The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  Maybe everything else.

  Tall. Good shoulders under the leather jacket. Thick hair. Blond? She couldn't tell in this light, but it hung wild in his face, and she liked that too. The door swung shut behind him as he stalked through a winking band of light. Even watery from the cold, those sharp blue eyes cut at her from across the room. She watched him saunter up to the bar and try to look nonchalant with everybody staring at him. He moved smoothly for such a big guy, and she caught herself actually licking her lips.

  With an elaborately casual glance around, he planted himself on a bar stool and pulled off his gloves to blow on his hands.

  He looked mean, she decided, or maybe not "mean" exactly, maybe just a little dangerous. Definitely her type. "What'll it be, hon?"

  He looked up. The barmaid wasn't as pretty as she'd seemed from the doorway. The straw-colored hairdo had been sprayed to brittle stiffness, and the makeup had been applied too heavily. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

  "You really look frostbitten." She gave a throaty giggle. "Can I do something to warm you up?"

  A sting of burned tobacco tinctured the air, making his eyes water until the room seemed to melt, and the heavy scent of food made him reel. The woman leaned on the bar and smiled full in his face while she talked, her gaze overbright. Even in this dimness, he could see the tight lines that crosshatched her lips. He had difficulty concentrating on her words, but he said something back to her--he wasn't sure what--and as he peered around the room, a couple at the nearest table looked away. The man's collar had twisted, and his companion, an elderly woman with hair the color of iodine, reached to adjust it. Their table wobbled when she moved.

  One long multicolored fingernail tapped commandingly against the bar's surface. "Something to eat? Before I turn this off?" Indicating a Crock-Pot with a wave of her hand, the barmaid blew smoke to the side, dropping the unfiltered cigarette into a clamshell. "You all right?" She waved politely at the cloud, then used her nails to daintily peel a fleck of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. "I roll my own."

  "Sorry." He nodded. "Give me a minute to catch my breath." But when he asked for a draft beer, she just looked annoyed.

  "Bottles only. One brand. Did you say you wanted a sandwich, hon?" She plucked a match from a box on the counter. "So what brings you to Edgeharbor?"

  Good--let her do all the talking. But he thought she seemed to be watching him too closely, smiling over at him while she fixed a hot roast beef sandwich. The fatty odor made his head swim. Can't seem to manage anymore. She chatted on, raising her voice above the television set that no one appeared to be watching, most of the patrons preferring to keep their attention on him. He tried to look around without seeming to, attempting to draw individual features from the pervasive gloom. Across the bar, a lighter flickered, and a man's face became a goblin mask, then receded.

  Various attempts had apparently been made to decorate the bar. A fake ship's wheel hung against the paneled wall, but he could detect no other evidence of a nautical motif. Covered with cowgirl decals, an unlit jukebox stood silent, a Styrofoam snowman perched atop it. Plastic garland twisted around sections of the bar, and on a shelf, pink lights blinked from a tiny white tree effigy, the branches of which resembled bottlebrushes.

  "I always get so depressed when I have to take it down." She shrugged, noticing his stare. "Maybe this year, I'll just leave it up permanent. What do you think?" Her husky laugh might have been sexy if she hadn't started coughing. "So what did you say brings you here? Business? You don't look like you're from anywheres around here."

  He started to thank her but caught himself and just smiled instead. Okay, she likes that. There'd been a time when people had often complimented his smile. Keep working it. With a faint, detached amazement, he watched the flush rise in her cheeks. At least I can still do something right. Sort of. She smoothed her sweater, pulling it tight over her breasts. Shy little thing. He grinned appreciatively, feeling nothing but disgust with himself. This could be a break though, and he needed one: somebody had to answer his questions. "Pretty quiet tonight," he began.

  "Off-season." She shrugged vaguely. "You need a glass?"

  Off-season--he'd heard that up and down the coast, in every little shore town he'd been through, as though these people lived only for the few months of pounding sun, the rest of the year declining into a kind of stupor. The barmaid clicked away on incredibly high heels, and he noticed that, behind the row of bottles, a greasy fog had settled on what might once have been a tinted mirror. Between a fifth of Jack Daniel's and a bottle of something with a bat on the label, he recognized the smear of his own reflection.

