Chapter 24
Part IV
The Standoff
I have noticed Ruby’s tears, but I was struggling to stick to my story, like a marathoner closing in on the finish line. When I return my focus to our little fireside, I find her holding a soggy wad of Kleenex and trailing streams of mascara. I feel like I’ve been a sadist, intentionally inflicting pain on her, and I kneel at the foot of her chair to beg forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry, Ruby.”
“You’re sorry,” she sniffles. “You’re sorry. Jesus. I knew it was coming all along, and yet… I’m destroyed. This image of you in the living room with that poor Army kid. Channy! How can you stand it?”
“But Ruby…”
“And me! Me with my petty bohemian dump stories. Boo-hoo for Ruby, she lost her boyfriend. I am such a dork!”
“It’s all the same… stuff, Ruby. It’s all grief and loss. It’s not a competition.”
She manages a laugh. “It was on Halloween.”
“That was different,” I say. “You were being a flaming bitch. Did I ever thank you for that?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Thank you, Ruby, for being a flaming bitch.”
She manages to laugh and cry at the same time. “My standard fee is forty percent.” She pulls out a fresh tissue and rubs it all over her face, like she’s erasing a chalkboard. Frankly, I don’t know what to do with her.
“Want a cookie?”
Ruby peers above her Kleenex with wide eyes. “Cheesecake?”
I stand up and muss her cutesy hair. “Cheesecake it is.”
I have officially proclaimed my widowhood, and I’m feeling like Ruby did about her euthanized career – relieved, liberated, and determined that my next dream had better behave itself. I nibble on a peanut butter cookie and feel the waves of heat from the fireplace as Ruby cleans up her plate. She wipes her mouth, touches up her lipstick, and gives me a grateful smile.
“Do we have time for dinner?” she asks. “Let me buy you dinner.”
“Sure. Mexican?”
I gather my jacket and purse, Ruby deposits her sob-wad in the trash, and we head outside, where it’s already dark.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but I invited David to karaoke.”
“Why would I mind?”
“Oh, there could be reasons,” she says, and flips her hair in the manner of a young Shirley MacLaine.
As a matter of fact, there is something awry about David. He isn’t smoking. At all. And then he turns in a song slip: “Unchain My Heart,” the Joe Cocker version. Fortunately, I’ve got some time to adjust to this new reality. All my regulars are here, as well as a few newcomers, and we have a rotation that is downright robust. It could be that everyone has finally recovered from the holidays, and decided it’s okay to get on with regular life.
I’m about to get things rolling when I’m approached by a tall, stout man with gentle silver trimmings. He bears the expression of a schoolboy about to request a hall pass.
“Hi. Our book only had one song slip. Do you have a stash up here?”
“Sure.” I pull a dozen from my shelf. “Here. What do you sing?”
He smiles, almost shyly. “Oh, I don’t. I mean, not here. I’m an opera coach. I’m here with my partner, Russ, who sings Elton John, Neil Diamond, those kind of things.”
“Does he sing opera?”
This brings another sort of smile, close-mouthed, sly. “Won’t even go to the opera.”
“A gay man who doesn’t like opera?”
“I know! Another perfectly good stereotype, shot to hell. My name’s Cordell, by the way.”
A few singers in, it’s readily apparent what Cordell sees in Russ. He is a quiet man, in every way – moves quietly, stands quietly – but once the lyric screen comes on he’s in his element, giving a thoughtful, polished reading of Neil Diamond’s “The Story of My Life.”
The boyfriend – my boyfriend – is sitting in the deep corner, next to the jukebox. I’ve been adding up the high school musicals, the way he dances, the lovely tenor resonance of his speaking voice, and hoping he might turn out to be a singer, but so far he’s given no indications. Tonight, he seems content to sit and admire, and to be prepared should I sneak his way for a kiss.
But it’s back to work for the heartstricken. After Ruby knocks us out with “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” up comes little brother, looking disheveled despite his neatly combed coif and brand-new ultrasuede shirt. When the piano breaks in, he reels out one arm and it begins to shake. Then he raises the other arm like a revival preacher, sings the first line in a throaty rasp, cranks his neck hard against one shoulder and rolls his eyes back in his head.
