Three For The Road. Shannon Waverly

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE FIRST THING on Pete’s mind when he opened his eyes the next morning was his bike. Where the hell was it, and if it had even one scratch, how did the fool who’d scratched it want to die?

      The second thing he thought about was Mary Elizabeth Drummond, that preppy little pain in the butt who was trying to wreck his vacation—and doing a pretty good job of it, too. He’d never met anyone so fly-brained in his life, and why he’d stuck his neck out for her was still a mystery.

      Pete eased onto his back and scowled at the water-stained ceiling of his cell, recalling the previous night. If she just hadn’t walked into that bar, none of this would’ve happened. He was familiar with places like that, knew the type of guy who frequented them. For the most part, just your ordinary, law-abiding Joe. But add a woman to the equation—an unattached woman, he amended, thinking of the few who’d been there with their husbands or boyfriends—and your ordinary Joe suddenly transmuted into King Kong. She should have known that, too—although, to be fair, he doubted she’d spent much time in bars.

      Pete’s mouth tightened in a rueful grimace. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...

      Last night after being brought in, they’d sat at adjacent desks while being booked. That’s when he’d first heard her name. Mary Elizabeth Drummond. Even in his thoughts he put a spin of mockery on it. He wasn’t sure why, except that the name struck him as sort of stuffy and tedious. It had no...give.

      Sitting where he was, he’d been able to hear the reluctance in her voice when the officer asked her name, a reluctance that had deepened when she was asked her address, birth date and social security number. Pete got the feeling she didn’t want the police to know who she was. For a while, in fact, she’d actually refused to give her address. Said she was in transit, moving from one state to another, and at present didn’t really have an address. Pete had noted her amazement and dismay when all her vital statistics came up on the computer screen, anyway, just on the cue of her social security number.

      What really roused Pete’s curiosity, though, was the anxiety he’d detected when she’d been asked if there was anyone she wanted to call. No, there was no one, she’d said, an answer that had compelled him to turn and take a new, harder look at her. A princess like that, you’d think she’d be on the phone right away, a dozen people she wanted to complain to.

      Another thing about her that didn’t jibe was her voice. It was husky and deep-throated, a Scotch-and-soda voice that belonged more to a torch singer in a smoky piano bar than to someone wearing Bass Weeguns loafers.

      Pete winced reflexively when he remembered the turnaround in her attitude after she was asked to explain what had happened at the Starlight Lounge. Suddenly she was a fountain of information. A damn Niagara Falls of information. And she was angry.

      Well, maybe indignant was a more appropriate word. She didn’t seem capable of really ripping loose. He’d noticed that about her last night, first with Sonny and then at the station. Terminally polite, that was her problem.

      But Pete knew she’d been angry inside. Her cheeks had been a feverish pink, her sentences rushed and tumbled, and her slender frame never really stopped shaking. She reminded him of a bottle of carbonated soda, shaken to a froth, but all sealed up.

      She was convinced her arrest was a mistake, even after the officer patiently explained the charge against her for the third time. She seemed to think that if she kept yapping, eventually he’d see the error in his logic.

      She kept repeating that the gun was only a toy. Couldn’t quite grasp the concept that wielding even a toy in a public place was a serious, arrestable offense if that toy was perceived as real and dangerous by those it was pointed at.

      Pete and the other two men were booked and on their way to their cells, and she was still sitting there yapping.

      Pete swung his feet off the lumpy cot. Get the broad out of your head, he told himself. You’ve got problems enough of your own. He rubbed his eyes. “Augh,” he said aloud, grimacing under a sudden pain. “Mean left hook you’ve got there, man,” he grumbled to one of two snoring hulks in the cell across the aisle.

      Pete watched with deepening disgust. He didn’t like bullies. Never had. And if Sonny was anything, it was a bully. That was why he’d stuck his neck out for Mary Elizabeth Drummond.

      Relieved that he’d finally found an acceptable rationale for his behavior, Pete got up stiffly and studied his face in the mirror over the small white sink. “Great,” he said flatly. The area around his right eye had turned brownish purple overnight and his upper lip was puffed.

      Ordinarily he wouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t the first fight he’d been in, or the worst, but he had his brother’s wedding coming up in a week. He’d hoped to look at least halfway decent.

      Peeling away the tape that held a gauze pad in place, Pete examined the two-inch gash that Sonny had carved into the side of his forehead. It could’ve been worse, he thought. He’d seen the swing coming in enough time to pull back and just be grazed.

      That was seconds before Sonny’s buddy had jumped into the fight. Could’ve been a lot worse, Pete thought, the lines of his face falling into a study of pensive concentration as he remembered—Mary Elizabeth Drummond pulling that gun from her purse. Fly-brained she might be, but she also had courage. He’d seen the gun shaking in her hands from twelve feet away, yet she’d stood her ground and gone out on a limb...for him?

      Pete shook his head to knock away the nonsense and reached for the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face and, straightening, let it trickle down his neck. He couldn’t start developing a soft spot for Ms. Drummond now. Because of her he’d been arrested. Because of her he’d spent the night on a cot that felt like a cobblestone road. Because of her he would be wasting a whole morning in court, when what he’d planned was to be riding his new bike.

      He heard footsteps in the hall. Pete dried his face on a thin, scratchy towel. A young officer, new with the morning shift, banged on the bars of Sonny’s cell, then unlocked Pete’s cell and brought in breakfast.

      “‘Morning. Sleep okay?”

      Pete nodded. He might be mad as hell, but the local constabulary would be the last to know it.

      The young man set the tray down on the end of the cot. “Half an hour till we go over to the courthouse.”

      “I’ll be ready.” Pete reached for his coffee.

      The officer paused. “We brought your bike in.”

      “What?”

      “Your motorcycle. Last night you asked if we could remove it from the parking lot of the Starlight Lounge. I thought you’d like to know that we did and it’s safe over at Bernie’s Garage. That’s on Third Street. You can pick it up after your court appearance.”

      “Thanks. I appreciate it. How much for moving it?”

      “Thirty dollars.”

      Pete nodded agreeably. “I don’t suppose you could tell me what the going rate is for a bar fight in this town?” He smiled—amiably he hoped.

      “About a hundred, if you get any judge other than Collins. With Collins, oh, anywhere between one-fifty and three.”

      Careful to show no reaction, Pete took a sip of