King of Hearts Page 2

King Dave let go the doorknob and fell back against the wall, pressing his hands over his eyes. Shit.

  His hands smelled like spray paint. He checked them, front and back. There was still a thin orange line under two fingernails. The stuff dried in a heartbeat. Don’t think about your short hairs. He wouldn’t be able to use the health club for days. This would cut deep into his social life, unless he felt like dousing himself with paint thinner. His aching brain whirred, trying to keep up with all the implications, all the details of clean-up, cover-up, denial, retrieval, revenge.

  Well, there was one person he knew he could deal with. Miss Tammy would receive a visit way sooner than she imagined.

  He fished his cell phone out of his desecrated jeans and called Bobbyjay.

  “Hey, bud, listen, I’ve come down with a real bad flu all of a sudden. Yeah, it hit me when I went out for a phone call, wham. Can you tell the steward for me?”

  Bobbyjay sounded innocently sympathetic. “No problem. I’ll get Doofus up from the main rag to cover you. He’s only got one more cue tonight.” Not a hint of sarcasm or humor in his voice.

  King Dave breathed a tiny bit easier. He flushed the toilet to add sound effects. “Thanks, pal.”

  Now to deal with Tammy.

  He emptied the bathroom wastebasket on the floor. Let Miss Snippety clean up. Then he bundled his orange clothes into a roll, stuffed them into the plastic liner bag, and cracked open the door. No one in sight.

  He whisked out of the bathroom and slipped through the kitchen to the back door, sprinted down the alley, and headed for Wabash Avenue, where his Camaro was parked. If he knew Tammy, she’d go to ground as soon as her dirty deed was done.

  But on Wabash he found a note on the Camaro’s windshield.

  Dear King Dave you deadbeat,

  Davy Junior is at your Mom’s house. You’ll never guess where I am. You promised me a down payment on a Porsche, so pay up. Give the money to your Mom. Watch your mailbox.

  Signed,

  Damn! King Dave kicked the Camaro’s tire and almost broke a toe. “Ow, ow, ow!” He had hoped for a straight exchange, cash for the film. The bitch wanted to drag this out.

  He crushed the letter and breathed slow and hard. He couldn’t lay hands on Tammy yet, but he knew where to find that waitress.

  His plan to silence the waitress developed on the walk back to Liz Otter’s. First, he would have to face the fact, she wasn’t a pushover. She didn’t look more than twenty, but she’d turned the tables on him in the first two seconds. She’d poured hot coffee on him, too. Was that deliberate?

  He snarled silently. If she was in it with Tammy, he was screwed.

  Or not. Tammy wouldn’t blow the story unless she was positive she wouldn’t get her money. So if the waitress and Tammy were working together, he could count on the waitress to keep her mouth shut at least until he had paid up.

  He recalled her open-mouthed look of shock as Tammy sped away, and the way her eyes had widened through the restaurant window when he spotted her.

  No, she probably wasn’t in it with Tammy.

  Okay, now what? Did he have any leverage at all?

  Standing at a traffic light, King Dave squeezed his eyes shut in an effort of memory. What did he know about her?

  Damn little. She was built, which had caught his eye on her first day working Liz Otter’s, but she had the smile and the cool, hands-off manner of a waitress thirty years her senior.

  She didn’t date stagehands. He would have known if she did. No ring—he always checked first for a ring when a woman caught his eye. Not for him the black eyes and bullet holes of stagehands who messed with married women. So she was available, probably, maybe.

  He had a sudden memory of her face, flushed and staring into his, in the moment they body-slammed each other across the coffee cup this evening. She’d blushed and looked down at his orangey front. Surely there had been a little ka-ching.

  She couldn’t be totally immune to King Dave Flaherty.

  King Dave sweated into his borrowed tee-shirt and pants. We’ll have to see.

  Nadine was pouring coffee for the Auditorium crew when King Dave stalked in, looking like an angel whose harp had hit a sour note. Her heart bumped in her chest. In the white Liz Otter’s tee-shirt and white pants, all he needed was a flaming sword and the look would be perfect.

