Hot Springs Page 14

  And then, somehow, they were kissing. She didn’t know for sure if she’d made it happen, or if he had. When she was nine, in Wyman Park ravine, a skinny Hampden boy had filled a paper cup with gasoline and put it in the stream, let her light it with a match. She’d fumbled, had to go through three before getting one to strike. The ignition came as she held it out toward the acrid cup, somewhere in the space between, as the vapors sucked in the tiny flame and exhaled a silent bloom of fire. She felt about this something of what she had about that—and now that it was happening, there was nothing she could do but watch as the cup tipped over and spilled its contents onto the surface of the water, an island of fire floating downstream and away from them, where it would undoubtedly set fire to half the city.

  They made out, but she wouldn’t do more. She wanted to, or at least she thought she did, but she wouldn’t. Too weird, she said to him. Don’t you think?He looked at her through eyes that were ridiculously pretty—all lashes and nearly black, like Greek olives—and she pushed him away and laughed, and then grabbed him and pulled him back to her, hard. This was similar to sex, only better, and she wouldn’t, no matter how much she wanted to, even though the ache was moving through her, hot as steam, making her want to burst out of herself, but still she wouldn’t, though his knee was between her legs and they were back on the sofa and his hands were under her blouse.

  Uh-uh, she said about her panties, after her jeans were off and on the floor, curled up like some stranger’s clothes. He was attempting to remove them with his mouth. How had this happened, how had they come this far? A blur of lips, and grabbing, urgent motions, though she’d certainly been complicit with the difficult bit when her pants had snagged at the ankles. Why? he wanted to know. She almost didn’t know how to answer that. Why? Why, indeed? Once you’ve stolen a car, what’s the difference if you then break the speed limit? From the couch, her view of the kitchen was limited, but she could just make out the spout of a teakettle. He climbed on top of her, sucked at her ear. Tea!she nearly shouted. He was unconvinced. But she insisted that tea was next. In her Jockey for Hers, if that was how it was going to happen, but definitely tea. And so, after some more fumbling, he’d grudgingly gotten up and made them cups of Darjeeling, her mother’s favorite, and she’d thought better of the underwear and slipped clumsily back into her jeans.

  Kiss me more, she said, after she had some tea. They were back at the table.

  You’re as nutty as she is, he said. I don’t think so.

  Didn’t you like it?

  I liked it.

  That was close, wasn’t it?

  What do you mean?

  You know. She closed her eyes, and when he reached out for her hand, a shiver of longing ran the length of her body like a tremor down a saw blade.

  You want to,he said. You know you do. We could just go upstairs. There’s a roof deck. I could show you that.

  Too cold, she said. You got any cookies?

  He brought out a bag of Chips Ahoy and tossed them onto the table. She saw for the first time that lust and hostility were within shouting distance of each other, at least in men. His arms were long and hard with muscle, his fingers thick at the knuckles. She took pride in being a person who noticed things.

  You shouldn’t start what you don’t want to finish,he said.

  I want to finish.

  Well, then.

  But she wouldn’t. Instead, she just sat there, sipping tea, waiting for whatever was to happen next, trying to decide if she was a chickenshit for not going all the way. When it began to feel embarrassing, she stood up and left.

  THIRTEEN

  The Harborview was in Fell’s Point, a few blocks up from the water, just north of the gentrified part of the neighborhood, a converted row house staring out darkly through plate glass front windows, its immediate neighbors a tattoo parlor and an antiques store that was open only two afternoons a week. It didn’t have a view of much of anything. Bernice pushed open the door. Afternoon, and the place was empty. The front area contained the bar, and it didn’t look too bad: a chalkboard listing beer specials, and a large mirror behind the bar itself that created the illusion of a bigger space. The opposite wall was exposed brick, hung with dusty, black-and-white publicity photographs of blues performers, some of them signed. She examined one at random: Luther “Slideman” James. The picture was of a smiling older black man, seated with an impressive-looking guitar, squinting through the smoke from the cigarette in his mouth.