This is all making me nervous, but then I catch Ruby wearing a mischievous grin, and it comes to me. David is having no epileptic fit, he’s simply doing an excellent Joe Cocker impression. He also has a great voice – which, considering his gene pool, should be no surprise at all. After screaming the last note, he receives an uproarious applause and exits the stage, back to his shy, off-kilter self.
Still, something’s amiss. As Shari claws her way through “Piece of My Heart,” the ice cubes of déjà vu are tobogganing my spine. David’s playful freakout seems weirdly familiar. It only gets worse when Kai appears at my side, wearing a look of intense awareness that is wholly out of context.
“Keep an eye on that dude,” he says. “Something very unstable about him.”
I turn my face to sneak a kiss – which is all that I truly care about at this moment – and find myself watching Kai’s butt, traveling away from me. Not an unpleasant sight, but not what I had in mind. Wednesday Thursday Friday!
The snub continues when I sing “Not Too Much to Ask” by Mary-Chapin Carpenter – a wise, tender love song meant expressly for my boyfriend’s ears. When I turn to aim the crucial line at Kai’s table, Kai is staring at David, and wearing an expression like a guard dog on the point. What is this? Is this National Guard Sunday?
Fortunately, David heads outside for a smoke (finally!), which scatters the tension – although I’m likely the only person who knows the tension’s there. In any case, at least I’m able to finish my goddamn song, and get my goddamn applause (although I’m feeling pretty goddamn surly about it). When Russ sings “Your Song,” and Cordell gives him an adoring gaze, I’m feeling more than a little jealous.
Ruby gets me back on track when she does a Sinatra arrangement of “Let’s Fall in Love,” complete with the old-fashioned Broadway intro. Then the Coast Starlight (a tribute to Hamster’s previous career) rolls in with a snifter of brandy – an unusual choice, but heaven on the throat. It’s also got a note, which reads, simply, Everything OK? Which means that I’m not the only one picking up on the strange vibe.
With all this subterranean hullabaloo, I am savoring my secret knowledge of David’s next selection. I am forever astonished at the ability of certain rock guitarists to develop their own instantly recognizable sound, and this one is a prime example: “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC, featuring the thumbprint vinegar explosions of Angus Young. The buzz of my small arena is immediate. Fortunately for everyone, David opts for the better part of valor, staying on the low octave instead of attempting the savage upward leap of the heavily drugged Bon Scott.
Then comes the solo, and I’m beginning to catch on to David’s game. He prefers to mimic people who have a proclivity for spazzing out. All in a sweep, he grabs our toy guitar and hustles to the dance floor, striking each imaginary note as he matches Angus’s waggling, tremorous gait, lacking only a foot less height and the shorts-and-tie schoolboy uniform to complete the illusion. Karz is rustling with appreciation, and it escalates when David falls to his knees for a finishing back-bend. Then he has to get up and relocate the microphone so he can get on with the vocals. He ends the song by retrieving the guitar and delivering Angus’s final fussilade like he’s raking the crowd with gunfire.
Bedlam. Absolute bedlam. In what is supposed to be a non-competitive forum, there are times when a particular singer is master of the evening, and David has already won tonight’s crown. He exposes an actual symmetrical grin and departs the stage. Ruby greets him with a hug, and I sense that there’s something more in David’s performance than singing, antics and fake guitar. It’s a kind of coming-out party.
“Shari,” I say. “Get up here and calm these people down.”
“Oh thanks,” says Shari. “What’m I? Boring?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” I punch the button on “You Can Sleep While I Drive” by Melissa Etheridge, and Shari responds with her predictable excellence. Alex hits the floor with his latest partner, an astonishing Latina with raven hair down to her waist, and they manage to turn an acoustic ballad into a tango. I always wonder if Alex is getting any sex out of these excursions. I hope so. But then, perhaps it’s the nature of those who are having sex to be generous in their carnal wishes for others. I look around for my partner, and can’t seem to find him. Then the Starlight pulls in again with a one-word note: Sidebar, which means I need to report to Hamster for a conference. I wait until I’ve got Harry going with “Devil Woman” by Marty Robbins, then head for a stool next to our mini-Rainier, where the boss is blending a strawberry margarita. He speaks in his inside voice.
“I’m a little worried about your boyfriend.”
“Kai? What for?”
