Girls in Pink

by Bob Bickford

  I felt a creeping horror. “You think she stayed hidden in the barn, waiting for him to come and get her?”

  She nodded, definite. “If he was dead, he couldn't come tell her when it was safe,” she said. “She would have stayed there waiting, no matter what. I drove out and looked, and there she was. She waited twenty-five years for me to come.”

  “They never found her, Annie. They declared her dead in the fire.”

  “No. She's in the barn.”

  I couldn't find my voice.

  “After her ghost came, I looked. She was sitting right where she said. Now I can take care of her again. I go out to the ranch all the time. Sometimes I spend the night.”

  “Are you saying you see your sister's ghost in the barn? Or are you saying that her body is in the barn?”

  “Both,” she said.

  My throat was parched. I picked up the unfinished glass of water from the bedside table and drained it. The water was still cold, and tasted metallic. I wished it was something stronger.

  “You aren't afraid?”

  “I walk in the cemetery at night. I'm not afraid of ghosts . . . and I'm not alone. June is with me. I was in the barn talking to her when the cars came.”

  “The car that the woman drove,” I suggested, and she nodded.

  “They came down the canyon,” she said. “Two cars. It's so dark out there at night that headlights up the road change everything a long time before you can actually see them. Black gets gray, and you can see shadows where there weren't any before.”

  “Two cars?” I asked.

  “Two cars,” she nodded. “One chased the other one. After a little while you could hear them coming. They were going really fast . . . too fast. Sometimes you hear drunks driving the road like that at night. Often as not they end up at the bottom of a canyon. The engines were racing, and the tires were making noise. It all echoed, and got louder.”

  She got quiet for a moment, remembering. I sat close and watched her. Her skin was smooth and even, painted a tarnished gold by the glow from the lamp. Her eyes were dark liquid that reflected the light back.

  “They got closer and closer, and I knew they were almost to where the road curves hard, where it runs up above the ranch. Tires squealed . . . loud. I knew the first car wasn't ready for the turn, and the brakes were locked up. It didn't make it.”

  I hadn't thought about this scenario at all, and Raines hadn't thought about it either, at least not out loud to me. There hadn't been anyone in the tan Ford with Charlene. She had been chased by another car.

  “The lights of the first car came over the edge, and at first I thought it stopped, but then it went over the side and slid down and crashed at the bottom. It got very quiet for a minute, and then I heard a woman crying. She was hurt.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I left the barn and ran toward the car. It had landed almost in the dooryard of the house. I could smell gasoline, and I was afraid there would be a fire. I got about halfway there when the second car came down the driveway and stopped. A man got out, but then I think he smelled the gas, because he got back in and moved the car further away. It was a Buick . . . almost new.”

  “A Buick? You're sure?”

  “I know cars,” she said. “The new Buicks have a face. The grille is a mouthful of teeth. Big teeth.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Not at first. I just stood there in the middle of the dooryard, but the only lights were headlights, and there was a lot of dust. The woman cried and cried. He went to her car and I thought he would help her. The woman yelped once. It sounded like a puppy, and then there was a bang. He shot her, and she stopped crying.”

  I thought about Charlene Cleveland sitting across from me in her pink hat and dress, safe and secure in her prettiness and her lipstick and perfume. I thought about her untouched drink, and the teardrop that had splashed the check she wrote. I felt the beginnings of familiar red-and-black anger begin to bloom in my chest. My voice sounded harsh.

  “Then what?”

  “Then he got back in the Buick. I just stood there. I couldn't move. He saw me, though. He looked at me for a minute and then he got in, backed up and turned around. It was a man I knew a long time ago.”

  “You knew the man?” I asked, and she nodded.

  “A long time ago,” she said again. “He's older now, but I recognized him. It was Sal Cleveland.”

  “Have you told anyone about this, Annie?”

  She shook her head. “Only you. I don't talk to people. No one ever believes me.”

