Twelfth Night (A Wendover House Mystery Book 2) by Jackson Melanie

Author:Jackson, Melanie [Jackson, Melanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brian Jackson
Published: 2012-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

“Good God,” Mary whispered. I was glad she stopped there. Our wine-soaked brains couldn’t absorb any more. I’m sure Brandy struck everyone as being an airheaded material girl rather than someone more imaginative and spiritual. But whatever she had seen that night had shaken her to her bones and filled her with dread that could reach across decades and still touch her. She had come to the edge of the rational world and crossed over someplace no one else ever wanted to go. In fact, I think everyone—excepting perhaps Ben—was hoping to forget the story as soon as possible.

“I have a story too. A real one and I never talk about it either,” Jack said quickly, surprising me. Supernatural stuff had never been his bag. He went on, perhaps hurrying to get the story out before he changed his mind. “This was not too long after I moved to Chicago. A buddy of mine was getting married and we took him out the weekend before the wedding for a barhop, a sort of goodbye to single life, a last debauch thing.”

We all exhaled at the change of subject and I passed Brandy a handkerchief, though she wasn’t really crying so much as brooding. I didn’t think we were really ready for another ghost story, but no one wanted to talk about what had happened to Brandy. Truth or hallucination, it didn’t need discussion.

“Tim liked historic bars, so we were hitting the old ones, some in hotels, some underground. I was getting tired since I was just off my crutches and not used to walking, but Tim was kind of tight and he was going on about how he loved me like a brother—and not a Cain and Abel kind of brother—so I stuck it out in spite of the aching leg.

“The last place we visited was called Del’s. It used to be run by a wise guy called Fat Friday. He had rubbed out the original owner and moved in on the bar, the bootlegging, and on Del’s girl, Mona. More about her later. I gotta tell you though, they raised girls tough out there.”

The sound of the clock faded away. The wind continued to sing its violent cantata, but it too was muted. Jack, as raconteur, was doing as good a job as anyone could have.

“By then it was late and down to just Tim and me. The others had gone home or to strip clubs, but I was feeling pretty fascinated by all these old places and drunk enough to be sentimental, so I stayed with him while we ankled it uptown.”

I almost smiled at his use of this old slang. Jack was a Dashiell Hammett fan and sometimes used the vernacular.

“All the bars we had visited had atmosphere, but this place was different—I felt it the minute I walked in. There was a kind of anger in the air—and cold. Tim kept right on walking but I stopped by the coatrack for a minute to check out the crowd.

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