Glory Days Page 5

  “Besides, your mother told them to come home, and they came right away. I love them. All of them. But sometimes. . . .”

  “Sometimes you wish there weren’t quite so many of them underfoot?”

  Stanley Preshin sagged then straightened when he heard another shout from the top of the stairs. “You got that right, boy. Maybe I’ll take a little vacation. Maybe I’ll go visit some of my buddies down in Florida.”

  John nodded and smiled, knowing full well the old man would never leave his wife for an hour much less a week or so. His pop had it good. He was well loved by a wonderful woman who never gave him a reason to want to be anywhere else but in this little house with her. It had been that way since they’d been married and would never change. That was the right thing for Stanley Preshin. A good life, a good wife and lots of kids around to keep him on his toes.

  The image of the redhead from downstairs, her hair stuffed into pink plastic rollers, a flowered apron wrapped around her small waist, flashed in John’s mind followed immediately by a streak of terror that slowly eased into a warm flicker before he pushed it away.

  Even if he wanted all his old man had, he couldn’t hope to have it. His future didn’t allow for sharing anything with anyone for more than a few hours, tops. He’d drawn those cards seven years ago and his destiny lay in them. He had to be alone. Shaking the feeling away, he smiled gently at his father.

  “Yeah, getting away might be just what you need, Pop. But come on upstairs. I’ve got someone I want you to meet up there.”

  The kid was quiet on the drive back. They’d left before all the others returned, but Rose had wrested a promise out of John to return on Sunday for a big family dinner. He’d found both things he’d been looking for in the cellar—the WD-40 was thrown in the back of the Jeep and the photograph was tucked in his jacket pocket.

  “I like your parents.”

  The break in the silence startled him. “Yeah? They’re something else.”

  “Your mother . . . she gave me a hug before I left and this.” She held out a wad of aluminum foil.

  John knew what it was without looking. “It’s food. Probably enough to last you a couple of days. Did she say anything about you being skinny?”

  “Yeah. She said I looked too thin and that I needed to eat more protein. Is she a dietician or something?”

  “My mother?” John had never thought of that. Leave it to a kid. “No, she’s not. She’s just a good cook who loves to see people eat. Sorta like Flo. In fact, the two of them get along very well. Both of them could probably feed masses of people.”

  Carly looked pensive. “How many grandkids did you say she has?”

  So, that’s what she was thinking about. “There are four, two of each. The youngest is eleven.”

  “No babies?”

  “Not any more. And if she’s waiting for me. . . .”

  Carly, her intense blue eyes shuttering, turned her face away quickly.

  He watched her shoulders shake, wondering what to do to make up for his callous remark. Insensitive asshole! He berated himself the rest of the way back to Asbury Park.

  Chapter 6

  “You’re a tough guy to reach.” Strap eased himself back on the rickety chair in front of John’s desk. A full grown man would have stressed it to the breaking point, but Strap could handle it without a problem. Carly had been in the office when the little man had let himself in. John had seen her eyes bug out, but her expression settled instantly into one of bland acknowledgement when he introduced the jockey to her.

  “Gimme a second here, Strap, and I’ll give you my undivided attention.” John scanned the obituaries carefully, made a sound of disgust and folded the morning paper in half before tossing it into the circular file.

  “I found him, all right. He’s been holed up in one of the motels in Keansburg, for cryin’ out loud. Why his wife wants him back, I could not guess. The fat slob had nothin’ but pizza boxes and empty bottles of store brand orange soda all over the room.”

  Carly let loose a laugh, then put her hands over her mouth. John raised an eyebrow in her direction.

  “Carly, why don’t you go down and see if Flo needs any help.”

  Strap quirked down his eyebrows but said nothing.

  Carly shrugged and lowered her chin, clearly not wanting to leave.

  “Go ahead, kiddo. This is business and I have to get information from Strap that you might not want to hear, okay?”

  “I promise I won’t laugh or . . .” She gave a small huff and said, “Oh, okay.”

  She slouched out into the hall and shut the door quietly.

  “Nice lookin’ kid, Bourbon. Who is she?” Strap leaned forward, getting all four legs of the chair once more on the floor.

  “A client. I’m helping the kid out, letting her stay here until I can locate her family.”

  “She looks a little young,” Strap observed.

  John took a deep breath. “Yeah, she’s young. And the sooner I find her family, the better.”

  “She givin’ you trouble? The great Bourbon John stymied by a little bit o’nothin’ like her?”

  “She’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting to take on another case right now. I’ve got four or five up in the air and very little time.” He made motions to straighten up papers on his desk, avoiding eye contact with the jockey.

  “So, what do you have for me I can tell Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “What the heck is that inside your shirt?”

  Carly stood outside the glass door, holding her breath. What was so important she couldn’t stay in the room? She hadn’t thought they’d talk about her, not for one second. So, the little man called John Preshin “Bourbon John”. That sounded like something out of an old movie where everybody had weird nicknames. Gangster names.

  She wished she had the nerve to ask him how he got the name, but realized if she did, he’d know she’d been listening when she should have been downstairs.

  He’d said she was “okay.”

