turned back. “Thank you. I owe you.”
The gesture did what Whiskey expected. Fiona’s eyes darted to Whiskey’s outstretched hand, her feral smile fading to something a little less dangerous. “You’re most welcome, Whiskey.” She took the offered hand.
Whiskey shook Fiona’s hand. Turning to Cora, she leaned forward and whispered, “And thank you.” She received a deep kiss in reward.
“If you should have need of us, little lamma .” Fiona held out a cell phone. “All our numbers are there. Don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t,” Whiskey lied, taking the phone.
When she reached the top of the steps, she glanced back. Manuel, Bronwyn and Alphonse danced to the music still blaring from the speakers. Zebediah nursed a beer at the bar, and Daniel’s feet were atop the table where he slouched. Most of the employees appeared to have left, leaving the bartender, the bouncer and the DJ in the booth.
“You’ll find Reynhard’s number on the phone as well,” Fiona said, raising her voice to be heard.
Whiskey gave her a sharp nod. Moments later, she stood on the street, inhaling lungfuls of cool, moist Seattle air. Not wanting to hang around and be discovered by Fiona’s crew as they left, she settled her pack on her shoulders, and strode away.
Chapter Seven
Whiskey walked ten blocks before slowing, zigzagging through early morning downtown Seattle to throw off any pursuit should Fiona change her mind. The sky grew lighter, wisps of clouds drifting across an otherwise blue sky. It promised to be a day with plenty of sunshine. Whiskey scowled. She’d never been able to tolerate too much sun; it gave her migraines.
Easing down a steep hill, she looked out at the bay spread out before her. Ferries and fishing boats had already motored to their destinations. Someday she’d ride a ferry. She’d always wanted to, but just hadn’t gotten around to it. It would be fun to go to Canada on a ferry, leave the States altogether. No birth certificate meant no state identification, however, let alone the passport required to get across the border these days. She didn’t know where she’d been born. The fatal accident that had orphaned her at five years old had effectively erased her past. All she knew for certain was that her parents had hailed from North Carolina, and died on a road trip in Oregon. As a ward of the state, she knew that Oregon had to have located her birth certificate, but she’d have to tell someone here in authority her real name to get it. One of the first lessons she’d learned in the social welfare system was that the people in charge of her fate didn’t give a rat’s ass about her. She couldn’t trust anyone in authority with her real name. Times were changing, though. Sooner or later she’d need real ID to get along in the world.
The ground before her leveled out onto a small park overlooking the piers. Across the bay sunlight hit the top of the hills. Along the sidewalk, between her and the Pike’s Street Market, vendors had already set up tables and goods in preparation for the weekend tourists and local regulars. Whiskey stopped to get her sunglasses out of her pack, and debate what to do next.
She couldn’t panhandle without being set upon by the old-timers who called downtown Seattle home. The youth club, Tallulah’s, closed at six. She’d never get there in time to meet Gin, even if she had change for the bus. Which brought up another issue—she had thirteen cents to her name. Despite her early morning burger, courtesy of Dorst, her stomach informed her it needed breakfast.
Whiskey laughed aloud, rousting a nearby pigeon. “Got cool clothes and a tat worth hundreds, but didn’t catch any cash. Just my luck,” she told the bird. Deciding she wasn’t a danger, it returned to pecking grit from the sidewalk.
It looked like she’d have to walk back to the U District. Maybe she could bum some money there this morning and grab a latte. She still had several hours
The gesture did what Whiskey expected. Fiona’s eyes darted to Whiskey’s outstretched hand, her feral smile fading to something a little less dangerous. “You’re most welcome, Whiskey.” She took the offered hand.
Whiskey shook Fiona’s hand. Turning to Cora, she leaned forward and whispered, “And thank you.” She received a deep kiss in reward.
“If you should have need of us, little lamma .” Fiona held out a cell phone. “All our numbers are there. Don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t,” Whiskey lied, taking the phone.
When she reached the top of the steps, she glanced back. Manuel, Bronwyn and Alphonse danced to the music still blaring from the speakers. Zebediah nursed a beer at the bar, and Daniel’s feet were atop the table where he slouched. Most of the employees appeared to have left, leaving the bartender, the bouncer and the DJ in the booth.
“You’ll find Reynhard’s number on the phone as well,” Fiona said, raising her voice to be heard.
Whiskey gave her a sharp nod. Moments later, she stood on the street, inhaling lungfuls of cool, moist Seattle air. Not wanting to hang around and be discovered by Fiona’s crew as they left, she settled her pack on her shoulders, and strode away.
Chapter Seven
Whiskey walked ten blocks before slowing, zigzagging through early morning downtown Seattle to throw off any pursuit should Fiona change her mind. The sky grew lighter, wisps of clouds drifting across an otherwise blue sky. It promised to be a day with plenty of sunshine. Whiskey scowled. She’d never been able to tolerate too much sun; it gave her migraines.
Easing down a steep hill, she looked out at the bay spread out before her. Ferries and fishing boats had already motored to their destinations. Someday she’d ride a ferry. She’d always wanted to, but just hadn’t gotten around to it. It would be fun to go to Canada on a ferry, leave the States altogether. No birth certificate meant no state identification, however, let alone the passport required to get across the border these days. She didn’t know where she’d been born. The fatal accident that had orphaned her at five years old had effectively erased her past. All she knew for certain was that her parents had hailed from North Carolina, and died on a road trip in Oregon. As a ward of the state, she knew that Oregon had to have located her birth certificate, but she’d have to tell someone here in authority her real name to get it. One of the first lessons she’d learned in the social welfare system was that the people in charge of her fate didn’t give a rat’s ass about her. She couldn’t trust anyone in authority with her real name. Times were changing, though. Sooner or later she’d need real ID to get along in the world.
The ground before her leveled out onto a small park overlooking the piers. Across the bay sunlight hit the top of the hills. Along the sidewalk, between her and the Pike’s Street Market, vendors had already set up tables and goods in preparation for the weekend tourists and local regulars. Whiskey stopped to get her sunglasses out of her pack, and debate what to do next.
She couldn’t panhandle without being set upon by the old-timers who called downtown Seattle home. The youth club, Tallulah’s, closed at six. She’d never get there in time to meet Gin, even if she had change for the bus. Which brought up another issue—she had thirteen cents to her name. Despite her early morning burger, courtesy of Dorst, her stomach informed her it needed breakfast.
Whiskey laughed aloud, rousting a nearby pigeon. “Got cool clothes and a tat worth hundreds, but didn’t catch any cash. Just my luck,” she told the bird. Deciding she wasn’t a danger, it returned to pecking grit from the sidewalk.
It looked like she’d have to walk back to the U District. Maybe she could bum some money there this morning and grab a latte. She still had several hours
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