Hamster tugs at his soul patch (a recent project). “During David’s little guitar-god act – very entertaining, by the way – Kai came over here like the watchman on the Titanic and insisted that I call the cops. I laughed, of course, and I said, ‘Come on, he’s not that bad.’ And Kai said, ‘But can’t you see? He’s about to blow a gasket – there’s no telling what he might do. No one ever catches this shit until it’s too late.’ And he was completely serious. I told him if he really wanted to report a crime that had not yet happened, he was free to go outside and make use of the pay phone. I don’t think he did, but now he’s out in the parking lot, pacing back and forth like he’s on fucking guard duty.”
For your average citizen, the use of the f-word is no big deal (especially in a bar), but for genteel Hamster, it’s a signifier of greater-than-usual anxiety. At the moment, however, I can do nothing, because Harry has reached his ending, and the applause is tugging at my leash. I catch the briefest glimpse of Kai, pacing the perimeter of his T-bird, huffing a loop of vapored breaths, then I get Caroleen started on her ever-apt standby, “Mama, He’s Crazy.”
At this point, I’m getting a little pissed off. It’s a busy night, dammit, and mama’s gotta pay the rent. Psycho boyfriend will just have to wait. So I take solace in the rising green tide of my tip jar, and try my damnedest not to look out the window. Meanwhile, David’s next turn is rapidly approaching.
On the other hand, I’m rather looking forward to David’s turn, because it’s “Once in a Lifetime” by the Talking Heads. He delivers an impressive take on David Byrne’s radioactive vocal style, and then begins to incorporate the wacked-out choreography from the concert film: the repeated forehead-smack, the construction-site arm-crank, the long-armed snake-wave from right hand to left. He even evokes the Paul Bunyan-size suit by draping his corduroy sportcoat over his head. He’s winning ever more brownie points from the congregation, who begin to clap as he performs a Devo-style pogo across the dance floor. His journey comes to an abrupt halt, however, when he arrives at a strange obstacle.
It’s Kai. He’s standing utterly rigid, like a man trying to explode himself from the inside out. His arms are out and down in an inverted vee, his back bolt-stiff, and I can see the veins in his forehead. He is two feet from David, staring so intently you would think he was attempting telekinesis. David is frozen, afraid to look away. The song fades out, and silence seeps into the room like a cold tide. Kai raises one arm in a threatening manner, but then he seems to snap out of it. He looks around the room, all of us plastered in our places like a snapshot, then discovers his own right hand held in a fist over his head, and suddenly he’s off for the door in a quick-march. I rush to the window to see him jump into his T-bird and squeal from the lot.
It’s a hard sell, but I decide to pretend that nothing has happened, and I line up “Black Horse and a Cherry Tree” for Shari. The rest of the night is a long, musical blur.
Ruby does me the great favor of seeing her brother off (apparently, he also drives!) and waiting till I’ve loaded up my CDs before coming to my truck for the post-op.
“What the hell was that?”
“Wish I had the least idea,” I say. “You got a smoke?”
“You smoke?”
“I do now.”
She pulls out a couple of her “recreational” cigarettes and lights us up. I try my best to look like a veteran.
“I realize that David makes people nervous,” she says. “But I’ve never seen him turn someone into a statue. Any luck with the cell phone?”
I take a deep, poisonous drag and let it out with my words. “Nothing but voicemail. He’s not answering, Ruby. What the fuck?”
“Don’t get upset now. I’m sure there’s a…”
“I’m not upset. I’m pissed off!”
I am a one-woman meteorology course, smoldering like a volcano even as I watch the plains of water beneath our vantage point and feel like I’m under the surface, dying of hypothermia. But reason arrives like the good cop and talks me back down. There are no answers here, no legitimate evidence. So perhaps it’s time to change the starting point.
“Roo-bee?”
“Yes’m?”
“Do I know your brother from somewhere?”
She leans against the seawall and sends out a stream of smoke. “The boy does cause a ruckus everywhere he goes. The night they finally arrested him, in fact, was right here in Gig Harbor.”
“Really?”
“And, let’s see… what else? Oh yeah, in his homeless days, he had a friend who worked in the merchandising department of the Seattle Supersonics. Whenever they traded a player, he’d give some of the replica jerseys to David.”
I toss my cigarette and take Ruby by the shoulders. “Super!”
Ruby looks at me with great puzzlement. “Yes, it was… very nice of him.”