  “Are you sure that it was him? It was dark.”

  Chin propped on raised knee, she considered it. I watched her, and thought I had never seen a face as beautiful as hers.

  “I used to be in love with him,” she said. “I know it was him. I sensed him. He was my first . . . lover. A long time ago. He was exciting at first, but after a while, I knew I had to get away from him. My father was horrified, and he sent me away to my aunt. When I left, Sal told me he would kill anyone that I loved.”

  Her eyes flicked up and held mine. I felt enveloped by her warm scent, tousled hair and sadness.

  “That's what he did. He killed my father, and he killed June. It was my fault.”

  “It wasn't your fault, Annie. Sal Cleveland is evil. Hurting people is what he does. It's what he likes best. How can you blame yourself for that?”

  “It was my fault,” she repeated. “He keeps his promises.”

  “Would you tell the police?”

  She shifted on the bed to face me. “I can try, but I don't think they can do anything to Sal. He has . . . spells. He hurts people, and no one can hurt him. Will you let anything happen to me?”

  “I won't let anything or anyone hurt you, Annie,” I said, and meant it. “Are you sure he saw you? Recognized you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her nod was definite. “He saw me. He can see in the dark.”

  “We'll take this to the police,” I said. “I know a guy who will do something about it.”

  She reached out to touch my face, and then took her hand back as though it was hot. “If I love you, he'll hurt you too,” she said. “So I can't love you. He keeps his promises.”

  “Let him,” I said. “Let him do whatever he can to me. He will have come to the right place.”

  “Maybe I'm going to have to give him what he wants,” she said. “Maybe I'll have to love him again.”

  In the morning, I walked onto Annie's front porch, headed for my place next door. Rain had washed the air, and it was sunny and yellow and cool outside. It was such a pretty day and I was in such a good mood that I almost didn't spot the old hump-backed Nash parked across the street. It had been blue, once upon a time. Now it was the color of mud.

  I could see two men in the front seat. From where I stood they weren't dressed like they belonged in a heap like that. They looked like a couple of fancy tough guys. I stood on the steps, undecided. One of them flicked a cigarette butt out the open window. It sat in the middle of the street and smoldered. I made up my mind, and started across to say hello.

  The driver slouched back in his seat. He watched me coming.

  “Help you, fella?” I asked. “You look like you might be lost.”

  He sat up, straightened his hat and put an elbow on the window jamb. His friend in the passenger seat leaned forward to look at me, a thin man with a striped tie and a pronounced Adam's apple.

  “We're not lost, pal,” he said. “Go on inside.”

  I paused to light a cigarette of my own.

  “You're a couple of Sal Cleveland's boys, aren't you?” I asked. “Seems like I've seen you around.”

  “Got no business with you right now, shamus,” the driver said. “Here to dance with a lady. We'll get to you later, don't worry.”

  “Give your boss a message from me,” I said. “Tell him I said he doesn't have to come looking for me, or send anyone else. I'll be seeing him plenty. He'll be sick of me.”


  He stared at me, disbelieving. He had a beefy face and close-set eyes that probably always looked a little puzzled, anyway.

  “Are you goddamn stupid?” he asked.

  I heard the click as his door unlatched and started to come open. I slammed it shut, knocked off his fedora and had my gun pressed hard into his neck. It went reasonably smoothly. I even impressed myself a little, and I almost smiled. I leaned into the open window and spoke to the passenger.

  “Don't move. I'll pull the trigger if you do. Then I'll shoot you, too.”

  He probably thought that he had been drawing out his gun, but in truth he hadn't moved. His hands were still on his lap. He stared at me, a little shocked. I turned my attention back to the driver. His face turned red and he started swelling up. I could smell his sweat. I jammed the pistol into him harder.

  “Very slowly,” I said, “Put your left hand on top of the steering wheel. I want you to start the car and then put your right hand on the wheel, too. When I say so, drive away. Don't even look at me . . . understand?”