  My Lord. Of all the transformations, of all the damaged and aching spots within, nothing showed. It seemed shockingly wrong. He looked the same, exactly the same.

  Without quite intending to, he lifted the beer in a silent toast, and his teeth clenched. Doesn't he look natural? Between yellowing blotches on the mirror, a handsome man raised his glass, and he studied the image. A lie. It sickened him. Even my appearance. As he wondered if anything about him had ever been honest, his grip tightened on the beer.

  Here I am, alone. As usual. Gradually, he began to peer about more openly. Funny, how nothing ever changes. He found he envied even this muttering crowd their dreary camaraderie. At the far end of the bar, the barmaid looked almost glamorous, and the customers in the dimness might be lively, congenial. Who could tell? Sipping his beer, he returned his attention to the mirror, and the handsome image began to melt. The ears stood out red as blood, and the unshaven cheeks bristled. He downed the beer in uneven gulps. Years ago, in another lifetime it seemed, hadn't women liked his eyes?

  They looked frozen now. Like filthy ice at the bottom of a well.

  Flanks trembling, the cat tried to slink back under the fence but crumpled before it reached the hole. A cardboard box with a burst bottom lay on its side nearby, amid the jars and cans.

  "It's all right." Kit approached cautiously. "Don't be afraid." She reached out her hand. "No, no, don't move." The cat dragged dark smears behind it on the concrete. "Ssh. Have you been in a fight or something, huh? Poor little guy." Actually, the cat struck her as unusually large.

  I don't even like cats much. In the past few minutes, the animal had twice followed her out onto the sidewalk, circling her while making that terrible noise, then had dragged itself back into the alley.

  "You tangle with a dog, kitty?" At the sound of her voice, the wounded feline crept closer, only to twist unsteadily away. "You're a size all right. I'd hate to see the other fellow. There now, cat. It's all right." Its legs tremored.

  What the heck color is it anyway? Scant illumination floated into the alley, and she leaned closer. Great. Orange tail, one white ear, gray face: it looked as though it had been stitched together from parts of other animals. Frankenstein's cat.

  The next time the animal fell on its side, it failed to get up. Gingerly, she stroked the fur, but the beast didn't twitch. Four streaks of blood glistened on its flank.

  Suddenly, the broad head tilted, straining in her direction. Then the green glimmer of the eyes sealed shut again, and the head dropped.

  Oh hell. It just died. She pulled off her glove and touched the cat's ribs with her fingertips. The fur felt like frost, but underneath warmth throbbed. Anyway, it'll be dead soon on a night like this, that's for sure. Suddenly, green gleamed up at her again, and the mouth opened in a silent bleat.

  Great. She put her glove back on and tried to lift the creature without hurting it or getting blood on herself. Now, what am I doing? Am I nuts? Stiffening, the cat arched and bristled, hissing like a ruptured steam pipe. She almost dropped it as claws dug frantically into the arm of her jacket. "Hey, cut that out!"

  The cat went limp. Oh hell, I killed it. But it squirmed feebly as the wind keened around her. Now what? Hell hell hell hell hell.

  "Is one of these going to be enough, hon?"

  One eye in the mirror, he watched his ow
n smile erode...then rebuilt it, grain by grain. When he considered the image convincing, he turned to find the barmaid studying him, her lips slightly parted, a sharp line creasing her forehead. Nodding at the mirror, he made a show of raking his fingers at the windblown mess of his hair.

  "...have noticed if you'd been in before." She watched him gulp the messy sandwich. "Guess you were hungry." Dragging delicately at her lipstick-smeared cigarette, she plucked it from her mouth and dropped it back in the clamshell. "This bother you while you're eating?"

  "Sorry?" The food actually tasted of nicotine. "I mean, no. Fine."

  "The way you downed that--you sure one's enough?"

  Nodding, he wiped at his face with the paper napkin. "So, you from here?"

