her body shook in her anger, custard dribbled from the edge of the clutched spoon. “I babysat that boy. He wasn’t worth a fig then either. Nasty little brat. Broke two wooden spoons on his bare bottom, I did.”

Gabe stifled a laugh at the image of the police chief laid out over Betty’s knees, getting his butt tanned. Then reality checked in and cancelled his mirth. He looked down at the bowl and let go a heavy sigh.

“It’s all over Charlie.” He transferred his gaze to Betty. “Mr. Harris.”

Her eyes bulged in surprise. “You two were fighting over a man? Howard is a homosexual?” She rattled her head. “I would have never guessed.”

This laugh he couldn’t suppress. It leapt right out of him.

“Well. I can still coax a smile out of you.” She took the bowl and set it on the floor. Tender hands pulled him to her and guided his head to her shoulder. “Talk to me, Gabriel.”

An arthritic hand stroked his cheek. He could see the wrinkles in her skin and the bumps on her knuckles. But the love and concern flowing from her hadn’t tempered since the day she’d come to the hospital and taken him home with her after the doctors pronounced his parents dead on arrival from the car accident. He’d been sixteen then. Betty had attended his high school graduation and stood and applauded when he received his diploma. She’d been the only person in the gymnasium to do so. He joined the army on his eighteenth birthday. When he came back home, it was Betty who convinced the Larson family to turn over management of the hotel to Gabe.

His chest quivered and jerked. Tears welled. First one rolled down his cheek, then a torrential downpour followed. “I think I’m in love with him.”

She leaned in and kissed away the tears.

“Tell Betty all about it,” she whispered.

Gabe sucked in two quick breaths and surrendered to her wishes.

Minutes later, when he finished his confession, his priestess glowed with a warm confidence that eased all his pain and insecurities.

“Do what that rapscallion Perkins wants done. And tell no one. No one, I say.” She sandwiched his face with her weathered hands. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Chapter 16

C
HARLIE
stepped out of the narrow shower and grabbed the towel off a hook to wipe his body dry. The bruise on his thigh already had faint yellow and green striations. He jabbed a finger at the injury. The pain was dull, it wouldn’t be a problem. Content with the appraisal, he wrapped the towel around him and returned to his room.

He scrubbed the towel over his hair, then tossed the piece of linen to the floor and lay on the bed. Hands under his head, he closed his eyes and thought about Gabe.

He’d wanted to talk to him, to find out exactly what had happened with Perkins. Now, just as quick as snapped fingers, Gabe had run from him like he had polio.

“What the hell was that about?”

A shot of concern buzzed into his brain, but, curiously, not that Gabe had turned on him. Not a drip of doubt stained his unblemished trust of the man. The picture was safe with Gabe—that’s all there was to it. And that’s what troubled him. Why didn’t he worry Gabe had become too afraid, decided it safer to remain buried in his and this town’s secrets? He smacked his lips to interrupt the bewilderment. In a few hours, he had a date with a thief. The reunion would come as a complete surprise to one of them.

Charlie grinned and rolled onto his unbruised side.

A
LONGSIDE
a wooden fence next to a blank wall of the brick building, Charlie huddled in the darkness between two garbage cans. Fog was rolling in from the river. He turned up his collar and settled a little deeper into his coat. Silver particles swirled and twirled to unheard melodies under the lone lamppost. He pondered the dance. Did dust get moist in fog, and that was the troupe, or did fog carry its own version of the Radio City Rockettes wherever it traveled? The car dealership’s multicolored banners hung as limp as they had the night he arrived in town.

He entertained himself by identifying the various levels of stink. Grease and oil seemed to control the bass section. Banana peels, always a crowd pleaser, merged with some rotting lettuce and peanut butter to complete the brass. He contemplated the absence of any detectable jellies. Surely peanut butter would have fruity accompaniment. But, alas, not in this night’s concerto of the discarded. A gathering crescendo of tobaccos, both smoking and chaw, vied for lead in the strings.

Charlie tapped his baton finger on his make-believe music stand, surveyed the orchestra with the same studied eye as his old junior high school music teacher, and—

Scrape. Clunk. Click-thunk. Click-thunk. Click-thunk.

Ahh. The percussionist had arrived.

Charlie pushed to his feet and casually walked around the corner. Johnny Upton, with his back to the building, and Charlie, was busy jacking up the rear end of a Chevy.

The moron needed four tires after Charlie had slashed his. Midnight shopping seemed the thief’s only option.

“I hope you brought the right lug wrench, dipstick.”

Johnny leaned right to rabbit. Charlie grabbed the collar of the leather jacket and yanked the kid backward to the ground. He drew back a fist. Johnny’s hands covered the bandages on his face.

“No! Oh, God, please don’t. Doc said if I break it again, I might never be able to breathe through my nose ever.”

The voice was thick and throaty. Gauze peeked out the nostrils under the wrap. Charlie grabbed the punk by the coat and pulled him to his feet. He moved his grip to the collar and dragged Johnny along beside him.

“Where we going?” Johnny squirmed to free himself.

Charlie slapped the back of the greasy skull, then wiped his hand clean on the black leather jacket.

“City hall.”

“Why?”

“I want to break in to the mayor’s office. Figured you were the right guy for the job.”

Johnny dug the heels of his pointy black shoes into the gravel. “The mayor’s office? Oh, shit. Perkins’ll kill me.”

Charlie spun and thwacked a knuckle on Johnny’s gauzed nose.

“Ow!”

“I hadn’t really planned on telling him about it, but”—he popped the nose again—“it’s up to you. I can splatter your face all over the parking lot right here if you prefer.”

Johnny’s hands cupped the bandages. “Jesus Christ, mister. What’s your problem?”

“Look, punk.” Charlie heaved an exasperated breath. “You help me get in the mayor’s office, and you can come back here and steal all the tires you need for your convertible. I don’t care. Not my cars. Are we communicating yet?” He raised a fist so Johnny couldn’t miss the protruding knuckle.

“Yeah. Yes!” Johnny shrugged. “Haven’t broken in to city hall before. Sounds pretty hip, Daddy-O.”

Charlie popped a knuckle against the protecting hands.

“Jesus! I said yes. What the hell
is
your problem?”

“Let’s stick to one language. I only speak English.” He turned and pulled Johnny along, stride for stride.

“Okay, okay. Where’s your car?”

Charlie kept walking. “Don’t have one. Cab’s probably not a good idea. Wouldn’t exactly trust whoever dropped you off, either.”

“That’s ten, twelve blocks from here.”

“Yeah. Next time you get the urge to steal something, think about a pair of Keds.”

T
HEY
waited in the shadows up the side street from city hall. A half hour passed before the cop came out and locked the front door. He got in the squad car and drove away.

“Alley,” Johnny said.

Charlie let the kid lead the charge. They walked across the intersection as if they were two buddies out for a drink. Johnny’s calmness impressed Charlie. The kid was a loser and no doubt always would be, but he knew his business.

They turned into the alley. Johnny sized up the back of the building.

“I can probably get this door open, but since nobody uses it—”

“How can you tell?” Charlie had become the student.

Johnny ran a hand over the edges and displayed his dirty palm. “Wouldn’t be this much dirt if people were going in and out of it. The patrol cop would notice right away if we went in through here. Cops know this stuff too. Same with the first-floor windows.”

The thief kicked the latch on the coal chute and it dropped open.

“We can slide in through here, if you don’t mind getting covered in coal dust. But the cop would kind of notice us walking down the street. Most folks don’t smear their faces with coal before going out on a night on the town.”

“Okay. Keep talking, Houdini.”