Red’s Hot Honky-Tonk Bar (9 page)

To: [email protected]

September 5 9:30 a.m.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Gess where I am?

Mom, gess where I am? U will never gess. I am sitting by a tree next to the river. Not the river that is in back of the bar, but farther up nearer to the park. Cam brought us here fishing. I told him I don’t like to fish, at least I dont think I do. So he brought his laptop with WIFI and he is letting me use it while him and Daniel fish.

Daniel is not so good at fishing. He keeps getting up and running around. Cam doesn’t get mad tho. He is a pretty good friend to Daniel.

School starts tomorrow. That will be so great. Much better than being with the babysitter or Abuela Mala. I think Daniel’s teacher will be good. She likes him. And she speaks some Spanish so Daniel wont have to say English unless he want to. Daniel slips into English some times with Cam. Cam acts like he doesnt notice so its cool. For sure the Red person still gets fusstrayted with him. But at least she doesnt yell. She looks like a yeller but so far no.

I am back. Daniel caught a fish and I had to go look at it. He is so happy. I wish you could see him. It would make U happy 2. Cam says it’s a perch. He will cook it up for lunch. Is that weird! We can catch it in the river and eat it. Cam says it will be good and he doesnt lie.

I got to go. I told Cam that we cant miss church on Sunday so we are leaving here to go to second mass.

I love you Mom. Dont worry about us. I am taking care of us fine.

Livy

S
chool started as it always does and Red found herself sighing with relief at the structure it provided. She managed to drag herself out of bed every morning before eight. She would sit on the front porch, bleary-eyed and dressed in her bathrobe as she sipped coffee and watched the two kids walk the blocks down the street before they turned toward the school.

She always wished them a good day and waved goodbye. It was the only apparent requirement from her. Olivia took care of everything. She got up on her own and made sure Daniel was up, too. She fixed cereal with bananas or berries and toast for their breakfast. And she critiqued her little brother’s washing and dressing, insuring that he was clean and appropriate. Then she’d double-check their backpacks, read Daniel the lunch menu so he could opt for peanut butter and jelly if necessary, and keep one young, keen eye on the clock to get to their classes before the bell went off.

The first few days, Red had tried to help. She figured out pretty quickly that her assistance was unwanted and unneeded. Olivia took on the responsibility for the two of them as a duty.
She saw Red’s attempts to bear some of that weight as an intrusion, a slight against her abilities.

Red was fairly certain that the child had not been so self-sufficient while living with her mother, or her
abuela
. She hated the idea that Olivia felt it necessary. But Red found herself running into nostalgia, as well.

Bridge had been so much the same way.

Theoretically, Red meant to go back to bed after the kids were gone. A couple more hours of sleep would have been welcome. But she discovered from the first day that it wasn’t going to happen. So she puttered around the house, cleaning, doing laundry. If she couldn’t help Olivia directly, she could at least make her responsibilities a bit lighter.

More often than not, she’d sit out on the little back porch, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the morning. It was a time of day that she’d almost forgotten about. The neighbor behind her was some sort of bird fanatic. She had little birdhouses all over the yard and red hummingbird feeders hanging from several tree limbs. It was too late in the year for anything but sparrows; still, Red found herself spending some of her morning watching with fascination. How wonderful it must feel to be that person, she thought. To own a handsome, comfortable house and spend nice mornings sitting on the deck and sipping coffee as she watched the day-to-day lives of small industrious birds.

Of course, Red was doing exactly that. But her sojourn in the land of lawns and birdhouses was a very temporary one. She knew better than to get too cozy in it. When she caught herself mentally planning flower beds and backyard shrubbery, she got furious with herself. How easy it was to settle into a myth of the future that was clearly not within the realm of her possibilities.

Routinely, she now arrived at the bar by ten o’clock, two hours before she opened. That gave her more time to take care of paperwork and, more often than not, to see Cam.

On Tuesday of the second week of school, she finally went through the mail. It was a mess. She’d allowed the mail from the bar to pile up in the last few days, and she’d brought everything from Cam’s front-porch mailbox, as well.

She began sorting it into piles. The biggest pile was, of course, the junk mail destined for the trash. Her business stuff from the bar was easy to spot. But she was most interested in things addressed to Cam. Red had decided that she would pay the utilities for the house. It was the very least she could do to offset the expense of living there. Not to mention the inconvenience to him of staying in her apartment.