  "Who me?" She practically gurgled. "I lived here all my life. This place was my dad's, but I run it myself, since me and my husband split." She blew smoke out of her mouth and sucked it back in through her nostrils, an action that made her look bizarre, dragonish. "Bar's about the only business that makes money in this town, especially in winter. What did you say you were doing here?"

  He gave her the new name and the story about being a real estate appraiser. "...several properties to inspect in the area. Might take a few days. You never know." She accepted this without comment, and he nodded at his reflection. So easy for me to fool them anymore. The hollow mask in the mirror watched him. Lying takes hardly any effort.

  "Sal? Could you get the phone, hon?" Shaking another cigarette out of the pack, she felt around in her apron pocket. "You don't smoke? Barry, is it?" The box of matches still lay on the counter, and she leaned forward so he could light her cigarette.

  "I tried a pipe once. Kept dumping it on myself. Got sick of finding scorch marks on all my shirts."

  "Yeah?" She raised an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as clumsy."

  "I...was drinking a lot then."

  "Can't picture that neither." She winked at him. "You strike me as the kind of guy who's in control. What? Did I say something? You sure you're all right? I guess there must be a lot of work in this area for you then. What with every house on the peninsula up for sale, just about. Not that there's any buyers anywheres."

  "Why's that?"

  An old man in a fur hat with earflaps stumbled over from one of the tables, and she handed him a glass. "Here you go, Slick," she said. "Oh, thank you, honey. Did you hear about all that commotion by the bay? State troopers and everything. Some kind of accident, I heard." She counted change. "So did you decide whether you want another one before I put this stuff away or what? Barry?"

  Have to keep her talking, find out about the town...about them. But have to be subtle, have to...

  Inexorably, the beer he'd tried only to sip uncoiled a knot of weariness deep within him, and he felt it spring through every limb. Helpless to stop himself, he realized that he was about to say something disastrously reckless. "When I was driving into town, I practically had an accident." He strained to control the stream of words. "Some kid came tearing out of the woods right in front of my car. I think maybe I might've clipped him. But he took off. Maybe you know the kid? About fifteen or so--pale looking, skinny. Ring any bells? Long sort of blondish hair sticking out from under one of those caps. Any ideas?"

  She actually took a step back.

  Damn. Immediately, he knew he'd screwed up again. Big-time. If only he'd been patient, played her along. "I just wanted to be sure the kid was all right, know what I mean?"

  She gnawed her lipstick, darkening the edges of her front teeth. "Uh huh." She turned to slice a roll with a long knife. "Where'd you say you was from?" She looked up, scrutinizing him.

  "Trenton, originally." He'd have to talk fast now. "These days I pretty much live where they send me. Suitcase in the car mostly. One motel after another. So this kid doesn't sound like anybody from around here?"

  "Don't sound like nobody I know." She pursed her lips. "Maybe you ought to check with the cops."

  She knows him. He nodded, a pulse thundering in his ears. "Yeah."

  "Practically no teenagers left anyways."

  "Why's that?"

  "Runaways. We had a real problem with that. Something awful. You can't blame them really. Nothing much to hold them here no mores. If you're in real estate, how come you don't know about this town?"

  "Uh huh." Meticulously, he prodded the corner of the beer label with his thumbnail. "I'm not in the sales end of things," he explained as foil peeled smoothly from the damp bottle. "I just examine the structures, the land." He replaced the label, upside down, smoothing out the wrinkles. "So, what's it like living here?" Pouring the last of the beer into his glass, he smiled hard.

  She got him another bottle. "Oh, you know, like anywheres else, except now it's so empty. But I'll tell you one thing, I wouldn't want to live nowheres where I couldn't hear the ocean." She rinsed a couple of glasses, set them to drain.

  Nodding and smiling for the next twenty minutes, he tried to draw her out about the town but could elicit nothing beyond vague generalizations, which seemed to reflect her genuinely vague outlook. Finally her mental fuzziness proved infectious: he couldn't even remember her name. Margie? Tracie? He watched the ashes from her cigarette spill across the bar. After his third beer, their conversation lapsed, and she turned her attention to the other patrons.