  “There he is,” Bobbyjay Morton said. “You feeling better, King Dave?”

  “Shitting my brains out,” King Dave snapped. Nadine winced. “Gimme decaf,” he said to her with a look that dislocated several of her internal organs.

  If she let him get the better of her now, all her leverage would dribble away.

  Nadine pulled on her armor of waitressness. “Sure, honey,” she said, pouring. “But do you think you should? You were in the bathroom an awful long time.”

  She bent over him and peered into his face with concern.

  The shock of meeting those angry blue eyes nearly ruined her act. “You feeling better?” she said breathlessly.

  “I’m fine,” he said in a clipped voice.

  “Well, I think your color is still a little off,” she said, as she put a full cream pitcher on the table. “You look kinda orange around the edges.”

  King Dave slopped cream into his decaf.

  Don’t you f-word with me, b-word, his look said.

  But his scowl definitely backed off.

  Bobbyjay said, “King Dave, we were just talking about the new Galaxy Performing Arts Center. You heard who’s going for the department heads yet?”

  “No idea,” King Dave said. “The city is bringing in an outside production manager.”

  “You’re serious!” Weasel Rooney said. “You mean the Local’s got no say whatever? Not even King Dave?”

  “That’s what I hear,” King Dave said. “And don’t call me King Dave like that.”

  “No, your majesty,” Weasel said, and Bobbyjay grinned.

  Reluctantly Nadine moved on to her other tables. She took orders at tables two and six and delivered them to the cook.

  “What are you thinking about?” said a velvety voice in her ear.

  Nadine’s pulse kicked like a mule. She turned slowly. “Why, King Dave, how you startled me.”

  He edged closer. His body heat warmed her. “Don’t mess with me, your highness. What are you gonna do?”

  “King Dave,” she said. “I’ve always wondered why they call you that.”

  He flushed, and she knew she’d hit another nerve. “It’s too f—too easy to get a name hung on you in this Local.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “I’m from Goreville myself.”

  “Small town, huh?” he said, eyeing her in a way that made her regret admitting that much. He was standing practically on top of her Stride Rites.

  “Extremely,” she said. He smelled like soap and sweat and spray paint.

  King Dave inched closer. “Place like that, you can get stuck with a terrible nickname. For the least little thing,” he added meaningfully. “It can happen to anybody. Thinking about it should give a nice girl the shivers.”

  Nadine shivered, but not from fear of some piddly nickname. Her tongue was cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

  “Atta girl. Think with the big head,” he said, glancing at her hair. He smiled cockily into her eyes.

  He turned and went back to Bobbyjay and Weasel’s table.

  Nadine took a minute to fuss over the spanakopita for table six and get her breath back.

  So that’s how it was going to be. He would try to hang some despicable nickname on her if she dared to talk about his escapade in the alley. Nadine breathed in through her nostrils and sent twin jets of flame shooting out of them.

  Then she returned to King Dave’s table. “Here’s your orange juice, honey,” she said in her best waitress voice.

  King Dave looked sulky.

  “I was asking him why they call him King Dave,” she remarked to Weasel and Bobbyjay, and added in an innocent,
injured tone, “He won’t say.”

  King Dave produced a dollar in quarters from the pocket of the cook’s spare white pants. “I gotta get back to work,” he growled. He threw the coins onto the table and stomped out.

  Cranky. Usually he tipped her two bucks for coffee.

  “Whatever’s the matter with him?” Nadine said, staring after him with what she hoped was a guileless look of surprise. Her heart pounded.

  “He don’t like being reminded that his old man is the president of the Local,” Bobbyjay said.

  “Is he?” Nadine said, still playing dumb.

  Weasel put a finger alongside his nose. “He loves it that his old man’s the president. What he don’t like is people saying he couldn’t get work without the connection.”

  She widened her eyes for real now. “Is that what the nickname means?”

  “It’s just a nickname,” Bobbyjay said in a rough tone.

  To Nadine’s certain knowledge Bobbyjay was the sixth living member of his family named Robert Morton, and his grandfather was on the executive board. All six were stagehands in the Local. Maybe he was sensitive about it. Or maybe he was protecting his best friend, King Dave.