  He sketched a nod, his face furious. He thumbed the starter button and the engine wheezed to life.

  “Here's a message from me,” I said. “This goes for both of you. This is one lady you don't want to dance with. If you try to, I'll kill you.”

  I looked at the two of them and thought about it. “Let's make it even simpler. If I see either one of you again, on this street or anywhere else, I'll kill you. Seem clear?”

  I straightened up and pulled the gun out of the driver's collar. “Get going,” I said.

  He let the clutch out. The Nash left black marks and a cloud of smoke as it accelerated away. I looked over my shoulder at Annie's house. A curtain in the living room window twitched and then was still.

  I was out on the pier. I had to collect an overdue account from the owner of the Sea-Aire Grill, a seafood place that was one of the handful of businesses built on the wharf. The place did well, since the amusement park crowd drifted over for dinner every night of the week.

  The guy suspected his wife of having an affair and hired me to get the goods. She wasn't. As far as I could tell she was more interested in shopping for clothes, listening to the radio at home, and talking to her mother on the telephone than she was in finding romance. She got my clean bill as far as hanky-panky was concerned. The restaurant owner seemed entirely disappointed and dissatisfied with this result, and he was slow to pay my bill.

  I had listened to little bit of his grumbling this afternoon, but I had his check in my pocket. It felt good, since I seemed to be doing a lot of running around without getting paid lately. I stopped at the rail to take in the view before I headed back. Across the water, the carny music and roller coaster rattle were occasionally audible over the sound of the surf.

  I smelled creosote, clean salt water and fish. The odors were as old as time and reminded me of birth. The wood of the railing beneath my elbows gave up the heat of the disappearing afternoon. I squinted against the glare of the setting sun as it slowly fell into the ocean. I’d read in a magazine once that there was a green flash on the horizon when it slipped under, but I’d never seen it for myself.

  “Do you want to play?” a little girl asked.

  I looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. She was blonde, about eight years old. She wore a pink sundress, and her skin was tan satin.

  “Do I have to win?” I asked.

  “This isn't a game you can win,” she said. “It's just fun to play.”

  She reached into the pocket of her dress and carefully pulled out three playing cards. She fanned them out with small fingers and extended them to me. I supposed she had found the leftovers of a discarded deck.

  “I can see why it's not a game you can win,” I said. “Especially if it's played with three cards.”

  My car was parked in the lot at the end of the wharf. My coat and tie were left behind on the front seat, and the coming evening kicked up a breeze that felt good. It played with the little girl’s light hair. She brushed it back from her eyes.

  “You have to pick one,” she said.

  I obliged, and turned it over. It looked very old, and the inked symbols on the other side had faded from red to a dusty pink. It was the seven of hearts.

  “That's you!” she said. “Seven!”

  “That's me?”

  She smiled at me, excited, and handed the other two cards to me, face-down, to hold while she clambered to sit on the railing.

  “Don't look at the other cards,” she cautioned.

  When she was settled, she took them back and looked at the water’s surface far below her. The waves rolled in beneath us, making it seem like we were on a moving ship. If you wanted to, you could follow them in with your eyes, all the way back to the beach at the entrance to the pier, where they crashed into white foam.

  “Don’t fall,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, I can fly,” she said absently, and held the cards out. “Now…take the others and show me.”

  I did, and turned them over so she could see. They were faded hearts as well, the five and the eight. She held her hair away from her face as she leaned over them, looking intent. She touched the five with a fingertip.

  “That's me,” she said, and then touched the eight. “That's her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That's her—who?”

  “That's what the game is,” she said. “You have to guess.”

  She took the three cards back, tucked them away, and held her arms out. I lifted her from the rail. She was cold to the touch, and when I lifted her down the sky darkened and a cool wind blew against my face. Once she was standing on the rough wooden planks, the glinting southern California sun was back in my eyes again. My hands were still cold.

  “Where's your mother?” I asked. “She's probably worried where you've gotten to by now.”

