I Remember You

by Joyce Armor

At the thriving Back in the Saddle Casino, Ellie sat at her table sipping her root beer, surreptitiously watching Cindy, so stunning and classy, smiling and so gregarious, greeting various customers as old friends. Could she be more attractive and appealing? As that thought tortured her, Russell walked up and plopped himself down at her booth startling her.

  “Guilt is a terrible thing,” he said.

  “So is a fat lip.”

  He looked at her speculatively. “She’s nice. You probably didn’t count on that.”

  She wasn’t going to deal with this. Not tonight. Ellie stood up and leaned over the table. “It’s still none of your business, but for your information, we haven’t done anything.”

  Except for that dinner. And those other meetings. And the kisses. And it’s not that you haven’t thought about doing much more. A whole friggin’lot.

  Russell grabbed her hand. “Wait. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”

  When he touched her, she shouldn’t have been shocked that she felt a tingle that went all the way up her arm. It wasn’t the first time. It had to be revulsion. Or a blast of the air conditioning. It couldn’t possibly be that attraction she was so diligently trying to dismiss. Thank you, Cleopatra, the queen of denial. She hesitated. She really didn’t want to leave, though she didn’t want to be harassed by Russell either. Reluctantly, she sat back down, eying Russell suspiciously. Had he really been put on this planet to annoy her? Brian and Russell were so different. Brian was competent, sophisticated, driven. Russell was footloose and funny and…and…she didn’t know what. It was like Brian was an anchor and Russell was a balloon. He seemed to bring out the worst in her. She wasn’t usually this rude.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it sincerely. “I’m hypersensitive tonight for some reason. You’re doing me a huge favor here, and I really appreciate it. Seriously. And I’m glad you’re getting to share your singing talent for a bigger audience. You sound wonderful.”

  He leaned back, looking relaxed. “I always wanted to play Vegas someday,” he said, smiling. There it was again, that ability to seem like he was totally content with who and where he was.

  A cocktail waitress, dressed in a fringed miniskirt and a midriff blue-checked blouse tied below her big bulbous breasts, of course wearing cowboy boots and a straw cowboy hat, brought Russell a soft drink and a plate of cheese fries. He thanked her and she practically flung her breasts onto his plate. What was it with him and breasts? And why did women seem to want to share them with him so freely? Brian probably would have ignored the experience. Russell appreciated it in all its tackiness. Finally, the slutty waitress left.

  “And what did you want to do after you played Vegas, Russell?”

  “I don’t know. Play Dodger Stadium maybe? Carnegie Hall?”

  He offered her some fries. She declined.

  “You’re so talented, my furry friend. Or I guess that would be my checkered friend tonight. Did you think you’d be famous by now?”

  He chuckled, tamping down the warm fuzzies he felt when she referred to him as a “friend.” Grasping at straws, are you? “I never cared about being famous. I was going for rich. What about you? What’d you want to do?”

  She swirled the ice around in her glass, thinking. She’d almost forgotten. “Originally, I thought I would be a writer. I was going to pen novels or movies or plays or something, but I realized my life was too boring; I didn’t have enough material. I majored in communications at college and figured that must involve some kind of writing.”

  “Don’t you hate it when that happens?”

  “What?”

  “When your life is too boring.”

  She twirled the ice around in her root beer with her straw. “I wanted to live a while, get some life experience under my belt.”

  “And now?”

  Their eyes locked for a long moment. She could see how this man could really become addictive. She was tempted to pour her heart out to him, and then she remembered her rendezvous with Brian. She’d be better off sharing her hopes and dreams with him, if he was the one. Is he? Are you sure about that? Finally, uncomfortable with her thoughts, she resorted to the time-old dodge of looking at her watch.

  “Oh dear. I promised Wesley and Chantella I’d meet them for a drink.” She got up. “Thanks again. You’ve really added to the ambiance here.”

  He grabbed her hand again, rubbing his thumb on her wrist in a way that made her uterus hum. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said a little too sharply. She pulled her hand away, smiled apologetically and turned and walked away, slowly making her way through the crowd.