Next: The Black Horse and the Cherry Tree
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV
Part IV
The Standoff
I have noticed Ruby’s tears, but I was struggling to stick to my story, like a marathoner closing in on the finish line. When I return my focus to our little fireside, I find her holding a soggy wad of Kleenex and trailing streams of mascara. I feel like I’ve been a sadist, intentionally inflicting pain on her, and I kneel at the foot of her chair to beg forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry, Ruby.”
“You’re sorry,” she sniffles. “You’re sorry. Jesus. I knew it was coming all along, and yet… I’m destroyed. This image of you in the living room with that poor Army kid. Channy! How can you stand it?”
“But Ruby…”
“And me! Me with my petty bohemian dump stories. Boo-hoo for Ruby, she lost her boyfriend. I am such a dork!”
“It’s all the same… stuff, Ruby. It’s all grief and loss. It’s not a competition.”
She manages a laugh. “It was on Halloween.”
“That was different,” I say. “You were being a flaming bitch. Did I ever thank you for that?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Thank you, Ruby, for being a flaming bitch.”
She manages to laugh and cry at the same time. “My standard fee is forty percent.” She pulls out a fresh tissue and rubs it all over her face, like she’s erasing a chalkboard. Frankly, I don’t know what to do with her.
“Want a cookie?”
Ruby peers above her Kleenex with wide eyes. “Cheesecake?”
I stand up and muss her cutesy hair. “Cheesecake it is.”
I have officially proclaimed my widowhood, and I’m feeling like Ruby did about her euthanized career – relieved, liberated, and determined that my next dream had better behave itself. I nibble on a peanut butter cookie and feel the waves of heat from the fireplace as Ruby cleans up her plate. She wipes her mouth, touches up her lipstick, and gives me a grateful smile.
“Do we have time for dinner?” she asks. “Let me buy you dinner.”
“Sure. Mexican?”
I gather my jacket and purse, Ruby deposits her sob-wad in the trash, and we head outside, where it’s already dark.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but I invited David to karaoke.”
“Why would I mind?”
“Oh, there could be reasons,” she says, and flips her hair in the manner of a young Shirley MacLaine.
As a matter of fact, there is something awry about David. He isn’t smoking. At all. And then he turns in a song slip: “Unchain My Heart,” the Joe Cocker version. Fortunately, I’ve got some time to adjust to this new reality. All my regulars are here, as well as a few newcomers, and we have a rotation that is downright robust. It could be that everyone has finally recovered from the holidays, and decided it’s okay to get on with regular life.
I’m about to get things rolling when I’m approached by a tall, stout man with gentle silver trimmings. He bears the expression of a schoolboy about to request a hall pass.
“Hi. Our book only had one song slip. Do you have a stash up here?”
“Sure.” I pull a dozen from my shelf. “Here. What do you sing?”
He smiles, almost shyly. “Oh, I don’t. I mean, not here. I’m an opera coach. I’m here with my partner, Russ, who sings Elton John, Neil Diamond, those kind of things.”
“Does he sing opera?”
This brings another sort of smile, close-mouthed, sly. “Won’t even go to the opera.”
“A gay man who doesn’t like opera?”
“I know! Another perfectly good stereotype, shot to hell. My name’s Cordell, by the way.”
A few singers in, it’s readily apparent what Cordell sees in Russ. He is a quiet man, in every way – moves quietly, stands quietly – but once the lyric screen comes on he’s in his element, giving a thoughtful, polished reading of Neil Diamond’s “The Story of My Life.”
The boyfriend – my boyfriend – is sitting in the deep corner, next to the jukebox. I’ve been adding up the high school musicals, the way he dances, the lovely tenor resonance of his speaking voice, and hoping he might turn out to be a singer, but so far he’s given no indications. Tonight, he seems content to sit and admire, and to be prepared should I sneak his way for a kiss.
But it’s back to work for the heartstricken. After Ruby knocks us out with “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” up comes little brother, looking disheveled despite his neatly combed coif and brand-new ultrasuede shirt. When the piano breaks in, he reels out one arm and it begins to shake. Then he raises the other arm like a revival preacher, sings the first line in a throaty rasp, cranks his neck hard against one shoulder and rolls his eyes back in his head.
