I hate liars. If Katie wanted to run away from this pretty boy, then she must have a good reason. “No, I ain’t seen her. I’d have remembered another blonde. We stick together, y’know.” I fingered some of the hair not covered by my hat, smiling like a cheap flirt, certain there were apple bits sticking to my gums.
Something flickered behind his eyes. Distaste and disbelief. He’d not bought my act. I couldn’t blame him, having laid it on too thick. If I ever got to Hollywood, I would definitely need an acting coach.
Then something flickered inside me, a twinge of unease that this guy was eerily familiar. I was certain we’d never met. I would have remembered someone so striking. He had not been in the audience back at the Classic Club or he’d have come backstage himself instead of those four guys.
“I was wondering—” he began hesitantly, unsure and apologetic, which was also an act. This was a guy who was supremely confident every day of the week. He must have thought hiding it would make people more willing to help him out.
I don’t like manipulators any more than liars, but smiled encouragingly. “What?”
“Would you mind terribly checking the ladies’ lounge for me? I’d do it but—” He made a small motion with his long fingers to indicate the necessity for female help given the circumstances.
“Yeah, sure, I guess so.”
He stepped back, not crowding me as I stood. By then I’d come up with a reason why he posed as a brother, not husband. People might side with a runaway bride, and not help a deserted groom on the chance that he could be a wife beater, but a worried brother was someone else again.
He stayed put as I went to the door and looked in.
Lounge was a grand overstatement: three stalls, drab paint, drab tile floor, wire-meshed window—one of the half-open stall doors moved ever so slightly. “Sorry, mister, nobody’s home.”
He looked at me a few heartbeats too long for comfort, his face somber. “I see. Thank you.” Then he remembered to smile, and the look in his eyes just then made my tummy flip over in a bad way. He left the station.
I let my breath out fast, feeling shaky. That mug was a hundred times creepier than the four crashers, and I’d figured out why.
He was like my trunk-sleeping boyfriend. Not like him, because Jack is a sweet, wonderful guy and never gives people the creeps unless they truly deserve it.
This one was like my Jack in a way that made my .38 with its ordinary lead bullets useless. I cast around for a reasonable substitute: anything made of wood, preferably with a point. The porter’s broom and dustpan were propped in one corner by a trash can. The broom handle had potential, but why couldn’t he have left a spear or baseball bat lying around?
I dropped my apple in the trash, grabbed the broom, and went into the lounge.
“Katie, it’s Bobbi Smythe from the nightclub. I can help, if you’ll let me.”
A soft sob came from the middle stall. I gave her a moment, then looked in. She stood unsteadily on the toilet seat, doubled over with her head below the divider. She clutched a small suitcase in both hands, which hindered her balance. Now she looked very young indeed.
“He’s gone for the moment.”
“He?” she whispered, shivering head to toe. I’d never seen a face more lost or lacking in hope.
“I assume you’re trying to avoid a handsome young husband?”
She came down so fast I had to catch her, and then I had to keep her from tearing out in sheer panic.
“Slow down, girl, you’ll run right into him. Let me help you.”
Katie shrank from my touch until stopped by one of the sinks. “You can’t, you don’t know what he can do.”
“Tell me later. First we get you out of here.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Actually, I do, a lot more than you’d think. Trust me a minute, would ya?”
While she thought that over I figured out how to improve my new weapon.