She easily picked out the electric bill and the one from the Alamo Heights waterworks. She noticed a couple of envelopes with the same look and the same return address, Schavetti Music Company. Momentarily she wondered if he was buying something, a violin maybe, on a payment plan. That was something she could do—she could pay for something he wanted. It would have the effect of a gift, without all the emotional land mines of handing the object to him.

Red pulled a knife out of the flatware drawer and, with a quick, efficient motion, cut open the end of the envelope. Because her motives weren’t negative, she didn’t even think of it as snooping.

But it wasn’t a bill. It was a check. A check for six hundred and eighty-five dollars. Red frowned. The stub indicated hours and numbers of something called Tangrelo Opus 17 editing.

Curious now, she opened the other envelope that was just like it. It was also a check, this one eleven hundred dollars, and it was for Waverly Petty Opera editing.

Red shrugged. She didn’t know all that much about the music business. She paid her bands after every night’s work, but maybe some places sent checks. Though she hadn’t heard of any places called Tangrelo or Waverly. And it was surprising that anyone would pay a fiddler so much.

She asked him as much when he came downstairs a few minutes later. He was shirtless, wearing jeans and sleep-tousled. He looked so young, she thought, and so completely desirable.

“So, I opened these,” she said, handing them over. “They’re checks.”

He glanced at them and nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Oh good,” he responded almost absently.

Red hesitated, wondering if he was going to say more. When he didn’t, she prodded.

“I guess I shouldn’t have opened them, but I thought they might be bills.”

He looked at her for a long moment over the rim of his coffee cup.

“You’re welcome to open my checks,” he said. “You’re welcome to open my bills. I’m not the one with the secrets here. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Red deftly avoided the gibe.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me about the checks.”

“It’s my day job,” he answered.

“Your day job? What day job?”

“I do music editing,” he said.

She was more confused. “In a studio? When do you have time to do that?”

“I don’t edit recordings,” he corrected her. “I’d love to do that, but I don’t have the room for a decent studio. I edit sheet music. The company e-mails the compositions or arrange
ments and I go through them for errors. I’m actually very good at it.”

“I never see you working,” she told him.

Cam shook his head. “You see me on the computer all the time.”

Red nodded. “I thought you were playing Grand Theft Auto or something.”

He laughed. “I’m really not so much the smashing-cars kind of guy.”

She shrugged. “So this is like a regular job?”

“No,” he said. “It’s freelance. I get paid by the measure. I’ve been doing it since college. One of my professors, who thought I was headed for a life in academia, helped me get the job, and the quality of my work has kept the company coming back to me for ten years.”

Red was shaking her head. “It seems really strange.”

“With me having a house and a car and money in my pocket, you must have realized I had some kind of day job.”

“I thought you had money from your family,” she admitted.

“What?” He laughed. “That’s a good one. Sometimes you’re just completely without a clue. For months you think I’m a hand-to-mouth musician. Then, you turn a hundred and eighty degrees and decide I’m a trust-fund legacy. I’m just a regular guy, Red. Oh, and by the way, I’m a regular guy who is crazy about you.”

“Oh…thanks.”

“Ah…you’re welcome.”

Red was embarrassed and felt slightly cornered. She hated men making declarations, because she’d decided long ago never to reciprocate. She believed that, almost universally, they were lying, but that most didn’t even realize it. They just spoke the words they thought she wanted to hear, never imagining
that those words had been spoiled for her. They only recalled bad memories. By the time the words came up, she was usually done with the men already. But she still liked Cam and he hadn’t really said the BIG words and anyway, she couldn’t break up with him while she was living in his house. Explaining that, explaining how little she had to offer him, was not a topic she really wanted to discuss. Fortunately she was saved from the prospect by the very loud sound of machinery coming from the patio.

“What the devil is that?”

Cam didn’t answer, but started running in that direction. Red was right behind him.

Through the patio doorway, the sight that greeted them was startling. The brick patio that meandered its way toward the river was now cordoned off at the far end by a vivid orange net. And parked just behind the stage was a giant earthmover.

“Hey!
Hey!
What are you doing?” Red screamed at the man sitting in the big machine.

Apparently he couldn’t hear her over the sound of the engine, but two other men in hard hats emerged from around the corner and spotted her.

One waved her over to the orange net. She moved as quickly as her high heels would allow.