This is all making me nervous, but then I catch Ruby wearing a mischievous grin, and it comes to me. David is having no epileptic fit, he’s simply doing an excellent Joe Cocker impression. He also has a great voice – which, considering his gene pool, should be no surprise at all. After screaming the last note, he receives an uproarious applause and exits the stage, back to his shy, off-kilter self.
Still, something’s amiss. As Shari claws her way through “Piece of My Heart,” the ice cubes of déjà vu are tobogganing my spine. David’s playful freakout seems weirdly familiar. It only gets worse when Kai appears at my side, wearing a look of intense awareness that is wholly out of context.
“Keep an eye on that dude,” he says. “Something very unstable about him.”
I turn my face to sneak a kiss – which is all that I truly care about at this moment – and find myself watching Kai’s butt, traveling away from me. Not an unpleasant sight, but not what I had in mind. Wednesday Thursday Friday!
The snub continues when I sing “Not Too Much to Ask” by Mary-Chapin Carpenter – a wise, tender love song meant expressly for my boyfriend’s ears. When I turn to aim the crucial line at Kai’s table, Kai is staring at David, and wearing an expression like a guard dog on the point. What is this? Is this National Guard Sunday?
Fortunately, David heads outside for a smoke (finally!), which scatters the tension – although I’m likely the only person who knows the tension’s there. In any case, at least I’m able to finish my goddamn song, and get my goddamn applause (although I’m feeling pretty goddamn surly about it). When Russ sings “Your Song,” and Cordell gives him an adoring gaze, I’m feeling more than a little jealous.
Ruby gets me back on track when she does a Sinatra arrangement of “Let’s Fall in Love,” complete with the old-fashioned Broadway intro. Then the Coast Starlight (a tribute to Hamster’s previous career) rolls in with a snifter of brandy – an unusual choice, but heaven on the throat. It’s also got a note, which reads, simply, Everything OK? Which means that I’m not the only one picking up on the strange vibe.
With all this subterranean hullabaloo, I am savoring my secret knowledge of David’s next selection. I am forever astonished at the ability of certain rock guitarists to develop their own instantly recognizable sound, and this one is a prime example: “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC, featuring the thumbprint vinegar explosions of Angus Young. The buzz of my small arena is immediate. Fortunately for everyone, David opts for the better part of valor, staying on the low octave instead of attempting the savage upward leap of the heavily drugged Bon Scott.
Then comes the solo, and I’m beginning to catch on to David’s game. He prefers to mimic people who have a proclivity for spazzing out. All in a sweep, he grabs our toy guitar and hustles to the dance floor, striking each imaginary note as he matches Angus’s waggling, tremorous gait, lacking only a foot less height and the shorts-and-tie schoolboy uniform to complete the illusion. Karz is rustling with appreciation, and it escalates when David falls to his knees for a finishing back-bend. Then he has to get up and relocate the microphone so he can get on with the vocals. He ends the song by retrieving the guitar and delivering Angus’s final fussilade like he’s raking the crowd with gunfire.
Bedlam. Absolute bedlam. In what is supposed to be a non-competitive forum, there are times when a particular singer is master of the evening, and David has already won tonight’s crown. He exposes an actual symmetrical grin and departs the stage. Ruby greets him with a hug, and I sense that there’s something more in David’s performance than singing, antics and fake guitar. It’s a kind of coming-out party.
“Shari,” I say. “Get up here and calm these people down.”
“Oh thanks,” says Shari. “What’m I? Boring?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” I punch the button on “You Can Sleep While I Drive” by Melissa Etheridge, and Shari responds with her predictable excellence. Alex hits the floor with his latest partner, an astonishing Latina with raven hair down to her waist, and they manage to turn an acoustic ballad into a tango. I always wonder if Alex is getting any sex out of these excursions. I hope so. But then, perhaps it’s the nature of those who are having sex to be generous in their carnal wishes for others. I look around for my partner, and can’t seem to find him. Then the Starlight pulls in again with a one-word note: Sidebar, which means I need to report to Hamster for a conference. I wait until I’ve got Harry going with “Devil Woman” by Marty Robbins, then head for a stool next to our mini-Rainier, where the boss is blending a strawberry margarita. He speaks in his inside voice.
“I’m a little worried about your boyfriend.”
“Kai? What for?”
