That Boy From Trash Town (8 page)

Chapter 6

R
ick's Pub wasn't exactly in the wealthy section of Dallas. In fact, it wasn't exactly in the middle-class section, either. In Rick's part of town, it was strictly low rent.

The area around the small pub contained a few well-kept housing developments, but most of the land was taken up by aging apartment complexes and row after row of tiny frame houses.

There were no shopping malls or chichi boutiques here. The businesses around Rale Street were like the houses and the people. Basic. Utilitarian. An area resident could buy car parts or industrial cleaning supplies without leaving the vicinity. He could even rent a backhoe if he wanted. But anyone planning a gala or redecorating a home would have to look in another part of town.

The bar sat on an imaginary line that separated the residential district to the north from the industrial row that lay to the south, like the houses and the people, Rick's Pub was pretty basic. There were no flashing lights, no revolving glitter balk, just a mirrored bar, a jukebox and lots of bare wooden tables.

It came equipped with a bouncer—a giant that everyone called Tink—but the man never seemed to leave his barstool. If anyone in the bar became too rowdy, the other patrons either calmed the troublemaker down or ejected him themselves. Rick's was their special place, and they allowed nothing to disrupt their time there.

The men and women who gathered each evening at the bar worked on loading docks and assembly lines. They weren't a pretentious group. These people were blue-collar and proud of it.

Everyone knew everyone at Rick's. Occasionally an outsider might wander in, but the majority of the customers were people who had been coming to the bar for years. They lived and worked and played in this area. They raised their families here. It was the warmth, the camaraderie of the patrons, that gave Rick's Pub its own special charm.

However, after spending three days sitting on a barstool, the charm of the place was beginning to wear a little thin for Whitney. Being an outsider didn't bother her so much, and she didn't mind the curious stares and whispered debates about whether or not she was the new girl who handled invoices at the paper factory. She even thought it was sort of funny when the bouncer had hinted, in a perfectly kind voice, that prostitutes weren't allowed in Rick's. But in the past three days she had drunk enough club soda to float a battleship, and she still hadn't seen anyone who vaguely resembled her father.

Whitney always arrived at the bar early in the afternoon, and after ordering a drink, she would surreptitiously examine the face of each male who entered the bar. She had spotted several men who were big enough or tall enough—men with black hair and blue eyes—to be her father, but unfortunately all of the features never came together on any one man.

She realized he might not have kept the mustache she remembered, and since he would be in his mid-fifties now, he probably had some gray in his hair— her imagination placed just a touch of silver at his temples—but even if there were physical changes she hadn't anticipated, Whitney was positive she would recognize his voice. Lloyd Grant's voice had been unmistakable. He was a powerful man with a powerful speaking voice and a big, booming laugh.

Sighing wistfully, she swung around on the stool and gazed into the mirror behind the bar. It was four o'clock, which meant the men who worked at the toy factory would be coming in soon. There were five of them, regulars who came in every day. Whitney liked them. Not that she had formally met any one of them, but she had listened to the outrageous stories they told and had heard them rock with laughter. They laughed a lot.

At the moment there were only four other people in the bar. Two women in their early thirties—who had spent the past hour gossiping about a neighbor going through a messy divorce—and two men. Whitney had never seen the men before and didn't know if they were regulars who had been away for a while, or if they were entirely new to the bar.

Business at Rick's was always a little slow until the shifts started changing at the factories. After that, people would arrive in groups both small and large.

As the women paid for their drinks and stood up to leave, Whitney noticed that the two men were watching her, and one of them had an unmistakable question in his eyes as he slowly examined her.

Glancing away from them, she stifled a laugh. It had suddenly occurred to her that they might have mistaken her for a "working girl," the way Tink had.

That particular idea still struck Whitney as ridiculous. She was wearing faded jeans and an old S.M.U. sweatshirt; her hair was in a loose French braid, and she wore no makeup other than lipstick. She'd always thought prostitutes would have a little more flash to them.

Shifting her eyes again to the mirror, she saw the men from the toy factory enter the bar. The same five came every day. Two of them were twins, not identical, but alike enough to be recognizable as such. The third was fortyish, and had bright red hair and freckles that covered every visible inch of flesh. The fourth, much older than the others, was thin and stoop-shouldered and had a shock of white hair, only slightly less wild than Albert Einstein's. The fifth appeared to be about the age her father would be now, but he was short, plump and almost completely bald.

Whitney watched as each man entered, then suddenly she sat up straighten There was someone new with them today. A big man. A man who had hair as dark as Whitney's.

Swallowing with difficulty, she studied the new man. His age was hard to judge. While he appeared to be in his forties, he could have been one of those people who never showed their true age.

It was possible, she thought. This man was a definite possibility. If only she could see his eyes or hear him speak, then she would know for sure. Maybe if she dropped something, he would turn and—

"Dumpling, you've got the sweetest set of knockers I've seen lately."

Startled, Whitney glanced around and found one of the men from the corner table at her elbow.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, her chin raising automatically.

"I said you've got a great set of knockers," he repeated distinctly, a grin spreading across his face.

Whitney let her gaze drift over him with slow deliberation. "I hope you haven't spent a lot of time practicing that line," she said as she turned her back on him, "because I have to tell you, it still needs work."

He laughed and leaned closer. "Hot for me already, aren't you? My name's Will. Why don't we blow tins joint and go back to my place?"

"I don't think so," she said, moving away from him to slide off the opposite side of the stool.

She didn't get far. Her way was blocked by Will's friend, who stood on her side, watching her with detached, almost lazy, interest.