  He watched her perky little butt sway as she headed toward the exit. Then, looking toward the bar, he noticed that Brian was watching her as well. And then he saw Cindy watching Brian. The only person missing in this psychodrama was Tiffy. What was that line from Shakespeare about weaving tangled webs?

  * * *

  At the Courtyard DuMont pool area, Ellie, Wesley and Chantella, fully dressed, sat at the edge of the pool with drinks, their pants rolled up, dangling their feet in the water. They were the only ones there except for an older man in the far corner, sipping a beer and reading a book.

  “You met at the grocery store?”

  “Yep,” Wesley said.

  “The grocery store?”

  “Even our people have to eat,” Chantella said.

  Wesley turned to Ellie. “So Russell’s got a gig at your friend’s cowboy casino? With anybody else it would be hard to picture, but I can see it.”

  “He’s incredible. He knows every cowboy song ever written, and he’s got the crowd eating out of his hand. He’s amazing.”

  Chantella, smiling, elbowed Wesley.

  Ellie looked askance. “What?”

  Before Chantella could answer, Tiffy and Spencer approached from the hotel area, giggling up a storm. They seemed to be getting closer and closer.

  “Let’s do shooters!” Tiffy bubbled. “No, get me a drink with a hula girl or an umbrella or something.”

  “Coming right up, doll.”

  Spencer headed back into the hotel and Tiffy sat herself down next to Ellie, putting her legs in the water like the rest of them, although she still had her blue heels on. They matched her periwinkle blue dress, which was sparkly and off one shoulder. Ellie looked at her, amused.

  “Missing Muskman, are we?”

  “Hashtag, Tiffy has to be free.”

  Wesley nuzzled Chantella’s neck, and she stretched like a feline.

  “Ooh, I’m getting tired,” she said, smiling seductively, poking Wesley playfully.

  “Yeah, me too,” he said. “Real tired.”

  Ah, young love. I am not envious. I am not envious. I am not envious. Repeat as necessary.

  The young couple shared a knowing look and got up, still nuzzling. They stopped long enough to mumble their goodbyes and sauntered off, their arms around each other’s waists. Despite her determination not to be envious watching their obvious love for each other, Ellie felt her shoulders slump. Tiffy noticed.

  “Are you against love or something?”

  She almost didn’t answer. Was she against love? At this point, kinda. Then she said, “One day you’re not Tiffy or Chantella anymore and you realize you haven’t really accomplished anything since you were. And you’re alone and maybe you always will be.”

  “You’re not that old.” Tiffy took off a shoe and guided it in the water like a little boat.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just in a weird mood.”

  “I’m always in a weird mood.” Tiffy about busted a gut laughing at that one. Finally, she straightened up and adjusted her undies.

  No doubt she’s wearing a thong. It probably bounces off her taut little buns.

  “My grandpa died when my grandma was only 29 and she said she’d never get married again. He was her one true love. Hashtag, she got in a fender-bender one rainy da
y with a lovable old geezer when she was 68 and they’re married now and hang all over each other. It’s pretty gross. Grandma can’t stop smiling, though.”

  “Sixty-eight, huh? That gives me something to look forward to, I guess.”

  Tiffy swished her legs around in the water. She wasn’t very good at sitting still. She thought about Ellie’s last statement and her observations of the woman. She looked at Ellie, really looked at her. Ellie was afraid to love, she decided. “I guess if you never put yourself out there, you’ll never get hurt, but what’re you gonna do? Sit home and watch your hair turn blue?”

  As Ellie contemplated that profundity, Spencer returned with two fancy schmancy green drinks with umbrellas and hula-girl stirrers.

  “Oh, Ellie. I didn’t see you there. Did you want…”

  “No, I’m good,” she interrupted. Of course he didn’t see you next to Tiffy. Maybe that’s your problem. You’re invisible.

  “Hey, there’s a guy in the lounge who can do “Play That Funky Music, White Boy” on the accordion.”