  “She's in there,” the girl said, and pointed to the ice cream place across the wharf from the Sea-Aire Grill.

  “I'd bet she wonders where you are,” I said. “It was nice to meet you.”

  The little girl seemed to hesitate, and then she handed me one of the cards.

  “You can keep yours,” she said.

  She turned and walked away without saying goodbye. I watched her go, just a small girl by herself. When she reached the door of the ice cream parlor, she turned and waved to me once and then vanished inside. I looked down at what I held. It was just an ordinary playing card, badly worn, with seven pink hearts printed on it.

  I was lost in thought. Someone had called my name twice before I reacted and looked up. Mrs. Gardiner stood in the entrance to the ice cream parlor, waving to me. The doctor stood slightly behind her, his hand on her elbow. I went to them.

  “This is my treat, once a month,” she said. “Maybe more often than that. It seems like a lot of trouble, for plain vanilla. It's just so good here.”

  She showed me. “One scoop, in a cup . . . never in a cone.”

  I looked at the doctor. He didn't seem to be having anything. Without a lot of vermouth, it probably wasn't sweet enough.

  “Who could blame you?” I said. “I'll walk you out.”

  There were a few parking spots right on the wharf, and the doctor had managed to put the enormous black Cadillac into one of them. I got the passenger door open for Mrs. Gardiner, knowing the gesture would please her. I liked the fact that she saw me as a gentleman, in spite of my profession. She was a nice lady, and she made me feel like I was still a part of the civilized world, even if I didn't get to enter it too often.

  I waved at the car as it rumbled slowly away over the huge timbers, back toward the beach and Cabrillo Boulevard. I watched it until they were out of view.

  An ice cream cone suddenly seemed like a grand idea, and I walked back toward the doorway of the shop. I fished in my front pocket for change, and came up with the badly worn playing card. The little girl had said it was me, and it was my card. I looked at the seven hearts and smiled, figuring I had been ca
lled worse things.

  I went into the ice cream parlor, thinking that I'd like to thank her again, and perhaps thank her mother for raising such a sweet child. The place was dim, cool, and just about empty. No little girl moved among the scattering of customers, nor did I see anyone that looked like she might be her mother. I had seen the girl go inside to find her, though, just about the time Mrs. Gardiner had come out.

  It all felt like it might be a symptom of too many late nights and maybe too much bourbon, except I still held the playing card. Slightly dog-eared, the hearts faded almost to pink, it was warm in my hand. It must be a lucky card, I decided.

  When I got home I would to put it in a safe place, if I could find one.

  -Eleven-

  The barn was a lot bigger than it seemed from the road. The desert sun had bleached it into a charcoal sketch, gray and black and white. Up close, the old boards ticked in the heat. I touched the rough wood and felt tiny vibrations under my fingertips, as though music played inside. A large door on rollers hung open an inch or two. Annie squeezed through the gap without hesitating, and looked back at me from the other side. Half her face was sun-bright and the other half dark.

  I hesitated, and then turned my head sideways and went after her. The edge of the door caught and scraped painfully against my chest. I strained against it, but it wouldn't budge. I felt Annie's fingers on my mine, light and warm, and suddenly I was through.

  The space inside was huge and dim and hushed, like an empty cathedral in the middle of the week. Tiny cracks in the black walls were stripes of the bright sun we had left outside. Dust motes drifted, and as my eyes adjusted to the strange illumination, lavender and aqua-colored spots swam in the shadows. I looked up to where the rafters rose and disappeared in the darkness.

  Something hovered over us, ancient and breathless.

  “She's over here,” Annie said.

  An old truck sat on flat tires in the middle of the space, giving off ghosts of motor oil and gasoline. She led me past it to the back, where a jumble of machinery rusted under an overhang. In the gloom, it was impossible to tell what the angles had once been. I figured none of it was worth saving, or it would have long since been removed or stolen.