Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [49]
I was so far out of my element I felt like I’d left my body entirely. In that case, I decided, I had nothing to lose. I took another deep breath, tried not to choke, and approached the bar.
The bar top was made of glossy wood, sticky with spilled ale. I peeled my hands away and jammed them into my pockets, where I’d stashed my smallest red beryl stone for luck. The bartender’s back was to me. I waited for him to turn, my heart racketing in my rib cage, as he cranked a beer tap over mug after mug until foam slopped over the sides.
Finally, I spoke. “Mr. Ramey?”
I’d never noticed how much Solomon Ramey resembled Mandarin. Beneath his tangled strings of dark hair, Mandarin’s hazel eyes peered out. He had her height, her thinness. But his face was creased and aged, the folds of his cheeks so deep-set they could have been carved from clay.
“I ain’t serving you.” His voice seemed wet, as if he needed to hack something out. “How old’re you, twelve?”
“I just … I wanted to know if Mandarin’s here.”
No emotions crossed his face at his daughter’s name. “She’s probably on an all-night break, knowin’ her. Never up to no good. You’re welcome to look around, but watch out. There’s some weirdos on these premises.”
A bald man seated closest to me raised his half-empty mug and hollered, “I’ll drink to that!” The other drunks laughed.
“Thank you,” I said to Mandarin’s father. He winked at me. The corners of his eyes were crimson.
Like apparitions, people appeared and disappeared in the gloom as I crept through the bar. An older woman in a black beaded cowboy hat danced by herself, one hand atop her head. She pawed at me as I passed, trying to get me to join her. A trio of men stood around an old jukebox, sipping beer from longneck bottles. I passed the booths lining the side walls, peering into each one. Two old men playing cards. A collection of lipsticked girls in their twenties. A fat man sitting alone and smoking, the edge of the table wedged into his gut.
I found Mandarin in the very last booth. Or really, only part of her. The man she was making out with obscured the rest.
He had one hand nestled in her hair. I could hear them, the kissing noises. I felt like a pervert, but I was unable to take my eyes away. Finally, Mandarin pulled back to take a drag of her cigarette.
When she saw me, she just sat there, her cigarette jutting from her lips.
“Mandarin,” I said. “I’m sorry for coming here, but … I have something to show you.”
The man spit into a plastic cup of murky tobacco water. Had he been chewing tobacco and kissing her at the same time? Mandarin withdrew the cigarette from her mouth and tapped it on a blue ashtray. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“Don’t be like that, Mandarin. Please.” My voice wavered. “I’m really sorry, I swear. Please! I still want to go with you! I—”
“Shhh!” she hissed. “Quiet. Not now. I’ll have a look at what you’ve got, all right? But real quick.” She glanced at the man. “All right?” Resentfully, he slung the dead weight of his arm from her shoulders, releasing her to stand.
Mandarin put one hand on the small of my back and herded me toward the front door. “What’re you doing in here, anyways? This isn’t any place for a girl like you.”
“But you’re here all the time.”
“I work here. And besides, I’m different.”
Once the door shut behind us, Mandarin withdrew her arm and stepped back, as if remembering she was supposed to be angry with me. Her eyes flashed under the blinking bar lights. “So? What’s going on?”
“Are you busy tonight?”
“Obviously. So can we just get on with it? What’ve you got?”
She was trying to act impatient, but I could tell she was curious. It gave me the upper hand. “Stay put for one sec,” I ordered.
I went around the corner and retrieved my gift from where I’d hidden it—the thing I’d stolen from the grocery store door and stuffed into my tote bag that afternoon. When I handed it to Mandarin,