  Tiffy jumped up and struggled into her wet shoes. “Ooh, I feel like dancing.”

  She and Spencer locked arms and sashayed off.

  “You wanna cha-cha?”

  “Not until after we dance,” Tiffy said.

  Ellie and Spencer both laughed. Ellie called after her. “Hey, Tiffy!”

  The little sexpot looked back.

  “You’re okay.”

  Tiffy waved and disappeared into the hotel with Spencer. She had played the ditzy blond role so long she almost believed it herself. She remembered when it started. She was 15 when her mother died unexpectedly and she was unprepared for the depth of emotions she felt. It wasn’t a conscious decision to keep people from delving too deeply by acting dumb; it just sort of happened. And now it came naturally, and somehow the ditz and the glitz had melded together, so she didn’t know where the fake Tiffy ended and the real Tiffy began. These Full Court Press people were the only ones besides her father who had ever seemed to realize the difference between the two personas. But hashtag, both sides of her knew how to have fun.

  Back at the pool, Ellie relished the time alone, since even the guy in the corner had left. She thought about putting herself out there and the possible cost. Was it worth it? When had she become such a blatant coward? Or was she just careful and discerning when it came to men? Yeah, right, and pigs fly. What had playing it safe ever gotten her? True, she wasn’t hurt, but was she really living or just phoning it in? She swished her feet and once again an unbidden picture of Russell appeared in her head. What was it about that guy? She worked hard at replacing that picture with one of Brian, the man who was perfect for her on paper. Except for his pesky fiancée. Was it possible to drink enough to make that irritating little voice go away? She sincerely doubted it.

  Well, it was time to get some sleep, perchance to dream of Brian and not Russell. Remember, he’s a player. Yes, good, she’d almost forgotten that. She’d set her mental alarm for 1 a.m., which would leave her plenty of time to get ready for Brian’s visit. She picked up her sandals and walked over to the table, where she began gathering up her belongings. She had dried her legs and feet and had just sat down to put on her shoes when Bonnie came rushing in from the opposite side that Tiffy and Spencer had exited.

  “Have you seen Number One?”

  Ellie was confused. “What?”

  “Volume One. Number One. It’s gone!”

  “Oh, no! It couldn’t be.”

  “It is.”

  “Shit.”

  Chapter 13

  The loss of the valuable comic book wasn’t just the crushing of Bonnie’s and Roger’s dream. The theft was a criminal act, a felony, and the police were treating it seriously. The Neffs’ business insurance would theoretically cover the loss, and perhaps the convention center had some liability, but not remotely to the extent of what the comic would have brought at auction, which had the potential of driving the price up considerably. And there was just something about the precious issue being missing, about not knowing where it was, that was almost more upsetting than losing the money.

  Within an hour of Bonnie informing Ellie of the loss, detectives from the Las Vegas Police Department were using an unoccupied hotel room to interview each of the Full Court Press employees individually. A series of thefts had occurred at casinos downtown, and the precinct interview rooms were full. It was currently Wesley’s turn. Ellie, Spencer, Tiffy and Chantella sat glumly on the hallway floor outside the room, leaning against the wall.

  “I don’t know why we can’t talk,” Tiffy complained. “Hashtag, it’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

  Chantella looked her way. “They don’t want us to compare stories.”

  “I don’t even have a story,” Tiffy sniffed.

  Ellie looked around. “Where are Roger and Bonnie? I hope they’re not too upset.”

  Spencer explained that the couple had gone to their room to regroup. They’d already spoken to the detectives.

  “They’re upset but they’re not showing it,” Spencer said. “You can see it in their eyes, though.”

  They all looked up as the door to the interview room opened and Wesley came out. He looked serious.

  “Next.”