  “Want to know why they call me Weasel?” Weasel asked, grinning slyly up at her.

  Nadine smiled. “Have some more coffee, Harold.”

  Weasel’s grin faded. “Hey, call me Weasel,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  Nadine half expected to find King Dave lurking outside Liz Otter’s when she came off shift at midnight. He’d seemed really, really determined. But no King Dave.

  As she sank into a seat on a northbound 22 bus, she recalled he was working the Opera House night gang, as he did most nights during the season, eight hours of grueling labor shoving scenery starting at ten p.m. The thought that he’d be working in the cook’s spare whites and tee-shirt made her smile.

  Plus, he was probably still orange down south. Unless he’d found a way to get it out. She fell asleep trying to recall if lighter fluid would take spray paint off skin. Too toxic. She ought to warn him. Maybe lard. Rubbed well and gently in. She dreamed about rubbing lard gently into King Dave Flaherty’s short, orange, curly hairs until she had to bolt off the bus.

  He’d sure looked mad.

  By now probably he was over it, she hoped. He’d got angry out of shock, sure, any guy would be. A double shift, good night’s sleep, a soothing soak in a bubble bath, and he would feel more charitable toward her, if not toward his ex-wife.

  Nadine had a hard time picturing King Dave in a bubble bath.

  So when she heard his voice the next day as she stood in line at the Chicago Theatre box office for Dixie Chicks tickets, she wasn’t surprised by the outrage in his tone.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Goodness, King Dave, don’t sneak up on me like that!” she said, pressing her hand over her heart.

  He looked at her hand and flushed. “I don’t sneak. Unlike some people I could name.” He still had on those white pants and Liz Otter’s tee-shirt. His beard looked two days old.

  “You didn’t get home yet!”

  “How the hell can I get home? I’m putting in the Chicks.”

  “But you worked night gang,” she said stupidly. Didn’t he ever sleep?

  “Christ, you sound like a stagehand’s wife,” he grumbled. “Night gang is double time. So now you can report back to Tammy I’ve been stuck in these fucking clothes since last night.”

  She frowned. “King Dave, I don’t know your wife.”

  “Then why in the hell are you busting my balls like this?”

  The skin under his eyes was puffy with fatigue. The dummy was working himself to death, like every other guy in the Local. If King Dave used his father’s pull to get work, at least he was a total stranger to the sin of sloth.

  Though he did cuss too much.

  She lifted one finger to touch his shoulder. “You ought to get some sleep.”

  “Move the line!” someone yelled from way back in the box office queue.

  Nadine realized where she was just as King Dave grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of line.

  “What are you doing here?” he repeated. “Jesus, don’t you know enough deckhands by now?”

  “Quit swearing!” she said. “I was waiting in line for a ticket like a civilized person.”

  “Well, what for?” he complained. He lowered his voice. “I can get you in for nothing.” He still had hold of her hand. He was just tall enough to look down into her eyes. He smiled. “All you gotta do is ask.”

  She melted. “I can’t ask you to do that, King Dave. Though it’s nice of you to offer. Would—would you like me to get you some clean clothes? You must be miserable.”

  “I am. I’m hot, I’m sweaty, I’m stinky, and I stick to these f—these godda—these—”

  “Pants,” she supplied.

  “—and I need something to eat. Listen, can we go eat somewhere?” he said, rubbing his free hand over his face. With his eyes closed he looked exhausted and kissable.

  She swallowed. She held still so he wouldn’t notice he was holding her hand. “I only have lunch today to get that ticket.”

  “I’ll get you the ticket. You come with me for a sandwich and I’ll pay you with the ticket. Deal? One seat for tonight?”

  A nice girl should be offended at the suggestion she would barter her company in exchange for a Dixie Chicks ticket. Nadine licked her lips. “Deal. One for tomorrow night.”

  “Sure you don’t want two? Maybe your mother wants to come with,” he said, pulling her hand into the crook of his arm and leading her down the long queue in front of the ticket office.

