“So sorry,” I say, apologizing for what must be a record-breaking number of times in the last half hour. This is it. I’m done for. He’s come to ax me.
“Please watch where you’re going, Miss . . .” He pauses while his eyes dart toward my name tag. “Bailey.”
“I . . .” Can’t apologize again. I just can’t. “Yes, sir.”
“How’s ticketing working out for you? Are you on a break?” His nose wrinkles. “You aren’t quitting, are you?”
“No, sir.”
He relaxes. Straightens his Cavern Palace tie. “Terrific. Back to your post,” he says absently, focus returned to the clipboard as he shuffles away. “Don’t forget to smile.”
Like I could do that right now. I head to the ticketing booth in a daze, still unsure what I’ll find there. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It swings open. Porter is gone. A small line is forming on the other side of the glass, and Grace is handling it alone. Her shoulders relax when she sees me. She quickly switches off her mic.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m not going to be fired?”
She stares at me like I’ve gone nuts then shakes her head. “Porter just apologized and let them in free of charge. People will forgive anything if you give them stuff for free. Don’t quit! It’s all good. And I need your help now, yeah?”
“Okay.”
I close the door behind me and sit on my stool, waving the next person in line over to my window. I’m not sure how I feel. Relieved? Wiped out? Still humiliated and angry at Porter? I don’t even know anymore.
Before I click on my mic, I look down and see a fresh bottle of water and three cookies sitting on a printed Cavern Palace napkin. One chocolate chip, one sugar, one oatmeal. A note in scraggly, boyish handwriting is inked on the napkin’s corner, along with a drawing of a sad face. It says: Sorry.
LUMIèRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@alex: I need cheering up.
@mink: Me too. Want to watch Gold Diggers of 1933?
@alex: Blues Brothers?
@mink: Dr. Strangelove?
@alex: Young Frankenstein?
@mink: Young Frankenstein.
@alex: You’re the best.
@mink: You’re not so bad yourself. Tell me when you’re ready to hit play.
“Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.”
—Jack Nicholson, Chinatown (1974)
6
* * *
I spend the next morning on the boardwalk. It’s going much the same as my first morning on the boardwalk, which is to say that it’s a bust. Despite zero signs of Alex, I’ve run into that stupid orange tabby again hanging around my favorite churro cart. I’ve now dubbed her Se?or Don Gato (from my dad’s and my favorite children’s song, “Meow-meow-meow”). After all, she fooled me into thinking she was a “he” the first time around.
After pigging out and feeding churro crumbs to some bossy seagulls, I still have some time before I have to head over to the Cave for my afternoon shift. I’m not looking forward to facing Porter again. We didn’t see each other after the cookies. Yeah, that was a nice attempt at making up for his dickery, but whatever. Maybe don’t say anything you need to atone for in the first place.
Ugh. Just thinking about him makes me want to kick something. It also reminds me that I wanted to find a scarf to tie up my hair, so that it doesn’t stick to the back of my neck when the sweating starts in the Hotbox. I throw away my crumpled churro paper in the trash can, say good-bye to sleepy Se?or Don Gato, and head to a shop I spied during my previous Alex sleuthing— Déjà Vu. It’s a small vintage clothing store with old mannequins in the window that have been pieced together from several different mannequin bodies—male, female, brown, pink, tall, small. When I go inside, a small bell over the door dings, a sound that’s barely audible over the congo drums of the 1950s exotica music thumping over the speakers. The shop is dark, and it smells of a mix of musty old clothes and cheap detergent. Everything is jammed in tight, a browser’s dream. There’s only one other shopper in the store, and a bored college-aged girl with purple dreadlocks is running the register in the back.
I spot a rotating rack of old scarves near the counter. Bingo. Some of them smell funky, and a few are way too psychedelic for my taste, but there’re dozens to choose from. Halfway through the rack, I find a gray-and-black striped one that won’t clash too badly with my pumpkin vest at work. I pay the girl at the register. When she’s ringing me up, the bell over the door rings. I glance over my shoulder to see two boys walking through the store. One is a burly Latino guy in a sleeveless T-shirt. The other is lanky and white blond, wearing shorts and no shirt at all. He walks with a limp, as if he’s got an injured leg.
Crap. I know him. It’s Porter’s friend. The other guy from the crosswalk—the drugged-up one who slammed his fists on my dad’s car. They both approach us.
“What up, mamacita?” he says in a lazy, raspy voice to the girl at the register as he sidles up to the counter next to me while she’s getting my change out of the register. I glance up at his face. He’s got high cheekbones and deep hollows beneath them, pockmarked by acne scars. His white-blond hair is a mess. Despite this, he might be more classically handsome than Porter. Almost model pretty. But he has a scarier vibe. Something’s off-kilter.
“I told you not to bother me at work, Davy.”
“Yeah, well, it’s an emergency. I’m driving down to La Salva this afternoon. Need you to help a brother out.”
“Not now.”
He puts his hands on the counter and leans closer, blocking my view of their faces. I can still see her purple dreads draped over one bare shoulder. “Please,” he begs.
“I thought you were chipping,” she says in a hushed voice.
“I am, but you know how it goes. I just need a little.” His soft tone matches hers, but I can still hear every word they’re saying. I mean, hello. This conversation isn’t private. Do they know that? “It’s just for today.”
“That’s what you said last week,” she argues.
“Julie, come on.” He runs a hand down her arm, stroking a dreadlock with the tips of his fingers. “Julie, Julie, Julie.”
She sighs. “I’ll make a call and text you. Might be a couple of hours.”
Satisfied, he turns back around and seems to notice me for the first time. “Hi there.”
I don’t reply, but I can feel him looking me over while I accept my change. I quickly shove it into my wallet, and then grab the bag with my scarf and head down the narrow aisle toward the door. I just want to get out of here, like, yesterday.
But I’m not fast enough. Footfalls dog my heels.
“Whatcha buyin’?” I feel a tug on my bag and turn around to see Davy pulling the scarf out. “Are you a cowgirl or a gangbanger?”
I snatch the scarf out of his hand. “Neither.”
His companion snickers behind him.
“Whoa, now. Just curious,” Davy says. “Haven’t seen you around. What’s your name?”
“I don’t think so.”