Chapter Seventeen

The back room at the Coeur de Vie is surprisingly light and airy; it looks like the kitsch and moody jazz bar vibe they’re going for really is just for the customers. Jack has got me perched in the comfiest sofa I’ve ever sat in while he fiddles with a first aid kit across the room – although it’s hard to say whether the comfort has more to do with the soft fabric, the concussion I think I might have got in the alleyway, or the astonishing amount of alcohol that came before it.

He comes back to me with a pad of cotton and a shot glass full of clear liquid, and sits down on a stool at my side. ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘Alcohol.’

Thank God, I think. My head is pounding, and I could use a drink. I reach for the shot, but Jack quickly slams his hand over the top of it.

‘Rubbing alcohol,’ he says. ‘For your head. Jesus Christ, Drunky Brewster… you don’t think you’ve had enough for one night?’

‘Eurgh,’ I moan in exasperation; if I’d wanted a lecture, I would have stayed with Lauren and the girls. ‘I’m fine. Still standing, aren’t I? No harm done.’

‘You’re sitting, and sure. No harm at all… except you bleeding everywhere. No big deal.’

‘Do you scold all your customers like this? Seems like it’d be bad for business.’

‘All the ones I need to save from a mugging, sure. So far, it’s a small list.’ He pauses. ‘What were you even doing out there, anyway? Just lurking around in the alley like a stray cat?’

‘I wasn’t lurking. I just needed some air, that’s all.’

‘Without your friends?’

I shrug. ‘They seemed to be having fun. I didn’t want to ruin it.’

‘Well, they’ve been looking for you.’

Oh, shit. That was the last thing I wanted.

‘Relax. They’re waiting in the club. I got Charisse to tell them you’re OK.’

‘Charisse?’

‘The girl behind the bar.’ The one who served me the drinks. Thanks a bunch, Charisse, I think – but that’s not fair. It’s not her fault I got in such a thunderstorm mood. It’s not her fault I decided to go outside on my own.

‘They probably didn’t even notice I was gone.’

‘Yes, they did. They were worried about you.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘They didn’t know that.’

Even if I’d had a witty retort prepped and ready, it wouldn’t have mattered: Jack had a conversation-ending trump card just waiting in the wings. ‘Fuck!’ I squeal as he presses the cotton pad to the cut on the back of my head. No matter how tender Jack’s touch might be, the sting of the alcohol doesn’t make it fun for either of us. I lurch forward, but he holds me in place with a firm hand on my shoulder.

‘Hold still,’ he says. ‘I need to clean it up to see how bad it is. You might need to go to the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’

‘A couple of stitches, maybe. They’ll fix you right up. Don’t worry.’

‘How can I not worry when you’re telling me I need to go to the hospital?’

‘Might, I said. So just let me check, OK?’

‘Fine.’

He works quickly, one hand parting the hair on my scalp and the other one gently wiping away the blood with the cotton pad. I do my best to let him, biting my lip to keep quiet – although I don’t really need to. As long as I stay still, Jack is quick and professional.

‘You’ve done this before?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘Couple of times. Cleaning up after bar brawls, that sort of thing.’

‘Often?’

‘Not in a while. I worked in some real dives, but this is a pretty nice place. The bouncers keep things to a minimum. The customers generally don’t come in looking for trouble. It’s a jazz bar, not a wild west saloon.’

‘You ever been on this side of it?’

Jack smiles. ‘Why, do I look like I get into a lot of fights?’

‘Hey, you don’t look like the kind of guy who goes chasing muggers either. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think right now.’

‘I try not to make a habit of it,’ he says. ‘But it’s not like I had much choice. You were out there, all on your own… anything could have happened. That wasn’t smart, Ella.’

‘I know, Mom.’ I pause for a second, thinking. Something doesn’t add up. ‘What were you doing out there? You were still playing when I left.’

‘I just wanted some fresh air.’

‘Seems like you moved real fast for someone who just wanted to take a constitutional.’

He sighs. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I saw you leaving, and you didn’t look like you were having a great time. I wanted to check you were OK, that’s all. I finished up my song, called an early night on the set, and followed you.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, you know. In case you got yourself into trouble. Can’t think why.’ He pauses. ‘Besides, I heard what that asshole said to you. The blonde guy. About you being… you know.’

