Hell's Belle Read Free

grabbed the first thing I could catch, which happened to be the Bud draft pull. Beer sprayed out all over the place.
    "Damn it!" I swore under my breath.
    Babe, who was sitting at the other end of the bar with a pile of bills, collapsed in a fit of laughter.
    She looked at Max over the rim of her glasses that were propped at the end of her nose. "He's a looker!"
    Glaring, I shushed Babe, hoping Max didn’t overhear, and pulled on the draught again, this time with a pitcher underneath.  I placed the pitcher next to her and lifted the doorway to the bar. I took the pitcher to the small area of tables to the right of the door.
    Two women, their heads close together and arms intertwined, sat at a far corner table. Every now and then, they would stop whispering and the blonde one would trace the brunette's lips with her tongue. I saw the brunette slide her hand up the blonde's skirt. I felt like an intruder as I placed the pitcher on the table and waited to collect the five dollars.
    I peeked at Max while I waited for the cash. His slightly overgrown golden curls flopped a bit in his face. He reminded me of an aging surfer -- athletic body, skin tinged gold by the sun. Eyes as blue as the ocean, with slight good-natured crinkles around the edges. He must laugh a lot. What would bring Surfer Boy to frigid New England? He wasn't a student; that was certain. 
    With the fiver in hand, I moved back to the bar and plopped down beside Babe.
    Short, feisty and well into middle age, Babe had long black hair streaked through with gray. With her t-shirt, jeans and an overload of Mexican jewelry, Babe looked strikingly out of place in a small New England city. She was a throw back from Haight-Ashbury.
    The front door opened with such force that it slammed into the wall. Frigid December wind burst into the room. Babe's paperwork went flying. I scrambled after the papers, shivering.
    A skinny guy with long black hair, pale translucent skin and a black overcoat stumbled in behind the bitter night air. He looked around the tiny bar, catching my eyes for a split second. I gave him a slight sneer. I didn't like the looks of him. He gave his hair a toss and joined the two women at the table.
    The voices on the television began to cut through the din of people talking in the bar. I looked up at the flat screen. Ami Bertrand, a wealthy philanthropist, was giving an interview. He was angling to be Mayor of Providence, running in a special election to be held next week.
    There was something familiar about Bertrand, and not in a good way. He had moved to Providence a few years ago, and his background was shrouded in mystery. But he said the right things publicly, and poured money into various social service and arts charities. He was hugely popular.
    Bertrand was a handsome, charismatic guy, in his early 50s, with short-cropped dark hair, graying in the right places, high cheekbones and an athletic physique. He could charm the habit off a nun. And he creeped me out.
    Babe was muttering something in Spanish as she rearranged her messed-up paperwork.
    Alfonso, our neighborhood drunk, had Max captivated with talk of Providence politics, probably inspired by Bertrand's television appearance. Three college students played a game of dirty word Scrabble.
    A commercial for Cirque du Soleil came on the television, reminding me of Frankie, one of my best friends. It had been a few months since I left my home in Nevada to make a new one with my Aunt Babe in Providence. I missed the dry heat of the desert, the Vegas strip, and my friends. Frankie was a huge Cirque du Soleil fan, and they had a new show opening on the Strip on Christmas day. I was sure Frankie would be there. I would have gone with him.
    But the rich history of New England was a draw. I was definitely enjoying the seasons, and living so close to the ocean was amazing. I always felt like a visitor in Nevada. Maybe it’s just the transient nature of the place. Rhode Island felt like home.
    I grabbed