  He’d taken her up to meet his family.

  His mother liked her. His father had been funny and kind, but sad-looking. She’d wanted to stay and wait for John’s sisters to come home, and the kids, but he’d rushed her out after they’d eaten.

  Taking the steep steps as quietly as possible, she let herself into the kitchen of the luncheonette to find Liz cooking burgers and the air full of the wonderful smell of frying onions. Liz looked up, threw a wadded apron at her and said, “Can you turn these patties for me while I get out the fries?”

  “Sure,” Carly said and set to work.

  She did what she was asked to do. Liz looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electric socket with her red hair springing out of the ponytail in corkscrews.

  “This late rush,” she explained while shaking the oil from the fries, “is because of the roadwork downtown, I think. Thanks for helping out, Carly. I appreciate it.”

  Carly looked around the kitchen. Grease dotted the stainless steel. Scattered papers from between the raw burgers decorated the floor. She picked them up, deposited them in the trash, then started washing down the backsplash.

  Liz stopped schlepping plates, hands on hips, her head cocked to one side. “Hey, kiddo, where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I’m used to helping in the kitchen,” she said, not turning her head to face Liz.

  “Want a job?”

  Carly jerked her head and thought for a second. “I don’t know. I never thought of it.”

  “Well, if you’re going to stick around here for awhile, I sure could use the help and I bet you could use the money.”

  Yeah, but flipping burgers wasn’t quite what I had in mind for the rest of my life. “I have to see what’s going on before I commit. But if I’m around tomorrow, I’ll be glad to help out. I just don’t know what—” she shrugged. “Things aren’t settled . . . I don’t know what I’m doing yet.”

  Liz smiled and blew her hair out of her eyes with a sideways puff. “I know exa
ctly what you mean. If you’re around and you want to help, I’d be glad for it. My life isn’t exactly going according to plan, either. But if you can, I’d appreciate you coming by.”

  Carly couldn’t hold in the grin. A job! She couldn’t wait to tell someone. Anyone.

  She waited until she heard Strap’s light tread on the stairs before going back up. Standing outside the door, she heard the horrendous sounds of a man in distress, moaning and groaning as if his guts were being ripped out.

  Throwing open the door, Carly ran into the office.

  “Dammit! Merciful mother! Yee-ow!”

  The curses came from the bathroom. She had a pretty good idea what was going on, too.

  “You all right in there?” she called, knowing pain when she heard it.

  “Shit!”

  Going closer to the closed door, she tapped on it. “Mr. Preshin? It’s me, Carly. Are you all right?”

  The door flew open. John stood, chest bared, his face red with tears running down the sides.

  “Of course I’m not all right.”

  She noticed then that about two inches of silvery duct tape had been torn from him. It flapped as his chest heaved.

  “Did you use the stuff ?”

  John winced and swore. “Yes. I sprayed it on.”

  Carly kept her eyes averted from the muscular chest and the bare patch where the tape had been pulled away. It was supposed to work.

  “How long did you let it sit?”

  Scowling harder if that were possible, John appeared to think over her question. “I sprayed it on then tried to peel away the tape.”

  Understanding dawned. She started to laugh but immediately coughed to cover it. “It has to stay on for a few minutes. On the website, they suggested at least ten to let the stuff work.”

  “Oh.”

  She coughed again at the outright stupid look on the man’s face. “Yeah. Oh.”

  He looked at his watch. “I guess it’s about that now.”

  Carly wanted to offer to help, but decided against it. He turned back into the bathroom and gingerly started peeling back the tape, cursing as hairs pulled away with it. Fewer, though, than before.

  Standing outside the door, Carly asked, “How did you get that stuff on you in the first place?”

  John didn’t turn to face her, looking instead into the mirror. She knew he was looking at her, probably trying to read her mind.

  “Dunno.” He raked his hair with his fingers. “I can’t do this sober.”

  “It would probably be better to use alcohol as an anesthetic. You could pour some on your skin,” she observed, loath to see the man who might be her father swig from a whisky bottle.

  Yes, she stepped back. She might be looking at her father. Wow! It might be him, this nice old guy with dark hair and blue eyes like hers. And the really nice family in the little brick house just a couple of hours away.

  She should help.

  “Maybe I can do something. My fingers are smaller, maybe I can peel it off easier.”

  John closed his eyelids. Teary fluid squeezed from the corners, yet he seemed to be debating whether he should allow her to help.

  “No way,” he muttered, then his expression changed to a sly smile. “Maybe you could ask Liz to come up. Yeah, you could go downstairs and . . . no. Not a good idea at all.”

  He tugged at the tape again.

  “Look, you’re in trouble here. Liz or Flo might be better at this than I could be. Lemme go get her so you can get that stuff off. It’s got to chafe like heck. This offer will run out in a few seconds . . . one, two. . . .”

  “All right! But no need to bother Flo, not with her leg bothering her. Liz. See if she’ll come up.”

  He wondered if she’d dare come up. Liz had been the one to point it out, after all. And it would be fun to tease her, to see if she’d squirm or show any discomfort at touching him. Never mind how he’d react to her hands on his skin. So close. He’d get a look at her eyes, see if they were green or hazel today. Or maybe blue?

