Kelso’s still hops, though. It was boarded up like its neighbours for a long time after the hotel trade died, but a guy from North Bay bought it in the seventies, gutted it, painted over the windows and stuck a couple of neon signs at eye level. A big billboard in the parking lot says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.
Morrison had left the cruiser back at the station, which was, rather happily for the local constabulary, right next door to the Tim Horton’s.
“If a cruiser pulls up at Kelso’s,” Morrison had said, “the place’ll empty faster than a loose bowel. Er, excuse me, ma’am.” He snickered. I stared at him, memory flooding back from the night before, at the community hall in Cedar Falls.
“You don’t have a relative who’s a musician, do you?” I said.
“My brother Dave’s the lead for Baggy Chaps,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Baggy Chaps. Were they playing the Cedar Falls Harvest Dance last night?”
“Where Becker’s brawl was? Yup. So?”
“Nothing. Just wondering.”
I let Morrison come with me in the pickup, although it meant Lug-nut would have to sit in his lap. The dog really liked him. I guess he has a thing for cops, like I used to. Morrison did rather resemble Luggy’s big, brown pillow at home. The dog kneaded Morrison’s mammoth thighs like a cat would, then settled down with a sigh and moaned as Morrison played with his ears.
My palms were slick on the steering wheel. I felt like I was taking my Young Driver’s test all over again. I hadn’t felt that way driving Becker the night before, but then, there had been enough sexual tension to make the rules of the road absolutely secondary to the rules of the dance. No sexual tension with Morrison. I felt him watching my every move. I just prayed that he wouldn’t ask me to parallel park.
When we got there, it was ten-thirty, and the lot was half-full. Becker’s Jeep Cherokee was parked a couple of rows over, and I chose a spot well away from it. No sign of the pickup boys, thank God. I could feel the bass-rumble from the open door through the soles of my boots.
“Remind me why we’re here, again?” I said.
“To give Becker the money,” Morrison said. “You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Maybe. Look at me. No way I’m dressed for this.” I wasn’t wearing barn-chore clothes, but it was close. I had changed out of my rubber boots and overalls, but I hadn’t dressed to go dancing—either on or off the tables. I was wearing the kind of outfit that sometimes elicits homophobic comments from the kind of guys who go to places like Kelso’s. You know what I mean. I had on baggy jeans. Work boots. A flannel shirt and a baseball cap. It was the same thing I had worn in the Lumber-R-Us store the week before, when a guy behind the counter had said “Can I help you, sir?” When I told him I was a ma’am, he was so embarrassed he scuttled away and got someone else to serve me.
Sometimes, I get called a dyke. I think it’s because I don’t bother with makeup and I have short hair. It doesn’t bother me, in fact, it sort of makes me feel proud. I know that this kind of attitude is likely to offend genuine lesbians, but I can’t help it. It’s called “passing”—as in “you could pass for a lesbian.” It’s a form of fraud, I suppose. Still, I like to reserve the right to be non-gender-specific.
However, I was about to walk into Kelso’s Tavern in Laingford (GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS), and looking even remotely like a stereotypical lesbian could get me into trouble. I ditched the baseball cap, undid a couple of buttons of my flannel shirt and tucked it in. I caught Morrison looking, but he wasn’t smiling.
“Well?” I said. “I don’t want to get slugged.”
“I know,” he said. “Too bad about the workboots.”
“I left my pumps at home.” I tried to fluff out my hair. There isn’t much to fluff.
“You got any lipstick?”
I felt like I was about to go undercover. This was getting ridiculous.
“I’ll wet my lips at the door and keep my mouth open. Maybe giggle a bit. What do you think?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said and eased himself out of the cab.
“Stay, Luggy,” I said to the dog. “If anybody tries to break in, bite their hands off.” Not that anybody would. Lug-nut was ugly and looked mean. He licked my face, then settled down. I don’t know how I ever managed without a dog before. They make you feel warm and fuzzy all day long.
There was a cover charge, and Morrison paid it. I just stood next to him and simpered, which earned me a peculiar look from the guy at the door, who stamped our hands with a rubber stamp and said “Have a good time” in the kind of tone that meant we probably wouldn’t.
As we headed into the murk, Morrison muttered “you don’t have to act like a moron, for Chrissakes. We’re not walking into a pit of rattlers.”
We walked straight into a pit of rattlers.
Maybe we should have paid more attention to the cluster of big, black motorcycles parked near the door. There were bikers everywhere. Leather-wrapped, either bearded or Nazishorn, rings attached to places I’ve only seen on livestock and oozing a negative aura which would make any New-Ager reach for his or her crystal in self-defence. Some of these guys made Morrison look like Michael Jackson.
I peered into the smoky gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of Becker. The sooner we found him, the sooner we could get out of there. I saw him at the end of a bar, talking to a ferrety man with glasses and a flat cap. I tugged Morrison’s arm and pointed.
“He’s over there,” I whispered, which was dumb, considering that the music was so loud it was altering my heartbeat. Still, Morrison got the picture and we started moving.
“Hey, honey. Wanna dance?” Someone grabbed my arm and I almost screamed. I turned to see who it was. He was shorter than me, with a grey beard which came down to his chest. From his right ear dangled an earring in the shape of a skull, and his grin revealed a set of well-kept teeth, which looked sharp.
“Uh, no, thank you,” I said, pitching my voice to sound as much like a bar-bimbo as I could manage. “Me and my brother here are looking for our cousin Marky who’s just got outta jail.”
I heard a snort from Morrison.
The biker’s grin faded. “Oh. Too bad. My name’s Grub, eh? Just asking. Hope you find him. Have a nice evening.” He grinned again and moved away. I stared after him in astonishment. This was a biker dude? Skull and leather and all? Have a nice evening?
We walked over to Becker.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said when he saw me. It seemed to be a customary greeting with him. He’d probably still be saying that when we both met again on the banks of the Styx.
“Hi, Becker. Nice to see you, too. How’s your eye?” He just glared at me, so I turned away from him and leaned over the bar to get the attention of the bartender, who had so many tattoos on his arms I thought he was wearing a denim shirt, until he got close.
“I just love your arms,” I said, quite sincerely. They were fascinating. Snakes and daggers and Japanese Samurai warriors warring with hearts and flowers and the names of a dozen women. He smiled.
“I guess everybody says that, right?” I said.
“Not many women do,” he said. “Mostly they look for names that aren’t theirs. What can I get you?”
“Two draft, please.” I forked over a five and got more change than I expected, which I left on