  “It stinks,” said Emily. She wore a new outfit Bernice had purchased for her this morning on sale at the mall in Towson after driving around the parking garage for so long they’d both felt ill. Looking at her, Bernice wasn’t sure anymore. The shorts seemed too large, and the shirt—white with pink trim—seemed too small. She hadn’t known what size to get, and Emily had been no help at all.

  “That’s the smell of beer,” she told her. “Stale beer.” She peered around for any sign of a human being. “I promise we won’t stay long.”

  The door opened and a short guy with a shaved head came in, carrying a guitar case and a colorful cloth bag. “Hey,” he said. He seemed a few years younger than she was—maybe twenty-three or so—and had a hint of a harelip.

  “Hey, yourself,” said Bernice.

  “I’m Max.”

  She nodded. “Good for you.”

  “Max Lucca.”

  “I suppose you play that thing?” She gestured toward the case.

  He grinned, his lip lifting awkwardly over his small teeth. “That’s what I’m here about.” He looked around, saw that they were alone, then looked over at Emily, who was on a bar stool, watching a videogame screen.

  “Well, go on then, play us a song.”

  “OK,” he said. He looked around again. “Where do you want me?”

  “Any place you feel like.” She pointed to a stool by the front window. “There.”

  Max Lucca opened his case and took out an acoustic guitar. From his bag, he brought out an aluminum contraption, which he hung around his neck. He inserted a harmonica into this, then adjusted a couple of wing nuts, bringing the instrument into position a few inches from his lips. He put a purple strap onto the guitar and slung it around his neck. “You got any requests?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “What are my choices?” She noticed that at least one of the games Emily was looking at the previews for was pornographic. She considered pulling her away from the screen, but thought perhaps it could be considered educational.

  “I’ve got blues. I’ve got originals.”

  “How about original blues?”

  “I can do that, too.”

  “Max,” she said. “Max.”

  “What?”

  “Before you even start, let me give you some advice. You do not want to do original blues. No one wants to hear your white-boy original blues. Original blues is such a bad idea.”

  Max checked the tuning on his guitar. The sound was sour and flat in the big room. “Are you the manager?” he asked. “They told me the manager would be here this afternoon.”

  “Does that matter, Max? I’m trying to help you here. You are not Blind Lemon Lucca. You are just Max, from—wherever you’re from. Glen Burnie? Harford County? Dundalk? Now let’s hear some music, OK? Why don’t you just pick something. Impress us.”

  Max Lucca began strumming minor chords, his eyes closed, his head lowered toward the body of his guitar as if he were communicating with it in some way besides the tactile and the auditory. Bernice was reminded of the attitude of Mary in certain Renaissance annunciations. He began singing, and she thought she recognized the song, but she couldn’t be sure, because in addition to being quiet, he mumbled.

  “Max, Max,” she said. “Hold it.”

  Max stopped and looked up.

  “You’re mumbling.”

  “That’s my style,” he said.

  “Was that ‘Light My Fire’?”

  He grinned again. “Yeah.”

  “Th
e Doors, or José Feliciano?”

  “José who?”

  “Or Brasil ’66? Max! Was that Brasil ’66?”

  But Max Lucca wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was looking past her, over her right shoulder, and when she turned she saw CC Devereaux holding an enormous burlap sack.

  “Damn,” he said, “I thought I locked that door.”

  “We didn’t steal anything,” said Bernice. “I promise. We didn’t even drink anything. Max here was just auditioning.”

  “‘Light My Fire,’” said Max.

  “Well,” said CC, putting down the sack, recognition dawning on his face. “Whoa.” He looked over at Emily, who had given up on the video game and was now trying to make animals out of plastic straws. “Sorry, I didn’t see her.”

  “Oh, she’s heard worse.”

  “Yours?”

