Red House Blues (11 page)

“
Back at the hostel didn’t
we decide to keep our noses to ourselves?”

“We did and I usually mind my own business.
The business I’m in, I’m a pretty good judge of people but you are
getting to be more and more of a puzzle. Even beyond the sleeping
in the shower thing.”

“How am I a puzzle?”

“Well, there you go again, asking a question
without volunteering anything about yourself,” she said. “See,
that’s weird. Most people when they meet someone at least mention
their names. You knew mine from Cliff, but you didn’t cough up your
own. Why?”

That was what was bothering her? She was
waiting for an introduction? Talk about weird. Yet Suzan was a
relieved to know it was something that simple.

“I’m sorry, Marla. I didn’t realize I’d done
that. I’m Ann. I’m up from Olympia for a few days. We okay?”

Marla dropped the cigarette to the pavement
and stepped on it.

“Well, Ann, how ‘bout we new best buds catch
a cup of coffee on the way back to the hostel? I know a place on
Cherry.”

Suzan took that to mean Marla was satisfied
with her answer. She let Marla lead the way south on Fifth. As
tired and chilled as she was, Suzan enjoyed the walk in the salty
night air after the smog of Jax’s.

Seattle was so different from Bellingham.
Night in Bellingham after the stores downtown closed was relatively
quiet and dark except for the intermittent streetlights and a
collection of bars. It didn’t exactly roll up its streets at nine,
but almost. Suzan found night in downtown Seattle dazzling,
enchanting. They called it the Emerald City. Even the street trees,
just budding out, were still dressed in sparkling holiday lights,
as if the city was reluctant to put away its party bling. Display
windows up and down the street glowed with bursts of neon and
colorful merchandise. It was a fantasy city. A seductive place
where it would be easy to lose track of reality.

“Here it is,” said Marla.

She steered Suzan around the side of a squat
brick building and into the mouth of a narrow alley illuminated by
amber light standards at each end.

“Come on. It’s half way down”

Down a shadowy ally? Suzan’s hackles
raised.

“I’m not sure I want to go after all. What
kind of coffee shop is this, anyway?”

“You’ll see when we get there. It’s over on
the left,” said Marla.

A green neon sign head-high on the wall said
Cuppajitters, a red arrow pointing down into a dimly lit
stairwell.

“Are you sure this thing is open?”

“Yeah. It’s almost always open. Dude who
owns it lives in a loft apartment upstairs.”

“I suppose he’s a client of yours.”

“Good guess.”

What’s with me these days? The person I was
last week or even yesterday would have said forget it, would have
run headlong back out of that alley toward the light and not looked
back, wouldn’t be in a dark alley with a total stranger in an
unfamiliar city in the dead of night.

“On second thought I’m going to give it a
miss tonight, Marla. I’m pretty tired and it’s getting cold.” Suzan
took a step backward, bumping into a trashcan that sent up a cloud
of putrid fumes. Marla grabbed her arm to steady her. At least she
hoped that was the intent.

“I won’t let you wimp out on me now,
princess,” she said, as she led the way to the stairwell. “Trust
me, you’ll fuckin’ love this joint.”

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened,
emitting a shaft of warm light and the aroma of fresh ground
coffee, followed by a couple of thirty-somethings obviously on a
date. They excused themselves as they pushed past to alley level.
They appeared vastly more normal than the Jax’s crowd. Could be
this wasn’t going to be so bad. Marla nudged Suzan through the door
into Cuppajitters.

It was an intimate room with walls of
sandblasted brick and fumed oak woodwork. Votive candles flickered
on each of a half dozen tables. An antique mirrored back-bar filled
the wall opposite the entry, turning the reflected candles into a
blizzard of fireflies. It looked like a place people would go for a
cappuccino after the opera. Mozart played softly in the background,
punctuated by the whoosh of the espresso machine. The coffee house
was full of people, leaving only a few empty tables. For some
reason that reassured her. The patrons conversed softly, their
voices a pleasant murmur. People obviously went here for that rare
activity, a civilized conversation.

She let her eyes adjust to the light as they
waited for someone to seat them.

“I was right, wasn’t I, Ann?” said Marla.
“This is your kind of place.”