Whitney wasn't frightened; she had come to trust the people in the bar and knew they wouldn't let these men cause any trouble. But she was becoming annoyed that they were blocking her view of the men from the toy factory.

Raising her head, she met Will's eyes. "Let me clue you in," she said, heaving a sigh of exasperation. "And I want you to listen carefully because I never repeat myself. I Wouldn't leave this bar with you if the place were on fire and you had the key to the only exit. Got it?"

Apparently he didn't get it at all because, with the same stupid grin on his face, he began to run his hand up her back. Gritting her teeth, Whitney looked down the bar toward the bouncer's stool, then blinked in startled reaction.

For the first time since she had been coming to Rick's Pub, the big man's barstool was unoccupied. Tink had left his post.

Uneasiness finally set in, and Whitney swiveled her head toward the table where the group from the toy factory always sat, but except for the old man with the Albert Einstein hair, the table was empty. The others all stood around the dart board at the back of the room.

"Would you stop that?" she ground out as Will began to run his hand over her back again. When he simply laughed once more, Whitney drew in a deep breath, preparing to scream.

"That's enough. You guys have had your fun. Now it's time for you to leave.''

Whitney almost fell off the barstool. She knew that voice. She had heard it when she was a child. She had heard it in her dreams.

Instantly she forgot about the irritating men on either side of her and turned her head slowly to follow the voice. When she saw the white-haired man standing close to the bar, her gaze went quickly beyond him as she searched for her father. But there was no one else there.

"You gonna make us, old man?"

Will's belligerent question had Whitney swinging her gaze back to the white-haired man.

"Tink!" the old man's voice boomed out.

Whitney's vision blurred and she felt weak. His voice was strong and powerful. It was unmistakable.

"Is there a problem here?"

She heard the bouncer's voice; she saw him standing just a foot away, but somehow Whitney had become separated from the scene, separated from reality. Ignoring all else, she could only stare. This was Lloyd Grant? This was her father?

"No problems, Tink," the old man said. "These gentlemen were just leaving."

"So soon? Here, I'll show y'all to the door." Tink grabbed each man by the upper arm and began to walk them both toward the pub's entrance. "I don't want you boys to be strangers now." They were wincing from the big man's tight grip. "You won't find a friendlier place than Rick's," the bouncer added as he tossed them out the door.

When the door swung shut behind them, Tink turned to make his way back to his regular barstool. As he passed Whitney and the older gent, he nodded. "Ma'am... Lloyd," he said before easing his massive frame back onto the stool.

When her father turned away from her, when he began to move away, Whitney finally found herself back in reality.

"Wait," she called out, the word breathless and abrupt.

She had to get her brain back hi gear. She had to form words, a whole sentence, before he got away from her.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and she said, "I—I didn't thank you for coming to my rescue."

He shrugged away her gratitude. "I didn't do anything. I just stalled them until Tink got back from the John," he replied, turning away again.

His voice was different now, softer. The strength in it had disappeared. But his voice didn't matter. Tink had called him Lloyd, and that was all the confirmation Whitney needed.

Clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking, she drew in a deep breath and hopped off the barstool to follow him. "Mr.— I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.''

He sat down at the empty table. "Lloyd," he said in a tone that clearly stated, whether she liked it or not, that this conversation was finished.

He didn't know that Whitney had always taken great pride in being contrary. "Mr. Lloyd?"

"Just Lloyd."

"Well, Just Lloyd, you saved my bacon, whether you want to admit it or not. And that means I owe you a drink." She hailed a waitress. "What do you drink? Is that beer? Roxie," she said to the blond waitress, "bring Just Lloyd another beer and I'll have—"

"Club soda?" Roxie offered.

Whitney laughed. "No, I'm feeling adventurous. Bring me a glass of white wine."

"Sure you can handle it?" the waitress said dryly as she turned away.

Whitney returned her gaze to Lloyd and found him watching her. There was curiosity in his blue eyes, but he asked no questions.

She smiled. "You're wondering what you got yourself into, aren't you?"she asked cheerfully. "Right now you're thinking 'Why didn't I mind my own business?' Well, for the past three days I've watched everyone in this bar having fun while you've been sitting here minding your own business. But in my opinion, if you spend your whole life not getting involved, you might look up one day and realize that you've opted out, that you're not a part of life anymore, and that your own business is a lonely place."

He stared at her for a moment. "Do you always talk this much?"

"Yes," she admitted readily. "It drives everyone I know crazy. But I do respond to 'shut up.' Sometimes."

"Shut up, what? You didn't give me your name."

She blinked twice. She couldn't tell him her real name. Not now. He finally seemed to be loosening up a little, and if she told him who she was he could very well start backing away from her again.

Roxie chose that moment to bring the drinks, which gave Whitney time to frantically search for a new name. Something cute and perky? Something exotic?

Bright and beautiful and full of life is my Maid Mary.

"Mary," she said, then, glancing at his hair, added, "Mary White."

"So what are you doing in this part of town, Mary? What are you running away from?''

She choked on her wine. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said when she stopped coughing.

His gaze drifted over her face. "Your clothes are old, but you won't find many people in Rick's who went to S.M.U. And it wouldn't matter if you were wearing a feed sack. You look expensive. The way you carry yourself. The way you talk. Even your haircut looks expensive." His lips twisted in what was almost a smile. "If you're ticked off at your parents, you could have found a softer place to run away to."

Her chin went up. "I'm over twenty-one," she said, then, hearing the sulky note in her voice, she smiled.

"Circumstances forced me to change my life-style. Haven't you ever heard of anyone down on their luck? And believe it or not, I can take care of myself?"