Red Tide Read Free

stuff,” she heard the man say.
    “Wonderful.”
    “She finds life in things…you know…you normally…wouldn’t…”
    She shrugged herself into her coat. “Some people just have the eye.”
    “I feel like I’ve seen her before somewhere.” He waved his keys. “Maybe one of Todd’s pool parties or something.”
    “In the papers, silly,” his companion said.
    The man suddenly noticed Dougherty’s approach, closed his mouth and stood at attention. He cleared his throat once and then again…louder.
    Busy with her purse and gloves, his companion failed to pick up on the distress signals. “Her boyfriend doped her up and tattooed her all over. Remember?”
    The man didn’t respond.
    “Guy looked like Billy Idol,” she went on.
    “Uh-huh,” he mumbled.
    “They say she’s got some really bizarre stuff tattooed on her. You know what I heard? I heard…she’s got…”
    Finally, she glanced up at his face and got the message. She looked around; the sight of Dougherty standing so close stopped the breath in her throat. “Oh,” she began, “I didn’t realize…I…” A pair of red spots appeared on her cheeks. “I mean…” she stammered. The air was suddenly thick.
    The guy recovered first, gave a couple of uncomfortable nods, pulled open the door and ushered his stiff-legged companion outside. Meg watched as they hurried away, chattering between themselves and casting furtive glances over their shoulders as they hurried down the sidewalk. “Loose lips sink ships,” Corso said.
    Dougherty took the final three steps to his side, looped her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder.
    “I probably should have tried to make them feel better,” she said.
    “Why would you want to do a thing like that?”
    “Cause it’s what people do when other people are embarrassed.”
    “Funny. I always figured they just gloated and thanked their lucky stars it wasn’t them with the mouthful of foot.”
    “You always think the worst of people.”
    “And they never let me down.”
    She stepped back a pace and looked up into his cold blue eyes. “You can go,” she said. “I know these things drive you crazy.”
    “And miss your moment of triumph? You gotta be crazy.”
    She made a rude noise with her lips.
    His eyes got serious. “Don’t be snatching defeat from the jaws of victory,” he said. “You’re knocking ’em dead here tonight. You’ve waited a long time for this. Worked real hard. Enjoy it while you can.”
    Another sigh escaped. “That’s what Cecil said.”
    “Cecil was right.”
    She let go of his arm. Shrugged. “It just doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”
    “Things never do.”
    Before Dougherty could respond, the tinkle of a bell drew Corso’s attention toward the door. He put his hand around Dougherty’s waist and pulled her aside as a pair of Seattle police officers pushed their way into the room. He sipped at his wine, watched one of the cops lean over and speak to a woman in a green sequined dress who stood just inside the door. She moved her wineglass to her left hand and waggled a long manicured finger out over the crowd, toward Cecil Taylor, now entertaining the multitudes along the back wall. The woman said something, but, by then, the cops had begun to elbow their way through the crowd, showing considerably less finesse than was usually exhibited at gallery openings, thus leaving a trail of wrinkled brows and jostled drinks as they forced their way toward the rear of the room.
    Something in the way they moved stiffened Corso’s spine.
    Dougherty felt the sudden tension in his arm. “What?” she said.
    He inclined his head toward the back of the room where the taller of the two officers leaned over and whispered something into Cecil Taylor’s ear. The roiling din of conversation prevented them from hearing what was said, but whatever it was most certainly pissed Taylor off. His diffuse features gathered themselves in the center of his round face before