But Castaways was still there, so they didn’t stay away as much as she pretended.
In truth, Leda and Niki found their way to the dark little club at least two or three nights a week, and often more frequently than that. It wasn’t the strong drinks that brought them back again and again, and it wasn’t even Matt—a lean, good-looking guy who was a couple of years younger than his broken-toed beloved.
The main appeal of the place was, as Niki had suggested, the klairvoyant karaoke.
Leda walked slowly so Niki could keep up, thumping that plastic boot as she scaled the steep sidewalk. “I told you, you should’ve kept the crutches.”
“They rubbed my armpits raw. Forget it. I’ll stick with a really loud limp.”
“Doesn’t your foot hurt from doing that?”
“Not as bad as my armpits did. Crutches chafe, Leda. They chafe.”
When they reached the entrance, Leda held the door and Niki strolled in like she owned the place, because being the girlfriend of the manager had its privileges. They were small privileges, like one or two free drinks and a front-row seat if there was a good act for the little round stage, but she was happy to take advantage of every single one.
“Tiffany!” she called to the bartender.
Tiffany toasted her from halfway up a very tall ladder, where she was adjusting the stock on the high-stacked shelves. “Ladies,” she said with a wave. “Come on in and make yourselves at home. You’ve got the place to yourself for the moment.”
“Hey!” a guy at a corner table protested.
Tiffany went back to teetering on the ladder and topping off the booze. “Except for Justice, over there. He’s on his third glass of fizzy water,” she said in his direction.
The man’s real name was Justin, but he didn’t like it—and he’d gone full anarcho-communist after the 2016 election. He used the bar as a base of operations for his zines and newsletters due to the free Wi-Fi and generally tolerant management. But as long as he left the other customers alone—and as long as he paid for his nachos and the occasional Shirley Temple—he was allowed to stay.
Sometimes he was low on cash, and then it was fizzy water until someone took pity on him and bought him something else.
Matt would let almost anybody hang out, if the hanging out was peaceful and quiet. Homeless folks who wanted water on a hot day? No worries. NIMBY protestors wanting to put something in somebody else’s backyard? As long as they didn’t make a stink, but no, they couldn’t post their signs—no matter how meticulously they explained that their newest opinions totally weren’t racist, this time. Eager college students collecting signatures for ballot initiatives? Don’t interrupt the show, if there is one—but knock yourselves out.
Festive SantaCon drunks? Lock the doors, flip the sign, and turn out the lights. Pretend it’s the Purge, and pray they leave without breaking anything.
Castaways was a hole-in-the-wall in the old-school Cap Hill tradition: neither bright nor clean, but cozy and often crowded after 8:00 p.m. The decor was loosely “golden age of Vegas,” which was fitting—for it’d been named for a long-gone casino on the old Sin City strip. Showgirl feathers, neon lights, mid-century modern fixtures, and blown-up photos of the Rat Pack rounded out the setting. If you looked real close, you could see famous gangsters in the background of some of the pictures. Once upon a time, pointing out grainy figures that were supposedly Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky had been Matt’s favorite flirting move, and that’s how he’d ended up with Niki. Now it was just a thing to talk about, because he was officially locked down.
Leda dropped her purse onto the far side of the bar, where she knew it was safe with Tiffany. “Anybody cool on deck tonight?” she asked.
The bartender was a curvy, brown-skinned, green-haired member of Generation Z who was barely old enough to hold the job she rocked on a nightly basis. Nobody knew where she’d learned her impressive hooch-slinging skills, but the day she’d turned twenty-one she’d shown up with an application in hand, and her timing had been good. Matt had sprained his wrist trying to Tom Cruise it up, Cocktail-style. He’d needed the help. She’d needed the gig. It was a match made in heaven.
She came back down the ladder again, picked up a bar rag, and tucked it into her apron. “Nobody’s scheduled for the stage, if that’s what you mean.”
Niki flopped into her usual seat at a tiny round table, just to the right of the stage.
“Can I get you anything? It’s almost six o’clock,” Tiffany hollered. The music was on, but it wasn’t turned up all the way. Leda thought it sounded like last decade’s dubstep, but Tiffany had weird tastes and Matt was nonconfrontational enough to let her run the playlist. It wasn’t too loud to talk, but it was too loud to talk across a room.
“Can you make me a mai tai?” Niki called back.
“I can, but I won’t. You can have…” She peered around the shelves beneath the bar. “You can have a rum and orange juice. I’m still setting up.”
Enthusiastically, Niki declared, “I’ll settle for it!”
“How about you, Leda?” the bartender asked. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Leda climbed onto the nearest stool, one butt cheek at a time. “I don’t know, Tiff. It’s been a weird day. Just give me a rum and Coke and let me think.”
“You want to read me? Do an easy one, to get started?”
Justice looked up from whatever antifa site he was annotating at the moment. “Ooh! Do me! Do me!”
“She’s not that desperate,” Niki told him from the peanut gallery.
Leda waved her hand in the trust-fund punk’s general direction. “Later, dude. I’m not working tonight.”
The bartender asked, “You’re not singing?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What? I don’t have to do it every single time I come in here.”
“But you pretty much do. I mean, come on.” Tiffany gave her a coaster and a glass to sip on. Something about Leda’s slouch or maybe her frown gave the bartender pause. “Are you okay? Because you don’t look okay. Your weird day must not have been a good kind of weird.”
“Meh.” Leda drew the skinny brown stirring straw around to her mouth and sucked on it without any joy. Then she sneezed and shook her head. “Damn, Tiff! How much Coke did you put in this rum?”
“You looked like you needed the booze more than the caffeine.”
“You’re an angel, Tiff.”
“Thanks, Leda. You’re a good customer.”
She grunted again. “I guess. But I’m a real shitty psychic.”
“Says who?” Tiff leaned forward on her elbows, showcasing an award-winning bosom that was covered in tattoos. She credited that outstanding rack with half her tipped income, and she went to snug, low-cut lengths to keep it visible.
“Says everybody.”
“Nah. You’re just having an off day. Is it something about Tod?”
A pang hit Leda in the torso, just above her belly. It never stopped being strange, hearing his name. Even after all this time. How much time? Not that much, now that she thought about it. Three years? Some days it felt like thirty minutes. She stared down into her very strong drink. “Kind of.”