Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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smiled at her, his clean-shaven face pleasantly creased. You didn’t come here as Miss Manners’ foreign correspondent, she told herself. Take a deep breath, well, maybe not too deep, and pretend you’re in a 1963 Grade C film. If he’s not in his prime, he’s in your superannuated ballpark, dear old ivied Wrigley Field.
“Buy you whatcher having, little lady?” he offered, and sidled up, nudging a silver-tipped boot onto the footrest. Belle raised an eyebrow like Roz Russell in His Girl Friday and offered him a Paw, in response to which he signalled the waitress for another Red Dog beer and a drink for Belle. Black stove pipe jeans and a red and white checked Western shirt with fringe made him a line dancing natural.
He studied the snack with a mischievous look, pretended to smoke it and raised his beer in a salute. “Some folks call it a six-pack. I call it a support group.” He laughed pleasantly and so did Belle. It wasn’t bad for a beer joke. “Ain’t seen you around. Nick’s my name.” He extended his hand in a warm firm grip. “Nick Nomless.”
“Are you kidding? You mean like in nameless?”
“You got her. Hey, it’s better than no-name. Maybe my grandfather pulled a fast one on Immigration.”
Unprepared with an alias, Belle rifled her MGM Rolodex. “I’m Susan Lenox. Sue.”
“Related to that furnace guy?”
“Wish I, uh . . .” (not ‘were’) “. . . was. Nice to have free repairs in the family.”
“New in town? Or just visiting?”
Improvisation isn’t my forte, thought Belle. Definitely nothing fancy, just with enough money for an apartment, a car and a cheapish good time. “Yeah, moved up from Windsor a week ago. Secretarial work. Dull but reliable these days. Yourself?” With a little inner cringe, she congratulated herself on remembering the local dialect.
“Tolands Automotive. Diesel truck mechanic.” He sighed. “One helluva hot and dirty job. But gotta make the buck, ya know?” When the waitress brought another beer, he poured slowly to avoid a foamy head.
Time stopped as the beer rose, mesmerizing Belle for a moment. She chuckled and he looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you really spooked me with that glass. The strobe light made it look as if you had only three fingers.”
“Well, I do, honey!” he roared, wiggling the survivors under his chin like Oliver Hardy. “Lost ’em in a transmission overhaul a couple years back. Don’t slow me down none, though.”
Belle brushed her hair back. Talk about tactful! Still, Nick seemed friendly and open. They danced for several numbers, including a Texas two-step which Belle survived by refurbishing her old fox trot from junior high, adding the Watusi, and mixing in a Peppermint Twist for polish. “They have some great line dancing at the Triple R over on Douglas. I go every Wednesday. Or, “he added, proud to offer a choice, “wanta have dinner at Don Cherry’s some night, catch the Leafs on the big screen, and dance up a storm later?”
“I’ve passed the place. How’s the food?”
“Chicago wings beat out Buffalo. Steak’s good, too. Listen,” he added, flashing an eager grin. “This dump is gettin’ to me. Can’t stand smoke since I quit a couple years ago. I got a place where we can be more comfortable,” he said, clearly warming to a familiar line, and at the same time wiping at his eyes convincingly.
Belle touched his arm with a discreet pressure, not too much, but sincere as hell. “Nick, sounds great, but it’s a work night for me. I just wanted to break out of my apartment for an hour or two. First time since I got here. And,” she moved closer and lowered her voice, “I wanted to check out the action. You understand?” She mimed a toke.
He laughed, still in a good humor despite her rebuff. “Tough luck for the old guy, I guess, but maybe later. So, little lady, what’s your preference? Grass? Coke? Pills? It’s not the big city here, but the selection’s good.”
“Coke, I guess. Special occasions only.”
“Sure, I can tell by lookin’ atcha. Gotta watch that poison. Anyways, I find a bit for friends now and then.” He paused and cocked a grizzled eyebrow. “You ever snowmobile?”
“In Windsor? It’s practically the deep south. I’ve always wanted to try it. Is it dangerous?” she asked, playing wide-eyed Sally Field in Gidget. Not that Sally ever did drugs.
“Nah.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Reason I ask’s ’cause I make my buys at a lodge my friend owns. Get my drift?” He chucked her under the chin. “It’s not far. We can go on my machine some time. I got a major serious mother of a 750.”
Nick gave her a few lessons about snowmobiles, switched to boilermakers, and Belle excused herself to go to the washroom as a prelude to leaving. The older dancer was peering into a tarnished mirror, freshening her makeup. She wore a pink leather sequined bikini sliced wickedly up the thighs with matching pasties covering her nipples, her medical history written in ragged stretch marks, an appendix scar and probable breast enhancement. The pneumatic pair charged out like twin B-58 nose cones. Belle applied a small pat of powder on her nose. She smiled over at the woman in sympathetic sisterhood. “Tough night?”
The other woman mashed on a candy apple red map of lipstick. “You said it. I hate the hours, but it keeps me in shape.”
Belle laughed. “I’ll bet. With my desk job I could use some exercise. But dancing all night would leave me in traction for a week.”
The woman fluffed her hair, a vibrant blond with ruby touches. “You can’t smoke, and I try to eat sensible. Watch the cholesterol and all that new stuff. Stamina’s important. Sort of like an athlete in training. It’s not so bad. We work four days on, three off. And decent breaks every twenty minutes. Better dough farther north, though. Once in the Kap I pulled down a thousand a week. ’Course that was when the paper mills were steamin’. But I can’t follow the business like I used to. Got a little one. Mindy’s ten last week.” For a moment Belle wondered if she were going to haul out pictures from some nether region.
“Yeah, it’s tough to work and raise a kid.” Belle lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, meeting the dancer’s reddened eyes, sore and tired, brightened momentarily by thoughts of her child. “Say, any chance of a score? I just moved here and don’t know anyone.”
The woman appraised her carefully, then shrugged. “Hell, you look OK. Too old for a lady cop. They just started takin’ ’em on the force.” Belle blinked into the mirror, smoothing a third line under her eye which had joined the usual two. “Hey, no offence. Anyhow, that guy you’re with, Nick, you can trust his stuff,” the woman advised as she left.
A final drink later, Nick escorted Belle to her van, weaving too much for her liking, his arm around her shoulders as he sang about swimming the Pontchartrain. The Global Village. At least Timmins’ Shania Twain was making it big in Nashville.
“Hey, how’s about a good night kiss?” he asked, his breath a flammable combination of beer and cheap rye. Belle pulled away and flopped into the seat while he tugged at the door. “Hey, Sue. What’s the matter? I bought you a couple drinks.”
“And I gave you some Paws. Caveat emptor, Nick,” she said as she locked the door and turned the ignition.
“Coffee at what, baby?” He pressed his face against the glass, a confused expression shaping his mouth into an “o” like a cartoon pup booted out of the house.
A white and blue patrol vehicle trolled along Brewster Street. The window rolled down, and even in the faceless dark, a commanding tone assessed the scene. “Some trouble here?”
Nick jumped back, losing his balance. “Uh-uh, had to see my friend got out safe.” He had started to slur his words.
Steve eased out of the cruiser, taller and wider than Bigfoot, his hand near the snap on his holster. “Back off. The lady doesn’t seem interested to me.”