“What’s going on here?” she hollered over the noise.

“Morning, ma’am,” the older of the two men said with a big smile. “I’m Ernie.”

“What’s going on?” she repeated.

Cam walked up behind her and Ernie offered his hand. “Morning.”

“Good morning.”

“You know, some of your pavers are in the easement. Those are going to have to come out. And this structure—” Ernie
indicated the stage “—it needs to be moved to three feet from the property line. You should have got that done already.”

“Don’t talk to him, talk to me,” Red snapped. “This is my place. And why would I want to move anything?”

Ernie’s eyebrows went up. Red wasn’t sure what part of her statement he found so amazing, but his response was no-nonsense. “Ma’am, we’re beginning excavation into your section today. I’m sure you got all the particulars in your letter.”

“What letter?” Red asked. “I didn’t get any letter.”

The workman looked skeptical. “All the property owners got letters. Registered letters.”

“I lease this place,” she told him.

Ernie nodded, as if that explained everything. “Then you’ll need to get in touch with your landlord, and the sooner the better. We can dig around you for a bit, but we’re going to need everything out of our way or we’ll have to bring it down with a dozer.”

Over the next few hours, the fresh coffee that had tasted so good when she’d sipped it that morning turned sour in her stomach as she tried to get answers.

First, her landlord wasn’t in his office. The receptionist offered to have him call her back, but Red wasn’t willing to wait. After several transfers to different people who knew different aspects of almost nothing, she finally got to a “contracts accountant.” After several minutes on hold, she came back with startling information.

“Mr. Garza no longer owns that property,” she told Red.

“How can he no longer own it? I’ve been paying him rent every month.”

“Yes, I see that here,” the woman answered. “And we’ve been forwarding payment to the new owners.”

“Who are the new owners?”

“Merton, Wythe and Stone Development Properties.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’re in Dallas.”

Red was still trying to track someone down when the bar opened for business. The noise of machinery in the back made the place less than relaxing, but all the regulars were extremely interested. Red thought their curiosity must be similar to rubbernecking at car accidents.

It certainly felt like a smashup to her.

Cam called some friends with the intent of using their free labor to move the stage.

“These guys are okay as strong backs,” he told Red. “But we’ll need a real electrician. And you’ll have to pay a premium to get one here on such short notice. There are so many lines and wires on that place, it’ll take a half a day just to figure out what goes to what.”

“Señor Puentes installed all that,” Red told him.

“The old guy that’s a regular?” Cam asked, surprised. “Good grief, he must have retired back when dirt was the new thing. I can’t imagine that he would still be licensed to work.”

“Call him anyway,” Red said. “Maybe he’ll recommend someone.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“And could you try to get in touch with the band that’s scheduled for tonight?” she added. “They’re just some young kids, but they’ll be disappointed at not getting to play. Tell them that I’ll have them back and pay them anyway.”

Again and again she tried to find someone on the end of the phone at the office of her new landlord that could help her.

“Now, who exactly are you again?” one woman asked.

“I’m Red Cullen. The name of the business is Red’s Hot Honky-Tonk Bar.”

The woman cleared her throat unpleasantly. “Our company doesn’t own any businesses such as that.”

“No, I own the business, you own the building,” Red corrected her.

“I don’t believe our company leases to any businesses such as that,” she said. “We do very exclusive property development.”

“I called my landlord and they said that they sold the property to you.”

“Then your landlord must be mistaken.”

“They’ve been sending you my rent checks,” Red pointed out. “How mistaken can that be?”

Red finally hung up on her and called again, hoping to get somebody more amenable on the end of the line.

It was after three when she finally talked to some frightened, mousy-sounding young clerk who reluctantly agreed to research the issue and get back to her. It was the best she could do.

She went out to the patio. Old Señor Puentes was lying on his back underneath the stage as he directed his grandson, who was probably nearing thirty, as to which lines to disconnect. Within a half hour, they’d moved the breaker box to a free-standing pole, shut down everything live attached to the stage and the old man declared it safe to move the stage. The orange-vested crew and their noisy machines had fallen silent, waiting.

Red went outside to find out what was going on and was surprised to see so many of her regulars standing around. Hector and Casey were there and the Grisholm brothers. Loop was there, too, and even Alfred, who had brought his mama with him. J.B. was standing closest to her, so she directed the more universal question to him.