  The others all looked at each other, nobody really wanting to go next. Not one to avoid the inevitable, no matter how unpleasant, Ellie stood, brushed off her rear in case there was anything yucky sticking to it, and walked into the room on leaden feet. Two serious-looking detectives awaited her arrival. She wondered if they were good cop/bad cop, and which was which. One guy was tall and thin and had a brown mustache and short beard with gray hairs streaked through it. He looked a little like a younger version of the guy on the cough-drops box. The other one was stockier, with a ruddy complexion, thick, sandy blond hair and kind of piercing brown eyes. He had a sort of pirate look to him, like he should have had an earring dangling from one ear and a peg-leg. They both wore dark slacks and sport coats. The cough-drop guy spoke first.

  “I’m Detective Johns. This is Detective Spinelli.”

  “Hi. I’m Ellie Lambert. Well, Eleanor, but my mother doesn’t even call me that, except when she’s very mad or upset with me. Which rarely happens anymore, of course. I’m 28 and haven’t lived at home in years.” She swallowed. “TMI?”

  They looked at her questioningly.

  “Too much information?”

  She smiled; they didn’t.

  The pirate bore into her with those dark, foreboding eyes. “What do you do at Full Court Press?”

  She fidgeted and then tried to stop herself, thinking fidgeting probably made her look nervous. And looking nervous probably made her look guilty. “A little bit of everything. I take orders, type invoices, order inventory, stock shelves, answer phones…”

  Cough-drop guy checked his notes as if he were trying to catch her in a lie. “And you’ve been there nearly three years?”

  “Yes.”

  The pirate moved in closer. “When is the last time you saw the missing property?”

  Ellie shifted again. Stop it! Sit on your hands. She did. “Well, I never actually saw it out of the case since we got here, but I saw it in the case this afternoon.”

  It was cough-drop guy’s turn. “Are you aware that someone put a forged cover on a different comic?”

  “No.” She was genuinely surprised at that. How could that have happened? And when?

  The pirate again. “Have you ever been arrested, Miss Lambert? It is miss, isn’t it?”

  Oh, sure, no matter what you’re doing, someone or something will always remind you that you’re single now and forever.

  “No. Yes.” She hesitated and they both leaned in. “Yes, it’s miss. No, I’ve never been arrested. I did get a parking ticket once, but I mailed the fine in. I swear it. Well, okay, I was a little bit late, but it fell between the seats and I…I…”

  Now it was cough-drop guy’s turn to look mean as he interrupted. Ap
parently it was bad cop/bad cop. “Would you be willing to take a lie detector test?”

  “Yes.” Ooh, is that incredibly naïve and self-destructive? Better backtrack. “Well, I think so. Probably. Sure. Okay. I think. Maybe. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know,” the pirate said. “Do you?”

  I’m innocent! Don’t send me to the Big House!

  * * *

  At one a.m., Ellie, wearing an oversized mint green t-shirt that said “Hot Mama” on it, with a big-lipped red mouth and big red tongue hanging down, was in the bathroom of her hotel room, brushing her teeth, when she heard a knock on her door. She spit into the sink, rinsed off her toothbrush, swirled some water around in her mouth and spit again. It probably had something to do with the theft, or Russell wanted some prune juice or lip liner for Tiffy. It was always something with that one.

  She heard the knock again, crossed to the door and checked the peephole. Oh, no! Worst case scenario. Brian. It couldn’t be. She looked again. Yep, it was him. Reluctantly, she opened the door but left the chain on.

  “Brian? What are you doing here?”

  He chuckled. “I told you I’d come. Are you going to let me in?”

  She really had to think about that for a minute. “Only if you promise not to remember what I look like.”

  He grinned that devastating grin. Honestly, he should bottle that and sell it online.

  Fearing she would regret it, she slowly unhooked the chain and opened the door. He entered, still dressed in the crisp slacks and shirt he was wearing at the casino. He smelled a little smoky, but not in a bad way, rather in an incredibly, knock-your-socks-off, take-me-now way. His cologne was kind of woodsy and oh-so-masculine. Yeah, he still screams sensuality, devil that he is. She eyed his pants again for some reason. How did the guy not get wrinkled? Ever.

  He smiled again. “You look beautiful.”

  Yeah, he wants to get laid.

  She looked at her watch. “It’s only one. You said two or three. I was going to look a lot better by then.”