‘Fat. I remember.’

‘Boring. And he was wrong, by the way. He didn’t know what the hell he was missing out on.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Oh, honey,’ he says with a smile. ‘I get the feeling you’re a lot of things, but after tonight I don’t think we can say that boring is one of them.’ He presses a fresh pad down against the cut on my head and moves my hand up to hold it in place. His guiding grip on my fingers is gentle but firm, his skin warm and supple and soft. It’s hard to believe that the same hands that are so careful with me and so capable of making beautiful music are the same ones he was using to teach that son of a bitch a lesson just a few short minutes ago.

There’s a graze on his knuckles that looks like it hurts, but even when I brush it gently with my hand, he doesn’t make so much as a peep.

‘Wait a second,’ I say. ‘You cut your set short? For me?’

Jack shrugs. ‘Just a song or so. Always leave the people wanting more, right? That’s the first rule of showbusiness.’

‘Everyone seemed to be having fun.’

‘Except you.’

‘Well, what does that matter?’ I say. ‘I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.’

‘Never doubted it for a second,’ he says as he starts to put the contents of the first aid kit away. ‘You’ll be fine, by the way. No need for stitches, but you’re going to have a hell of a lump there in the morning. That’s what you get for picking fights with brick walls.’

‘You didn’t really cut your set short because of me, did you?’

‘Why? Would it matter if I had?’

‘Maybe. Did you?’

‘Not entirely. But I was worried. You looked…’ He pauses, trying to find the word. ‘Delicate,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ve seen women come through here before – I see it night after night. Work troubles. Bad break-ups. Divorces. Kid problems, whatever. They drink like it’s going out of fashion, they get it out of their systems, they dance with strange dudes on the dance floor and they go back to their lives. No harm, no foul.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘You looked real sad, Ella. Something deeper than all that. Like you really shouldn’t have been alone.’

‘What, you thought I was going to throw myself in the Mississippi?’

‘I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t think you should have been alone. Turns out, I was right, no?’

I choose not to respond to that. The truth is, I don’t really care for the sentiment. Despite Jack’s White Knight routine, I don’t like the idea that yeah, things might have gone south if he hadn’t been there, and there wouldn’t have been a lot I could do about it. I don’t like the idea of needing to rely on anyone, let alone a practical stranger who has – for reason or reasons unknown – apparently decided to appoint himself my own personal guardian angel… but at the same time, when I look down at my grandmother’s watch on my wrist and imagine it being vanished away at some Louisiana pawn shop, it’s hard not to feel at least a little bit grateful.

You know. Even though I would have been OK. Even though I can look after myself. Probably.

‘Do you get like this with every woman who walks into your bar?’ I ask. ‘Or am I a special case?’

‘Like what?’

‘So… overprotective.’

‘Why? Too much?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s nice to know someone has my back. It’s just… unexpected, is all.’

‘It wasn’t just me, if that helps. If Eddie had heard it, he would have the whole damn crew out on their asses. I told you… we’re a nice, fun bar. We try and keep things light. We’ve got a strict no-assholes policy.’

‘Now that must be bad for business.’

He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t seem to be doing us any harm so far. And it means that the customers we like keep on coming back.’

‘Me included?’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

Yeah, I think. Yeah, I am. Time and again. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was almost like something kept pulling me back here despite myself.

There’s a knock on the door, and a second later the whole troop has managed to slip their way into the small back room, like a clown car in reverse. There’s barely enough room for just me and Jack in here, but one by one they’ve piled their way in regardless. ‘Jesus,’ Lauren says when she sees me – even before she looks down and sees the blood on my dress, which is, you know, a real confidence-booster. ‘Are you OK? What happened?’

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

‘Your friend got attacked in the alley out back,’ Jack says. ‘Some purse snatcher tried his luck with her. It’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘Oh God,’ Lauren says, flapping her hands around. I hope she’s not this much of a flake when she’s in the hospital, I think. ‘Did you at least call the police? Do you need to go and give a statement? Are they going to find h—’

‘He got away,’ I interrupt, before she runs through the entire gamut of questions she has in mind. ‘Jack tried to catch him, but he was too fast. I’ve still got all my stuff. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.’