  It ought to embarrass her, walking on the arm of a man so scruffy-looking. She felt like royalty. “My momma’s dead.”

  His head came around. “Oh. Sorry.” He really did look sorry. He bought her a carryout sandwich at the corner deli and took her back to the only open booth, the last smelly booth in back where the waitresses usually sat. A half-drunk cola and a clipboard lay on the table. He shoved them aside and sat down.

  “Uh, King Dave, I think someone’s sitting here.”

  “Hannah knows me,” he said, putting their sandwiches on the table.

  That’s right, Hannah would. Every waitress in town must know him. To be fair, they knew every stagehand. Especially those who worked as hard as King Dave. That got her thinking about Weasel’s remark again. How could King Dave possibly need his daddy to get him work? He never stood still.

  “This bull—this business is cutting into my work time,” King Dave grumbled around a bite of sandwich. “I had to go check on my kid last night, on top of everything else.”

  Nadine’s heart warmed. He found time in all this to visit his kid!

  “Tammy dumps him on my mother and splits. Now Mom’s mad at me. If Tammy’s gonna blackmail me, the least she can do is take my kid with her,” he groused, and Nadine cooled off. “I got two consecutive shifts with the Chicks and night gang tonight.”

  “King Dave, you ought to get some sleep.”

  He put down his corned beef on rye. “How long you been working at Liz Otter’s?” he said patiently.

  “Nine months.”

  “And you don’t know about stagehands yet?” He picked up his sandwich. “I get two more shifts of double-time today. That’s three shifts of double-time inside of thirty hours. Not a record, but da—darn good. I’ll sleep tomorrow.”

  Nadine considered him over her grilled cheese. It was true, all the boys worked like maniacs. It was part of their appeal. She had met rock stars and actors in Liz Otter’s egalitarian confines and they didn’t impress her: painted, pampered, emotionally fragile, and thin, so very, very thin. Many were strung out on drugs. Okay, a few of the stagehand boys seemed to use drugs, too. Cocaine to stay awake and work for four straight days. Then demon rum to go to sleep. My land, think of all that double-time! She’d like to spank them all with a hairbrush.
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br />   She noticed for the first time King Dave’s triple-shot latte. King Dave never had a coke sniffle. At least he had that much respect for the Lord’s temple.

  “When are you going to get some sleep?” she said again.

  “I’ll grab two hours between running the Chicks and night gang. Mother,” he added. “Satisfied? Cr-ipes, if I’d known it would be like this I would have handed you the f—reakin’ ticket outside the go—shdarned theater.”

  “Quit swearing,” she said.

  He exploded. “I am not swearing! I’m knocking myself sideways trying not to swear! Do you ever cut a guy any slack?”

  Nadine blinked. “You don’t have to shout.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. She thought she saw the wheels start to turn in his head. Then his long lashes fell over the angel blue eyes and he picked up his latte. “What’s it like in Goreville, your highness?”

  She hunched a shoulder. “Dull.”

  “Didn’t you like being a PK?”

  “How do you know I’m a preacher’s kid?” Maybe he’d been asking questions about her!

  He snorted. “Sticks out all over you.” His gaze ran over her upper body and a hot rush prickled her neck. She hunched both shoulders. Wasn’t her fault she was a double D cup.

  “Most girls show what they’ve got better,” he purred. He reached out with the latte-holding hand and brushed his knuckles against her lemonade-holding hand. “That’s the difference between a city girl and a hick.”

  Her heart raced. “You’re mean.”

  “Only trying to help. You came to Chicago for adventure, so you need a little advice from a city boy.”

  “How do you know what I came here for?” she said, putting up her chin. She wished he would stop touching her hand like that.

  “Told you, it sticks out a mile. Goreville’s dull. Prissy preacher’s kid runs away to Chicago. And now you’re hanging with the stars at Liz Otter’s. It ain’t rocket science, babe.”

  He looked straight into her eyes and took her breath away. With his forefinger, he rubbed a line along her forefinger.

  A tingle ran up the back of her neck.

  Strange disturbances were rocking her foundation garments.