  "I didn't have to get involved, you know." Three people sat at one of the nearer tables, two men sipping drinks with a woman who kept stirring ice in a glass. "I could of very easily just continued on." The woman wore rollers, which had been covered with some sort of sparkling mesh scarf, as if for emphasis. "I'm telling you." Her eye makeup reminded him of the album jackets of the opera recordings his wife had loved...of how he'd used to tease her about all the fat ladies done up like love goddesses. Can't get lost in the past now. Have to stay alert. He could actually feel the fever surging within him. Might learn something. He shook his head, tried to concentrate. You never know. One of the three at the table would speak, then stop, then another would say something, though not apparently in response, more as if they'd suddenly recalled some forgotten detail. "Is that what you want? To wind up like Atlantic City?"

  "I'm telling you."

  He struggled to find the thread of their conversation, but the loudest one, a gaunt man in a toupee, seemed to be engaged in a different discussion altogether.

  "Slums by the sea?"

  "You know who found it? Dolly's father. Yeah, the old man. Pieces floating. I hear he's been in bed ever since."

  "That's so bad when they get like that at that age. Probably never get up again."

  "No," she agreed. "It ain't."

  "Homeless people pissing under the boardwalk? Is that what you want?"

  "I'm telling you, we will never have gambling here. Don't be ridiculous." She banged the bottom of her empty glass on the table for emphasis, but the rollers on her head never so much as vibrated.

  He strained to listen. It seemed they'd paired off differently now, two still conversing and one continuing to speak exclusively in non sequiturs. "The town council would never allow it." Suddenly, the woman's stare angled in his direction, so he fixed his eyes on his beer and let their words blur around him. A thin drift of laughter reached him from across the bar, and he had the feeling he'd missed something, that someone had at last uttered something crucial, and he leaned his head on his hands and struggled to listen, concentrating first on the nearest table, then on another farther away, but now each remark had developed a chanted, mumbled quality that made his head throb. Everyone around him seemed to be drinking boilermakers, even the dim little couple at the far end of the bar, so when Margie/Tracie returned, he ordered one too. Again, she raised an eyebrow, something he knew she practiced in front of a mirror. He gulped the shot and swigged from the beer, feeling the sweat bead out on his forehead. God, how do they stand these? He watched a highly rouged woman drop the whole shot glass into the beer, raise it carefully and take an enormous gulp without blinking.

&nb
sp; "No," the guy with the toupee loudly insisted. "The real problem is still the gambling and the whores and the fast-food joints." He waited for one of them to nod in agreement. When no one did, he drained his glass as though vindicated. "Am I right?"

  "I'm telling you."

  Christ, I need sleep. He realized that he and the barmaid were speaking again, though he had no idea what they'd been saying.

  "...welfare, a lot of them, I guess." She shrugged a bony shoulder. "I don't really know."

  "I guess"--he started to cough--"there's not much else to do winter nights besides drink."

  "Well, they do enough of that." Abruptly, she teetered away.

  Not doing too well here, am I? Haven't done too well in a long time. He shivered, and the faces in the bar rose like apparitions, thin and anxious, bathed in the light from the television, a light as dingy as dirty water. Probably it's time they sent somebody else. But who? His glass chattered against his teeth. Steady. Then he realized they'd all stirred. Suddenly, they sat up or leaned forward in their seats, staring above his head. Trying to comprehend, he put down his glass.

  "Stacey, put the sound up."

  "Yeah, turn it up."

  On the picture tube, people crowded around a few tethered boats. With a start, he recognized Edgeharbor. "...has not yet been identified but police say..." His hand gripped the mug to keep from shaking, and he caught a glimpse of milling uniforms before the shot changed to a wet-suited diver. "...that of a woman, twenty-five to thirty years..." State troopers in heavy coats scooped the water with nets as coast guard cutters chugged past. "Local authorities are asking anyone with information..." He felt the glass crunch, stared at the blood in his palm.

  "Mob hit," someone declared.

  "You think?"

  The barmaid hurried over with a rag. "You okay, hon?"

  "No. Yes." He pressed a paper napkin into the cut. "I'm all right."

  "Why the hell don't they stay in Atlantic City?"