All That You Are (9 page)

The last time Mark had played cards, it had been strip poker with a past girlfriend. He couldn't recollect when he'd last held a hand of gin rummy. The game's rules came back to him, and he sorted his cards. Getting them where he wanted, he took a drink of beer.

Then the game got under way.

Rain pattered over the rooftop, unrelenting in its deluge. The four of them played a hand, table talk covering a range of subjects. Bear bemoaned the fact he'd been babysitting his daughter's dog, a mutt, while she and her husband had gone on an anniversary trip to the San Juans. He called himself its grand-“paw,” until the
dang fleabag dawg
began dragging its hind end across his Anso-4 nylon carpet. Since then, Bear had nicknamed the dog Scooter.

Moving around the table, Harvey raved that his dividend check had been higher than he'd anticipated and
he'd been able to fill his tank with premium instead of that low-octane sludge. Then Merrit praised his new teeth as being better than his old ones.

“Moretti, you doing a middlin' amount of fishin' while you be here?” Bear had laid down his pairings and won the game.

“I've been out several times.”

“You ought try open waters.” Then Bear snickered. His laugh brought a frown to Merrit's mouth. “Nuttin' better than bein' out in a boat on rollin' seas.”

“Bear, isn't it just like you. I said my new teeth was better, so's you don't have to bring that up. I already done it for you.”

Harvey's grin rounded out the dialogue as he said, “Moretti, ask Merrit why he's got new teeth.”

Subtly interested, Mark took the challenge. “Merrit, you want to tell me why you have new teeth?”

Merrit grinned, clearly not all that offended. His teeth were so white, they could have lit a room. “These chumps took me out to do some deep-sea fishing and I upchucked over the boat's side. Not only m'lunch, but m'teeth. My denture cement didn't hold the way it should have.”

The three of them had a good laugh in remembrance. Mark didn't run with their sense of humor, but he let them laugh it up.

Another ten-card hand was dealt, and now Mark turned their generalized conversation in the direction he wanted.

“Have you known Dana Jackson a long time?” he asked Bear.

Thoughtfully talking around his toothpick, Bear re
plied, “It's been 'bout ten years since I be first introduced to her by her papa. She must've been what, Merrit—nineteen or twenty? Out of high school, for sure.”

“Dana's got to be hitting thirty,” Harvey supplied, taking a four of hearts.

Mark didn't want to come across as overzealous, but curiosity tugged. “Running a bar's got to be hard on a woman.”

“She doesn't take no nonsense,” Merrit said, discarding a queen of clubs. “I don't often get in to the Note, but when I do, she's always got a smile for me. If I were ten years younger—”

“Ten years?” Bear interrupted, his belly jiggling from humor. “You'd have to be at least thirty years younger, you old coot!”

Mark picked a card, but he didn't calculate how he could use it in his hand. He wasn't focused on the game. All he could see in his mind's eye was Dana's stunningly beautiful face, and figured there must be an endless lineup of men coming into the Blue Note just to look at her. “What does her father think about her running the Blue Note?”

The atmosphere grew quiet, the patter of rain a loud cadence on the rooftop. Then Bear spoke. “Her father died some five years ago in an airplane accident. Took her brother's life, too. God bless America, them was rough weeks to follow with the funerals and all.”

“Tragedy,” Harvey supplied softly.

Merrit released a sigh. “Don't know of a soul who didn't call Oscar Jackson their friend. Folks crowded the bar to hear him play jazz. He was the master of it, and
God bless Dana for keeping the place going after his death.”

The framed photograph of two men in the aviation office came back to Mark in a crystal-clear image. He'd thought they resembled Dana. They had to have been her father and brother.

“What happened?” Mark asked, disinterested in finishing the card game.

“As far as the investigators could tell—the weather caused the crash. Fog crept in and they had dang near zero visibility.” Sucking on his toothpick, Bear shook his large head regretfully. “The plane was under full power on impact. Hyatt couldn'ta seen the hillside that hit him in the nose.”

Confusion held Mark. “Sam Hyatt?”

Harvey clarified, “Jake. Sam's brother. He went down with the plane, too. All three died.”

The mood at the table turned as gloomy as the gray sky. In the silent moments that followed, Mark observed three grown men fighting their emotions, fidgeting and shifting in their chairs.

No wonder Dana had come after him when he tried to take a closer look at that photo. Pain must still rip through her heart. She hadn't wanted to answer the inevitable questions or hear the usual condolences. While his dad hadn't died in an accident, Mark knew too well the gut-wrenching loss felt over the death of a parent. But he couldn't imagine losing one of his brothers.

Yanking a white handkerchief from his back pocket, Bear blew his nose into it. “Dang allergies,” he mumbled, by way of an excuse for the misty eyes.

Merrit adjusted his hat bill. “She's a survivor.”

“Couldn't agree more.” Harvey put in his two cents.

“If it weren't for her son,” Bear thoughtfully concluded, “I don't think she'd've made it this far.”

Harvey nodded, continuing the game by discarding. “Terran gives her a reason to get up in the morning.”

“How old is her boy?” Mark asked, lowering his cards.

“I reckon close to five or thereabouts.” Bear drummed his fingers on the table, then selected a card. Looking at its face, he grimaced. “Son of a—Why couldn't I have got this card the last hand?”

Harvey took his turn, shifted cards, then grinned, laying them all down and shouting, “Gin!”

Merrit cursed beneath his breath and folded. “I was one run shy of going out.”

“Me, too,” Bear put in.

The trio, bent on playing another hand, turned the topic to the irritating rash on Harvey's right ankle as he shuffled the cards. Bear suggested he put some grease on it. Merrit begged to differ and told him to soak his feet in epsom salts.

