Club Cupid

“No problem,” he said cheerfully, handing her a paper napkin sporting a parrot and the bar’s name. Frankie blew her nose noisily and when she glanced up, he had disappeared. To her left behind a wall she heard clanging noises and a faucet being turned on. “I don’t have a stove to heat the water,” he said above the noise. “But the tap gets pretty darn hot.”

She nodded absently to the vacant spot where he’d been standing, briefly piqued that he seemed unnerved by her tears which, to Frankie, were such a novelty. “The tap’s fine.” She eyed the parrot dubiously, then, remembering the police officer, turned and scanned the street for what seemed like the hundredth time. Still no sign of the woman.

The bartender might be able to help her, but she hated to involve a stranger and admit how vulnerable and stupid she’d been. Besides, judging by his unkempt appearance, this guy didn’t look to be very trustworthy himself. However, she could at least ply him for information. “Is the police department nearby?”

The clanging sounds stilled, then the barkeeper stuck his head around the corner. “The police department?”

She nodded, trying to look casual.

His eyes narrowed and he looked as if he might quiz her. Then he seemed to change his mind. “Uh, yeah, the office is over about four streets, near the corner of Angela and Simonton.” He set a yellow stoneware cup on the counter, wiped a metal spoon on the leg of his jean shorts, stirred the impromptu cup of coffee and pushed it toward her.

Following his movements, Frankie cautiously lifted the cup for a drink, hoping the water was hot enough and the alcohol strong enough to banish whatever germs lurked from the unsanitary preparation. “Thanks.”

The man inclined his head, and Frankie realized that his eyes, which she’d assumed were brown, were actually a light gold. All the darkness around them—his black lashes and thick eyebrows—had thrown her. He gave the bar another swipe with his cloth. “If that’s all, I need to take care of some things.”

She paused, then decided he was a stranger and it didn’t matter what he thought of her. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”

His mouth tightened as he reached beneath the counter and pulled out an open pack of some generic brand, then tossed them onto the counter. “Those things’ll kill you.”

“I know,” she assured him, reaching for the pack. “But I’m not hooked. How about a light?”

Frowning, he produced a book of matches displaying the establishment’s name. “Anything else?”

“That’s all.” Frankie watched him saunter from behind the bar. She guessed his age to be in the mid-to late-thirties range. He wore threadbare navy canvas tennis shoes and his faded cutoffs hung precariously low on narrow hips, revealing a glimpse of neon orange swim trunks.

Impressive—he was a bartender and a beach bum. And he wasn’t even old enough to have reached his midlife crisis.

Although the long bar where she sat was nearly deserted, clumps of people had spaced themselves out in happy little groups at tall tables on the perimeter of the open room and on the outside patio. A trio of scantily clad co-eds gave the bartender their orders between coquettish looks, and despite the obvious age difference, or probably because of it, he appeared to be enjoying the exchange.

Frankie looked back to her coffee and lit a cigarette, then took a long, stale draw. Imagine—she’d been worried the disreputable-looking guy would want to become involved in her dilemma. Glancing at her watch, she gulped the warmish coffee, and the Kahlúa burned the back of her throat. Oh, well, at least she knew the police station lay within walking distance. If the officer hadn’t returned by the time she finished her coffee, she’d walk there to see if the thug had been apprehended.

Frankie tried to think positively—the alternative was too overwhelming. Her folks would be devastated if she were fired from her job. She stopped, stunned that her parents’ reaction would be uppermost in her mind. Inhaling deeply, she pursed her lips, recalling for perhaps the thousandth time the argument she and her parents had shared when she enrolled in her first semester of college.

“I won’t have it!” her father had shouted, shaking his finger at her. “You can study law, medicine, computers—anything except the restaurant business.”

They’d been working in the diner at the time, and her father had turned to several of his regular customers and expressed his disbelief. “Francis and I have worked in the restaurant for twenty years to send Frankie to the finest schools, and what does she want to do?” He’d thrown up his hands in disgust. “Run a lousy restaurant.”

The whole scene had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but her mother had stepped in to referee and they had all compromised…on computers. The high-paying corporate job she’d landed after graduation had always been a source of pride for her parents, and while she’d bought into the work ethic, the politics and the money of the position herself, she realized now that she’d made a success of the job for her parents, and in spite of herself.

She took another drag of the terrible cigarette and blew the smoke straight up in the air. Feeling sorry for herself was a waste of time—she excelled at her job and she enjoyed the daily challenges. She’d live through this so-called vacation and get back behind her desk where she belonged. As for the missing briefcase…well, she’d simply handle that problem one step at a time.

“Boo-hoo,” Tweety sang. “Boo-hoo.”

Frankie lifted her chin. “Speak for yourself, you big canary.”

“Nice ass,” he squawked, undaunted, then joined in the chorus of a Jimmy Buffett song booming over the speakers in the rafters.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar and gasped. Dirty face, disheveled clothes—no wonder the guy took off. He was probably as wary of her appearance as she was of his. As she dabbed at her face with a napkin dipped in an abandoned glass of water, she smiled ruefully. No one seemed to notice when she had screamed for help earlier, and even in her current state, no one asked questions.

So much for chivalry in Key West.

“Okay.”

Frankie jumped at the bartender’s voice behind her and exhaled smoke in a short puff. When she turned, he stood with one hand leaning on the stool next to her, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “You mean the coffee?” she asked. “It’s fine.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean okay, what gives? Why do you need the police?”

Frankie took a long drink of the bitter coffee. “A man stole my purse.”

His eyes widened and he reached toward her, but fell short of touching her arm. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head firmly, tingling unexpectedly at his concern.

“Did you lose all your cash?”

She nodded, taking another quick drag to fight the tears welling in her eyes again.

Jamming his hands on his lean hips, he said, “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you say something before now?”

“For Pete’s sake,” Tweety parroted.

“I was waiting for the police officer to return,” she explained, hating how he made her feel foolish. “She told me to stay put, but she’s been gone for nearly an hour.”

“Heavyset woman?”

Frankie nodded.

“That’d be Officer Ulrich. She might have caught the guy and taken him down to the station.”

“That’s why I asked for directions.”

The bartender looked all around the establishment, as if sizing up her options. “Are you alone?”

Frankie studied the ashes on the butt of the cigarette and considered the question in a larger context, then mentally kicked herself and dropped the sooty mess into the nearly empty glass of water. “I am now—I missed my cruise ship.”

He pursed his lips, crossed his arms and took a half step backward. “Well, like I said, the police station is only a few streets over.”

Frankie stood and dusted off the front of her shorts. “Thanks for the coffee. I don’t have enough for a tip.”

“No problem.”

“Then I guess I’ll be going.”

He nodded, then shifted restlessly. “You shouldn’t have any problem finding it—the station, I mean.”

“Thanks.” She turned to leave.

“It’s next to an airbrush T-shirt shop.”