  “Can’t you tell? Emily, this is CC.” Bernice watched Emily’s liquid eyes acknowledge him momentarily, then return to the straws. Nothing. She was doing pretty well, all things considered. New places and people every day. The kid had inner reserves.

  “Should I keep going?” asked Max.

  “Should he?”

  “Long as you’re all set up, sure,” said CC. The impression he gave was still one of lean muscle and shady dealings. There was no gray in his hair and she wondered if he dyed it. He still had the soul patch he’d had when he lived with her mother, and he wore small, round glasses with silver frames. His T-shirt read Natty Boh in faded letters.

  “What’s in the bag?” Bernice asked.

  “Peanuts.”

  Max began again, and they all listened politely. Bernice thought he was bad, but bad in a good enough way—she could imagine someone, somewhere, liking it.

  “So?” he said, when he was done. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” said CC. “It’s not what we usually have in here.”

  “What?” said Bernice. “Oh, come on. Give him a shot. How about tomorrow? Can you come in tomorrow? Around eight?”

  “Seven,” said CC. “You can have the seven-to-ten slot. We’ll see what happens.”

  “Seriously?” said Max.

  “Woo-hoo!” said Bernice. “You go, man. You got a gig.”

  “Any pay involved in this?” Max asked.

  CC moved behind the bar and filled a cup with ice, then squirted soda into it and pushed it toward Emily. “Pay? You want to get paid?”

  “I was hoping.”

  “Ten percent of the bar while you’re on, plus whatever you pick up in tips.”

  “That’s good, Max,” said Bernice. “You could make out.”

  “Bring your friends. Bring your friends’ friends.”

  CC chatted with him a bit and the two exchanged business cards, and then Max left, the heavy glass door sighing shut, and it was just the three of them.

  “So, Bernice,” he said. “You look good.”

  “I want a job.”

  He leaned forward, his hands pressed palms down on the shiny bar top. “A job doing what?”

  She shrugged. “Waitress? That’s my experience. But I could bartend, too.”

  “Yeah? What’s in a martini?”

  “Gin. And a little vermouth.”

  “A Harvey Wallbanger?”

  “Galliano.”

  “A boxcar?”

  “I don’t know. Rock and Rye?” She threw her hands up in defeat. “I don’t even know what Rock and Rye is. I’m good with rum drinks.”

  “That’s OK, no one ever orders a boxcar. Or a Harvey Wallbanger, or a martini, for that matter. Well, maybe a martini. We might serve a couple of martinis a week. Basically, bartending here means selling beer and the occasional whiskey drink. Jack on the rocks, Jack and Coke, Jack and 7UP, etc.”

  “Jack-in-the-box. Jack-in-the-pulpit. Jack up the price.”

  He squinted. “What do you want, really?”

  “I told you. Pearl and I are on the lam, hiding out from the law. I figured I could work here, off the books.”

  “How’d you even find me?”

  “Your name is in the paper. Don’t you read the paper? ‘Blues Jam night with CC Devereaux. Bring your ax.’ Anyone ever show up here with a real one?”

  “What?”

  “Ax. Or is that just not funny?”

  “This place is going under. The owner didn’t pay his water bill for a year and a half because he broke up with his old lady and she didn’t forward the bills, and then the city took the building and sold it out from under him. He’s got a lawyer, but I don’t see how it can work out. Mike bought the bar for, like, fifty thousand. The new owners won’t sell it back to him for less than about three hundred. So, you see, we’re kind of in limbo here.”

  She looked around. “What’s with the paint?”

  “You don’t like black?”

  “It’s what teenaged boys paint their bedroom. Pearl?” she said. “What do you think of the colors in here?”

  Emily appraised the wall. “I think orange would be better.”

  “Orange?” said CC. “That might work for a sports bar. You an Os fan?”

  “She doesn’t follow baseball,” said Bernice. “She hates baseball.”