Lauren doesn’t seem convinced. ‘They have to do something,’ she says.

‘There’s no point,’ I shrug. ‘Even if they caught him, which they won’t, it would never make it to court. There’s no evidence that he was ever there, other than my word.’ Besides, if the police do get involved, someone’s going to have explain why there’s a dent in him that’s coincidentally just about the same shape as Jack’s fist. I don’t want to bring that down on him, especially after he risked himself trying to help me. ‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘This is my job, remember?’

‘It would be a lot easier to trust you if you didn’t look like you were an extra from Saving Private Ryan.’

I look down at my dress and for the first time I see the splashes of red on the pale fabric – not a lot, and not nearly as bad as Lauren is making out, but enough that I can see why she was worried. A streak of blood has worked its way down past my ear and dried on the side of my face. It’s not a good look for me.

‘She’s OK,’ Jack says. ‘Bit of a scratch on the head, that’s all. They bleed a lot. She doesn’t need stitches.’

Typical, I think to myself. Here I am in a room full of doctors, and it’s the hot trumpet player who’s fixing me up.

Lauren is giving him the evil eye, as though it’s somehow his fault that I’m bleeding. ‘Mind if I take a look for myself?’ she says, and Jack acquiesces. They shimmy past each other, and she gently peels the cotton pad away from my scalp.

‘How bad is it, doc?’ I say.

‘You’ll live,’ she replies, but there’s not a lot of pep in her voice. Jeez, Lauren, I think. Lighten up a bit. You’re not the one who got herself mobbed in the street. Relax, Mom. You said it yourself, I’m fine.

‘How much did she have to drink?’ Jack asks.

Lauren’s brow creases up. ‘I… I don’t know. One cocktail? Two, maybe?’

‘Plus a tequila at the last place,’ Paige chimes in.

‘Two,’ Jess adds.

‘Yeah,’ Lauren finishes, totting them up. ‘Maybe two cocktails and two shots. Not so much, over the course of a whole night.’

‘I see,’ he says, before he turns back to me with a look of concern on his face. ‘Ella,’ he says slowly. ‘Did you see anyone touch your drink?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

I nod my head, and regret it immediately. I’m not so far gone that I can’t tell what he’s asking: what he wants to know is whether or not someone spiked my cocktail. Based on the way he treated the guy who tried to mug me, I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of anyone who’d tried anything like that. Not with Jack around.

‘No one put anything in my drink,’ I say. ‘I’m sure of it.’ No one would have had time.

‘You seem pretty far out of it, El,’ Lauren says. ‘From what you drank. Someone might have just slipped something in without you noticing. It only takes a second. It could have happened to anyone.’

‘I might have had one more. A couple more. But I’m fine, really. See?’ I try to stand to prove my point, but whoever designed the floor of the Coeur de Vie apparently decided to make it out of jello and springs – and besides, the couch I’m on is so damn comfortable. On balance – not that balance is something I have in great supply right now – I figure it’s probably better for me to stay where I am. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re drunk,’ Lauren says.

‘You’re drunk. We’re all drunk. It’s a party, remember?’

‘I know, but… El. You’re really wasted. Like, really. I’m worried about you. If this is something to do with you-know-who…’

And there he is again: the spectre at the feast, always lurking, always waiting to ruin a good time. I rub my temple, pushing my fingers hard against the bone of my skull, wondering if I can drive him out by force if not by will alone. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Jack, back me up. I’m fine, right?’

He holds his hands up, the international signal for I’m not getting involved in this, and takes a step back. So much for moral support.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ I say, hating how petulant my voice sounds. ‘I’m having a good time. You guys go ahead if you want to, but I’m not ready yet.’

‘The bar’s closing.’

‘So I’ll find a new bar.’

I’m not going, I’m not going, you can’t make me, I’m not…

‘Come on, El,’ she says. ‘We’ve had fun, but the night’s over. I think it’s time for us to head off home, eh?’