As they heatedly debated the benefits of both remedies, Mark broke into their dialogue and excused himself.

Sprinting toward the rows of cabins, folded newspaper tucked underneath his arm and the cigar clamped in his mouth, he blinked against the rain pellets smacking him in the face. With every step he took, he digested the information he'd learned.

By the time he crossed the parking lot, he was soaked through.

 

“S
EAGULLS ON THE ROOF AGAIN
.” Leo's blunt commentary made reference to the incessant tapping on the Blue Note's metal roof.

Dana exhaled heavily, thinking this was the last thing she needed today. Saturdays were her busiest days at the bar and it took some prep work to get ready for the crowd. Extra food had to be fixed, plenty of liquor stocked, and she arranged the stage area to accommodate live music. Most, but not all, Friday and Saturday nights, she brought in bands to play jazz.

Rain had fallen in a steady sheet all day, and she had several buckets strategically placed on the floor. The forecast called for at least two inches, possibly three. She'd have to keep her bussers on top of dumping the buckets.

Tap, tap, tap, tap!

“Doesn't sound like seagulls,” Dana commented, across the bar. They weren't open yet, and she'd just set up the mike system. “But they were up there pecking a couple of days ago.”

Wiping his hands, Leo asked, “Want me to check it out?”

“No, keep stocking the bar.” Dana plugged in an amp cord, then checked the sound by tapping on the mike. “I'll figure it out. Where's that box of rotten limes?”

“Gave it to Presley to dump.”

Dana headed into the kitchen and found Presley slaving over mini-pizzas with cocktail sauce and crab topping. Burners going full flame on the big commercial stove threw off enough heat to melt an igloo. Presley made multitasking seem effortless as she pivoted on her heels from one spot to the other. She whisked the contents in bubbling pans, then opened the large refrigerator to bring out the cellophane-wrapped dough balls. She had a helper, a young girl, who did almost nothing but slice and chop.

“Presley, where's that box of bad limes Leo gave you?” Dana went to the long countertop and glanced around.

“In the service room with the trash.” She gave a puff of air to blow her fringed bangs off her forehead. “There was only about six bad ones. Leo salvaged most of them. We should ask for a refund for the limes we can't use.”

“I'm going to use them—just not in drinks.”

Dana left the kitchen. In the small room behind a duo of built-in dishwashers, the bar kept the evening's worth of trash that needed to be carried to the Dumpster. Since there was no back door to the Blue Note, the trash was only taken out once at night—and after closing—by a designated employee who used the front door.

Nosing around in the boxes and crates and the large trash bags, Dana finally found the discarded limes. She grabbed the small box and went through the kitchen, but not without grabbing a hat from her private office.

Once outside, the rain came at her with the light steadiness of a fine showerhead. She made a sprint to the Blue Note's front, her fedora keeping the rain off her face and hair.

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!

“Damn birds,” she muttered.

Winding her arm back for a throw, she tossed a rotten lime at the corrugated roof. The fruit sailed over to the other side, disappearing from her view.

The roof's shallow pitch ran from front to back, creating a middle point that prevented her from seeing how many seagulls flocked to roost. She couldn't determine where the lime made impact, if it even did. But the noise seemed to be interrupted.

Tap tttt—

The seagulls didn't take flight, at least not where she could see them.

Rain doused her sweater, wet her jeans, fell in a puddle at her shoes. But she made another effort, this time, the lime pounding in the roof's middle, before bouncing over the top.

Then an unexpected thing happened.

A man's head, topped with a Carhartt ball cap, appeared over the peak, and he called out in a growl, “What the—?”

Tilting her chin upward, the rain fell across her chin and she squinted. “Moretti?”

He rose slightly taller, and that's when she noticed the tool belt around his hips.

Disbelief held her still. “What are
you
doing on
my
roof?”

“Fixing all the holes, Indiana.”

Trying to ward off the relentless rain by cupping her hand, she hollered, “Stop calling me nicknames—you're really pissing me off. And I didn't ask you to fix my roof.”

“No, but your cook said she's sick and tired of you scrounging for pots and pans to use as buckets. She doesn't have anything left to cook with.”

“Presley? You talked to Presley?”

“Ran into her at True Value Hardware when I bought this tool belt, among other things. I didn't need a ladder since you've got one built into the wall.”

The mossy rung ladder had been permanently attached to the side of the building by her father. Years and years of repairs had made keeping a ladder in place almost a necessity.

“Presley didn't tell me she saw you.”

With that lopsided grin of his that just about unraveled every stitch of common sense she tried to keep knit together, he said in a drawl, “Did you ask her?”

“Why would I ask anyone about you?”

“I thought maybe you'd be curious.”

“I'm not. Now get down from there, dammit. You're going to fall then sue me for damages and I'm not paying you a cent.”

“I've never fallen off a roof in my life, and I'm not billing you for a thing, Dana. You won't have to worry about the roof leaking anymore.” He sank his hand inside one of the pouches on his hip, then showed something between his fingers. “I'm using galvanized roofing nails with rubber washers, and waterproof Malarkey roofing tar. It works when it's wet.” He grinned. “Just like me.”

“Get off the roof, Moretti.”

Ignoring her request, he replied, “I've got about another half hour's worth of work left. Go inside and dry off.” Then, lifting his chin a notch, he added, “I like the hat, Indiana. Now take a hike like a good girl.”

Beside herself over him giving her orders, she stood for many long seconds, staring at him. His gall dug under her skin, but also she felt the shame of relief seep into every pore.