  “I like the Rockies,” said Emily.

  “National League?” he said. “You need to rethink your affiliation.”

  Bernice pointed to the back wall, where there was an enormous, poorly painted mural of a drum set. “You’re not proud of that, are you?”

  “No,” said CC. She saw there was a T-shirt with the same image hanging on the wall to the left of the cash register. A handwritten label pinned to it read $13.

  “It’s pretty lame,” she said. “Actually, lame is being nice.”

  “I can’t argue. Mike did it himself.”

  “Do you think Emily and I could have some of those peanuts? We skipped lunch.”

  He took a switchblade out of his pocket and sliced open the burlap. Bernice took a handful over to the bar and deposited them in front of Emily. “Throw your shells on the floor, sweetie.” She cracked one open herself. It was delicious and salty.

  “I get ’em over by Lexington Market. Best peanuts anywhere.”

  Bernice had another. “Mmm. That one tasted like wet dog.”

  “Mine tasted like clouds,” said Emily.

  “No way,” said Bernice. She ate another. “That one tasted like England.”

  CC got himself a glass of water. “Those there are American peanuts. You might find one that tastes like Cincinnati or something, I don’t know. But they shouldn’t taste like England.”

  “We could paint the place for you,” said Bernice. “Help you get a bit more business. You pay us what’s fair.”

  “Did you hear what I said? We’re on the downslide here. You don’t polish the silver on the Hindenburg. If you need money, you should look into other avenues. Get a real job someplace.”

  “I just told you, I don’t want to be on the books.”

  “Hell, I don’t know anyone who works on the books.” He took a long drink of water, stared at her with obvious interest, then put the glass down gently on the polished bar. “Anyway, I’d have to check with the boss.”

  “I just saw you hire someone. Seems like you could do the same for me.”

  “There a father?”

  “CC. What kind of question is that?”

  “You know what I mean. In the picture. I don’t see you wearing a ring.”

  “You interested in applying for the position?” CC was probably closing in on fifty. Landis was forty-two. The bastard. Last night she’d had a dream in which they were making love and he wouldn’t look at her but instead kept his eyes closed. Hey!she’d shouted at him as he thrust away, imagining God-knows-what, or who. Hey!

  “Probably not.”

  “It comes with benefits,” she said. “You should consider it. Anyway, what about me? Can I work here?”

  “Let me think about it,” he said.

  “You mean no. ‘Let me thi
nk about it,’ means ‘Go away, and once you’re gone, I’ll forget you came by and I won’t feel too bad about never calling you back.’ If you mean no, say no, but don’t wimp out with that ‘Let me think about it’ crap.”

  “All right, then. Yes.”

  “Really?” She was surprised he’d been this easy to turn, and she wondered if he weren’t perhaps smarter than she’d been giving him credit for.

  “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know about the wall part. I’ll have to check. You can start tomorrow. Jimmy’s on, and he can show you the ropes. After that, I’ll see what the schedule looks like. We had one bartender quit last week, as it happens. Everyone knows what’s coming, so everyone’s looking for work. Also, they opened a Red, White, and Blues three blocks from here, and it’s a lot more tourist-friendly. Clean bathrooms and all.”

  The peanuts were making her hungry, and she’d promised Emily pizza. “We gotta go,” she said. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Seven?”

  “All right. Seven.”

  “What are you going to do with her?” He nodded toward Emily.

  “Don’t you think that’s my business? Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. Together, they left the bar and headed out into the bright, muggy day.

  At a parlor nearby, they each had a slice of plain pizza, Emily eating only half of hers. Then Bernice told her to use the bathroom, even though Emily claimed she didn’t need to, and as she waited by the door, Bernice looked past the customers chewing away to the street. A kid was riding a unicycle on the cobblestones. She’d held it together pretty well, she thought, but now she suddenly felt as if she were going to burst into tears, and it was only by biting her teeth that she was able not to.