“We’re past last call. I doubt she’ll come in this late. But you’re welcome to wait.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Can I get you something?”
“Tonic water.”
Rick poured the drink and accepted his coins. The guy didn’t tip.
Patrons drifted out as closing time approached, and the heavyset man continued watching the door. He kept his right hand free and his jacket open, giving ready access to the holster. And if he did see Helen walk through the door, would he shoot her then and there? Was he that crazy?
Rick wondered what Helen had done.
When they were the only two left in the bar, Rick said, “I have to close up now, sir. I?
??m sorry your girl isn’t here.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“Well. Whoever she is, she isn’t here. You’ll have to go.”
The man looked at him. “What were you in the war, kid?”
“4-F,” Rick said.
He was used to the look the guy gave him. 4-F—medical deferment. Rick appeared to be a fit and able-bodied man in the prime of his life. People assumed he must have pulled a fast one on the draft board to get out of the service, and that made him a cheat as well as a coward. He let the assumptions pass by; he’d outlive them all.
“If you don’t mind me asking . . . ,” the guy prompted.
“I’m allergic to sunlight.” It was the excuse he’d given throughout the war.
“Huh. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
Rick shrugged in response.
“You know what I was? Infantry. In Italy. I got shot twice, kid. But I gave more than I got. I’m a hell of a lot tougher than I look.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
The guy wasn’t drunk—he smelled of sweat, unlaundered clothes, and aftershave, not alcohol. But he might have been a little bit crazy. He looked like he was waiting for Rick to start a fight.
“If I see this girl, you want me to tell her you’re looking for her?” Rick said.
“No. I’m sure she hasn’t been anywhere near here.” He slid off the stool and tugged his hat more firmly on his head. “You take care, kid.”
“You too, sir.”
Finally, he left, and Rick locked the door.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d returned to the storeroom and found Helen gone—fled, for whatever reason. But she was still there, sitting on the crate in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, hugging herself.
“Someone was here looking for you,” Rick said.
She jerked, startled—he’d entered too quietly. Even so, she looked like someone who had a man with a gun looking for her.
“Who was he? What’d he look like?” she asked, and Rick described him. Her gaze grew anguished, despairing. “It’s Blake. I don’t know what to do.” She sniffed, wiping her nose as she started crying again. “He’ll kill me if he finds me, he’ll kill me.”
“If you don’t mind your coffee bitter, we can finish off what’s in the pot and you can tell me all about it.” He put persuasion into his voice, to set her at her ease. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”