“I have to admit, you were right.”

“Ever heard of Seattle’s Underground? This
is the site of one of Seattle’s first businesses. I think it was a
saloon or something. Later on when they built the streets up higher
to keep the whores from getting muddy, and the old first floors
were left behind as basements. There’s a lot of these places but
you have to know where to look.”

“It’s amazing.”

It reminded Suzan of the dream she and Sean
had shared of owning a gallery. It would have been something like
this place, she thought. It was to have been a place people could
come to enjoy art and music, a place to be together and talk. A
place of beauty and community.

At least that was how she had envisioned it.
She wondered now if she had after all been alone in that dream. She
would never know. A shudder of loss slithered through her.

A skinny African American kid swooped in
with two menus, motioning them to a table by the wall. The menu
offered desserts, pastries, and a staggering array of coffee
drinks. After the Cokes Suzan had downed at Jax’s she didn’t need
any more caffeine so she ordered a decaf latte. Marla ordered a
complicated concoction incorporating soymilk and cinnamon.

“Sorry you came? You don’t look too happy
for someone who says she likes the place.”

“No, in fact I envy whoever owns it. I once
wanted to open a . . . well, it was going to be an art gallery but
it would have been like this. It didn’t work out.”

“Where?” asked Marla.

“Where what?”

“Your fantasy gallery. Was it going to be in
Olympia?”

“Sure, Olympia.”

“Not in Bellingham?”

Marla waited calmly.

“How . . . oh.”

“If you’re going to lie you probably should
try to be consistent, sweet-pea. You put Bellingham on the hostel
register.”

And signed in as Suzan Pike. Obviously Marla
knew that also.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Marla, I’m a
pretty private person, you know?” said Suzan. “I’m down here
looking into a few things that are strictly personal, so can we
leave it at that? You’re very nice and so is this place and I’m
enjoying myself but I don’t want to trot out all my little secrets,
okay?”

“Well shit, that’s just it,” said Marla. “It
isn’t okay, princess. You lied about your name. You lied about
where you’re from but here you are. Thing is, I think you really do
want to trot out your little secrets.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Oh? That’s not how it looks from this side
of the table. Whatever it is you’re ‘looking into’, you’re not hot
on going it alone. You’re afraid of something. I caught that right
away. You reek of fear, and no one is better at spotting that than
a tattooist. I’ve seen a zillion dudes, all guts and glory, piss
their pants when I line out the needles and tubes and pull on the
gloves,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “That’s what I’m
seeing here ... you’re trying to bluff it but you are scared
shitless.”

Suzan didn’t know how to respond to
that.

“
You’re not afraid of me,”
continued Marla. “And I don’t think it’s the big city you’re afraid
of so I’m thinking cops or maybe you’re running away from an
abusive boyfriend. Well, what I’m saying is I know a bit about how
to deal with that kind of hassle if you need back-up.”

Was the woman seriously offering help?

“Do you know how do deal with murder?” said
Suzan. “Because that’s what I’m dealing with. So I doubt you can
help me, but I appreciate the offer.”

Even as she said it she
knew she had gone too far. She had wanted to shock her so she’d
drop the topic. All she wanted was for Marla to back
off
. First a nut-case herb woman thinks I
need some kind of magic herbal force field and now the tattooed
chick wants to play camp counselor. Ever since Sean left it seemed
like everyone had ideas on how to
take
care of me. What, do I have an invisible brand on my forehead
saying lost child?

“Have to say that’s not what I expected,
sweet-pea,” said Marla. “So, who are you planning to whack? Not me,
I hope.”

“Of course not.”
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
“Forget I said anything, Marla. It was a stupid
thing to say. I don’t want to drag anyone else into this . . .
trouble.”

“You can’t drop a bomb like that and just
let it sit there on the table like a turd. So spill.”

You’re in it now, Suze. You’re involving a
stranger when you turned down help from your best friend. How can
this be the right thing to do? Yet it might be smart to get a
reality check from an unbiased observer.

“You don’t give up easy, Marla, I’ll grant
you that,” she said. “I’ll probably regret it . . .”