Hamster tugs at his soul patch (a recent project). “During David’s little guitar-god act – very entertaining, by the way – Kai came over here like the watchman on the Titanic and insisted that I call the cops. I laughed, of course, and I said, ‘Come on, he’s not that bad.’ And Kai said, ‘But can’t you see? He’s about to blow a gasket – there’s no telling what he might do. No one ever catches this shit until it’s too late.’ And he was completely serious. I told him if he really wanted to report a crime that had not yet happened, he was free to go outside and make use of the pay phone. I don’t think he did, but now he’s out in the parking lot, pacing back and forth like he’s on fucking guard duty.”
For your average citizen, the use of the f-word is no big deal (especially in a bar), but for genteel Hamster, it’s a signifier of greater-than-usual anxiety. At the moment, however, I can do nothing, because Harry has reached his ending, and the applause is tugging at my leash. I catch the briefest glimpse of Kai, pacing the perimeter of his T-bird, huffing a loop of vapored breaths, then I get Caroleen started on her ever-apt standby, “Mama, He’s Crazy.”
At this point, I’m getting a little pissed off. It’s a busy night, dammit, and mama’s gotta pay the rent. Psycho boyfriend will just have to wait. So I take solace in the rising green tide of my tip jar, and try my damnedest not to look out the window. Meanwhile, David’s next turn is rapidly approaching.
On the other hand, I’m rather looking forward to David’s turn, because it’s “Once in a Lifetime” by the Talking Heads. He delivers an impressive take on David Byrne’s radioactive vocal style, and then begins to incorporate the wacked-out choreography from the concert film: the repeated forehead-smack, the construction-site arm-crank, the long-armed snake-wave from right hand to left. He even evokes the Paul Bunyan-size suit by draping his corduroy sportcoat over his head. He’s winning ever more brownie points from the congregation, who begin to clap as he performs a Devo-style pogo across the dance floor. His journey comes to an abrupt halt, however, when he arrives at a strange obstacle.
It’s Kai. He’s standing utterly rigid, like a man trying to explode himself from the inside out. His arms are out and down in an inverted vee, his back bolt-stiff, and I can see the veins in his forehead. He is two feet from David, staring so intently you would think he was attempting telekinesis. David is frozen, afraid to look away. The song fades out, and silence seeps into the room like a cold tide. Kai raises one arm in a threatening manner, but then he seems to snap out of it. He looks around the room, all of us plastered in our places like a snapshot, then discovers his own right hand held in a fist over his head, and suddenly he’s off for the door in a quick-march. I rush to the window to see him jump into his T-bird and squeal from the lot.
It’s a hard sell, but I decide to pretend that nothing has happened, and I line up “Black Horse and a Cherry Tree” for Shari. The rest of the night is a long, musical blur.
Ruby does me the great favor of seeing her brother off (apparently, he also drives!) and waiting till I’ve loaded up my CDs before coming to my truck for the post-op.
“What the hell was that?”
“Wish I had the least idea,” I say. “You got a smoke?”
“You smoke?”
“I do now.”
She pulls out a couple of her “recreational” cigarettes and lights us up. I try my best to look like a veteran.
“I realize that David makes people nervous,” she says. “But I’ve never seen him turn someone into a statue. Any luck with the cell phone?”
I take a deep, poisonous drag and let it out with my words. “Nothing but voicemail. He’s not answering, Ruby. What the fuck?”
“Don’t get upset now. I’m sure there’s a…”
“I’m not upset. I’m pissed off!”
I am a one-woman meteorology course, smoldering like a volcano even as I watch the plains of water beneath our vantage point and feel like I’m under the surface, dying of hypothermia. But reason arrives like the good cop and talks me back down. There are no answers here, no legitimate evidence. So perhaps it’s time to change the starting point.
“Roo-bee?”
“Yes’m?”
“Do I know your brother from somewhere?”
She leans against the seawall and sends out a stream of smoke. “The boy does cause a ruckus everywhere he goes. The night they finally arrested him, in fact, was right here in Gig Harbor.”
“Really?”
“And, let’s see… what else? Oh yeah, in his homeless days, he had a friend who worked in the merchandising department of the Seattle Supersonics. Whenever they traded a player, he’d give some of the replica jerseys to David.”
I toss my cigarette and take Ruby by the shoulders. “Super!”
Ruby looks at me with great puzzlement. “Yes, it was… very nice of him.”
Next: The Black Horse and the Cherry Tree
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV
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