Clown Girl - Monica Drake [59]
I pushed my chair back in, a hair’s-breadth too late; Jerrod had changed direction too and sat in the chair he pulled out. He got up again fast when he saw that I’d pushed my chair back, but just as he got up, I pulled my chair out again. His knee knocked against the table hard enough to tip the saltshaker over. With one hand, Jerrod caught the rolling salt. We both stood then, cop and clown.
He said, “Hey—I thought we were off duty. What’s with the routine?” He pulled out a chair one more time, waved a hand over it, and as though to a suspect said, “Sit.”
I sat in the chair he offered. He went to the counter to order.
While Jerrod had his back turned I fished the tincture of valerian out of one deep pocket, dripped valerian onto my palm, and licked it off. I ran my tongue over my lifeline, an eye on the cop, my new friend, antithesis to the life I’d been living in Herman’s house, with Rex Galore. They’d freak. For good measure and calm hands, I shook more valerian onto my tongue.
Over the bar, a handwritten sign said: NO DRUGS, NO WEPONS, NO FIGTING. I dug in my pink bag for Chinese BBs, ate them like breath mints, and all the while scanned the room for my neighbors, Herman, or anyone who’d care if I had a drink with a cop.
A second sign read: GAMBLING ALOUD IN GAMBLING CORNER ON STATE SPONSERED GAMBLING MACHENES ONLY.
The drunk in the straw hat called out, “Say, Addie, m’dear, was I in here last night? And did I spend a twenty-dollar bill?”
The bartender was a skinny old woman in a long black wig. A cigarillo dangled from her thin, painted lips. She set a pitcher up to pour, then put two frosty glasses in front of Jerrod. Over her shoulder, she said, “Yep. That’s right. Twenty at least. And no tip.”
The man took off his hat. He wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. “Boy, what a load that is off my mind,” he said. “Thought I’d lost it.”
“What I’d like to know is where you found it,” Jerrod said.
The drunk said, “Don’t worry. I don’t keep any secrets from you I don’t keep from myself. I’ll tell you when I remember.”
Jerrod asked, “Addie, is it still happy hour?”
The bartender leveled her eyes at him. Her mouth, around the cigarillo, was a thin-lipped scowl. “Just look at the happiness,” she said, with a smoker’s rasp, and tipped her chin at the sorry crew who lined the bar. She put one long, pale hand out.
Jerrod dropped a few bills in her palm, then came back to our table with the pitcher and two cold glasses. Frost on the glasses was wiped clear where the heat of his hands had been. He poured the beer and raised his glass to clink against mine. “We’ll find Chance.”
A hollow spot in my heart gave a squeeze as he said her name. My dear Chance. I bit on Chinese BBs squirreled away in my mouth and washed the dust of the pills down with beer.
That easily, I broke another rule in the Clown Code: Drinking in costume. Weak-willed. Clowns Sans Frontières, those altruistic jokers, they wouldn’t drink in costume. But the beer was good, cool and thin, and I gave in to its charms. My red lips marked the edge of the glass in a heavy clown smooch. “It was supposed to be my treat.”
“Next time,” Jerrod said, confident there’d be a next time. He looked at his hand on the table, at the base of his glass. The dim tavern light left shadows near his eyes that made him look older, and mysterious. He cleared his throat. Took a drink of his beer. Showed his shy smile.
“Tell me,” I started. “What made you want to be a police officer?” I took care to say “police officer” this time, not “cop.”
He nodded and said, “It’s a good job. Hard work. I like being someone who can make a difference. I guess in some ways it was either this or my brother-in-law could get me a job driving a bread truck. Union work. Being an officer is more meaningful, community-wise.”
Make a difference. I knew the feeling