“As I’ll probably regret sticking my nose
where it doesn’t belong.” She smiled. “But I’ve regretted snooping
in the past and it hasn’t stopped me.”

“I have to admit it’s tempting to unload.
Maybe a fresh point of view is what I need after all. I’m not sure
how to begin.”

“Tell me about this murder thing.”

It was easier than Suzan expected to tell
Marla about what had happened to Sean. It even gave her a feeling
of relief to talk with someone who had never known him.

Marla did, however, know Sean’s adopted
neighborhood, could provide Suzan insight into the Seattle music
scene he became a part of. She had street smarts, skills Suzan
lacked. She found that Marla was a surprisingly good listener. They
talked for another hour until Suzan was all talked out then walked
in silence back to the Sea Turtle.

After they had settled into their beds and
turned out the light Marla told Suzan her own story, how she grew
up in Seattle then moved to Oakland. She shared with her the tale
of how she got her first tattoo and why. About her first long-term
lover and how she learned a lot about abuse in those years. Around
four they drifted off.

* * *

Suzan slept until nine and
awoke famished. The adjacent bed was empty, Marla having presumably
slipped out early for work.
The first deep
sleep I’ve had in I don’t know how long.
She felt purged and clean.

The first order of business following a
quick shower was food and lots of cheap coffee, both of which she
found at the McDonald’s a few blocks north on Western by the ferry
dock. Her tray loaded down with a couple of McMuffins, a carton of
orange juice, and a large coffee, she slid into a chair where she
could watch the ferry traffic.

Later maybe I’ll spring for
a ferry ride across Elliott Bay to Bainbridge Island and
back.
Salt air meant home and comfort.
It’s what comes of being a Navy brat, she supposed, and growing up
on an island. It’s what comes of having so many Irish ancestors.
Whenever she needed to think she headed for salt water. A beach, a
boat, a dock - it didn’t matter just so long as she could feel the
waves, smell the salt and sea life, hear the ocean pulse like a
huge heart. Like a mother’s heart. Hear the gulls cry like
babies.

That night, her second night in Seattle,
Suzan did not imagine all she needed to do was show up at Jax’s and
the members of Scalplock would tell her everything she wanted to
know about Sean’s last years. It couldn’t be that easy but she and
Marla had sketched out a plan over their coffee. Marla would do
most of the talking, would pretend she’d had gone out with Sean a
few times, that she had been in California and had just heard about
his death blah-blah-blah. She was to say she wanted to talk to them
about him because she was really upset.

She would introduce “Ann” as a friend of
hers. Marla argued that was the way they should play it because
she’d often hung out at Jax’s when she was in town so the band
members might have seen her there, giving her credibility Suzan
lacked. It was a good plan considering the short notice.

As it turned out it was a waste of
effort.

When they arrived at Jax’s at eight-thirty,
things were well underway, the wall-to-wall crowd already deeply
involved in beer and smokes

Scalplock straggled in at eight forty-five,
way late to set up for their nine o’clock set. Jax’s manager was in
a screaming fit as the band leisurely proceeded to plug equipment
into various devices. The band consisted of three guys in the
standard uniform of black jeans, tees and tanks in varying stages
of decay. The leader stood out from the other two. He was at least
six feet tall, massive shoulders exposed by a ragged black shirt
with “Grid” spelled out across the chest. His skull was shaved and
tattooed, except for one clump of black hair that hung down his
back. That accounts for the band’s name, thought Suzan. She and
Marla wedged themselves by the bar. It was obvious they wouldn’t
have a chance of talking to anybody before the set was over.

“Is that your work?” Suzan nodded toward the
Scalplock leader, beginning to wonder if everyone in Seattle was
tattooed.

“No. But I recognize the work. It’s a shop
up on Broadway,” said Marla. “A very upscale shop. That job cost
him plenty.”

Suzan had seen plenty of tattoos in her
hometown of Oak Harbor. It was a Navy town, and sailors have been
getting tattooed for thousands of years. She had never seen
anything like the head art scalp-man sported. It was like a helmet
of barbed wire. She was willing to bet that if he had parents they
were still in shock. Her own dad would have killed her if she had
shown up with so much as a little butterfly on her shoulder.