  The dread of hellacious pain drifted away on a sea of anticipation.

  Carly’s thundering footfalls on the steps tore him from his pleasant reverie. He waited, unconsciously holding his breath, for other footsteps to follow and was rewarded by the soft hesitant tread of more mature feet.

  “I got her, Mr. Preshin,” Carly panted. “He’s in the bathroom, Liz. Moaning and carrying on like a big baby.”

  John wrinkled his nose at the kid’s reflection in the mirror and was rewarded by her merry giggle. She had a pretty good attitude for a kid who’d spent her life with a bunch of old ladies. Nuns. The thought made him shiver just as Liz stepped into the doorway.

  Her arms folded across her chest, her expression betrayed her amusement, though her lips did not break into a smile. He knew he could destroy her composure and he wanted to.

  “Hi.” He didn’t turn to look at her, preferring the anonymity of facing the mirror where she couldn’t read his face.

  “Hi, yourself,” she said, her voice even and slightly bored.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I can’t seem to grip this stupid tape with the WD-40 on it. If you could just . . . ?”

  She shook her head and he half turned to catch it. “Let me see what I can do. But don’t complain if it hurts.”

  “I’ll try not to. Just don’t rip it all out like some sadistic Nurse Rachet, okay?”

  John shivered as Liz’s hand neared his chest. He saw her pupils widen and satisfaction buoyed his spirits.

  “I’ll do my best. It might be easier if that stuff is working, anyway.”

  After several attempts at grabbing the end of the tape, she dropped her hands and blew out a frustrated breath. She motioned for him to step out of the bathroom. “If you sit on the edge of the desk in the office, I can probably reach it better. But you won’t be able to scream in there . . . it’s too close to the hall door. They might hear you downtown.”

  Grumbling for effect and sucking in his stomach, he walked to the desk and leaned against it. “This is no picnic for me, sweetheart.”

  He squared his shoulders. Now that the time had come, perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to have Liz help after all. The heat of her hand awakened lustful thoughts in him. Elevatingly lustful. The kid was standing there, her nose wrinkled, watching the show, and he felt a little uneasy with the audience.

  Liz reached for the tape. He stopped her hand.

  “Is Flo all right downstairs by herself? Maybe the kid ought to go check on her, see if she needs a cup of tea or something.”

  Carly moved to the door. “Yeah, Flo might need some help. Call me when it’s all over,” she called back from the hallway.

  He had Uptight Ms. Atwater all to himself. She raised her hands again and he did not stop her. Go on, touch me, Red.

  “Who did this to you? Some kind of nutcase?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

  “Lean forward just a bit,” she suggested. “How long have you had this stuff on you?”

  “Let’s see. I noticed it for the first time the morning you came into my life.”

  She raised one eyebrow at him, as if trying to gauge his real meaning. “That’s three days ago. What were you doing the night before that?”

  The tip of her tongue appeared as she peeled away more tape with great care. Only a dozen or two hairs stuck in the adhesive.

  She did not let her fingers touch his skin. While he wouldn’t have minded at all, he got the impression that she would.

  The next tug hurt like a bitch. Sweat trickled down his forehead but he didn’t make a sound. Another rip and this time he shook despite his concentrated effort to remain still.

  Liz stepped back. John saw her hands shake a little.

  “I’m not enjoying this,” she said. “I hope you aren’t.”

  Her comment brought a rumbling laugh from him and she dropped her hands once again.

  “Don’t stop now,” he said through clenched teeth.
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  Liz moved closer and tugged harder at the tape. This time a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

  “So, you don’t know who did this to you? What, were you unconscious?”

  “Uh,” he grunted. “I think I may have been asleep.”

  Surveying her unfinished handiwork, Liz muttered, “What, in some kind of kinky sex club or something?”

  He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers. “And what would you know about that?”

  Liz slapped her hand on his chest. “Nothing. Nothing at all. But I thought you might.”

  John mulled this over, in between wishing she’d move her hand just a little bit lower. “As it happens, my line of work has brought me to a few of those places, but, no, this didn’t happen in one of them. I don’t really know where I was . . . I’d been awake for seventy-two straight hours and things tend to get a little blurry for me around then. I know I didn’t ask for this, though.”

  “Who would be crazy enough to ask to have this gunk anywhere near all this . . . pelt?”

  He couldn’t help laughing again at her expression of disgust and wonderment. Mistake. Liz’s careful, tentative touch became a quick, sharp rip.

  “Ouch!” He rubbed his hand against some of the recently freed skin.

  “Sorry!” Liz backed away, biting her lip.

  John groaned, but not from the tape. Another kind of pain seared his senses.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. The subtle scent of her was driving him over the edge.

  Liz dropped her hands to her sides.

  “Don’t stop now, kiddo,” he said softly, putting more kindness into his tone than before. “You’re doing a great job. I may get through this alive.”

  The top of the Z came away, covered in enough fur to make a small cat. Liz’s eyes widened in horror.

  Pain tamped down his desire somewhat. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Don’t stop now. We’re almost through.”