Night Of The Living Dandelion Part 3

"That's who he is, Abby. Vlad has always dressed differently. In fact, after we'd been in the military for a while, he started wearing his Goth-style clothes when he was off the base, and was immediately called down for it. I felt that was wrong and went to bat for him. So I can't very well tell him not to wear them now. Besides, he's in compliance with my dress code."

What dress code-s.h.i.+rts and shoes?

Marco shut off his computer and came around the desk to help me out of the chair and onto the crutches. "I'm not going to waste these next few weeks worrying about Vlad's choice of clothing or some idiot's Web site when I'd much rather think about you."

He put his arms around me and kissed me, causing me to totter on the crutches until he steadied me. "You don't have much of a sense of balance, do you?"

I shrugged. My crummy sense of balance was why I'd never thought about modeling-well, that and the fact that I'm half a person too short. "You know what else we should think about?" I pulled out the chain I wore beneath my blouse to dangle my engagement ring in front of him. "Our wedding plans."

He locked his hands behind my waist, keeping our bodies together, and said in a s.e.xy voice, "What are we planning?"

"Nothing yet. That's the problem. Once we announce that we're officially engaged, our families will want to know the details, like when, where, and how, and the only thing we can tell them is who."

"That's the only detail that matters to me," Marco said, rubbing his nose against mine.

"So," I said, catching his romantic mood, "are we talking about eloping?"

Marco pulled back to give me a quizzical glance. "Eloping? Why? Do you want to elope?"

"I actually hadn't thought about it until now. Do you want to elope?"

"I hadn't thought about it either, but maybe we should think about it. Imagine the money we'd save."

"And the parents we'd hurt."

"Let's hold this discussion later. I'm hungry."

So was I, but not for food. "We could get something to go," I said, giving him a flirtatious glance, "if you can slip away from the bar for an hour."

His mouth curved up at one corner, and this time he pulled me against him so I couldn't fall. "I can make that happen," he murmured, his lips against mine. Then he gave me a long, hot kiss to whet my appet.i.te. As if it needed more whetting.

We waited for our food in "our" booth, the last one in the row opposite the bar, where we watched the five thirty newscast on the closest TV. I noticed Vlad performing a gla.s.s trick for a bevy of women, some seated on stools, others standing three-deep in places, while the men who'd been crowded out sat in booths grumbling and glaring.

I studied the men, wondering if one of them was the culprit who'd put up the Web page. "You know," I said to Marco, "you might want to suggest to Vlad that he shouldn't play to the ladies so much. He's not making any friends among the guys."

Marco turned to glance at the men in question, but their attention had suddenly s.h.i.+fted to the televisions mounted on each end of the bar, where crawling text at the bottom of the screens read: PARKVIEW HOSPITAL DIRECTOR OF NURSING LORI WILLIS REPORTED MISSING WEDNESDAY. ATTEMPTS TO REACH WILLIS AT HOME UNSUCCESSFUL. POLICE ARE SEARCHING FOR HER 2007 GREEN HYUNDAI AND SEEKING INFORMATION FROM ANYONE WHO SAW WILLIS AFTER 5 P.M. TUESDAY.

"Hey, Vlad," one of the guys called, "wasn't that Willis woman one of your admirers?"

Vlad grinned but didn't respond.

Another called, "Didn't we see her here Tuesday night slipping you her phone number?"

Still with a smile on his face, Vlad merely shook his head and went about his business.

Then a guy called, "What did you do with her, Vlad? Tuck her in the meat locker for a midnight snack?" He followed it with sucking sounds.

Several women turned to glare at him, but that only made the others join in.

"Hey, guys, cool it," Kyle, the EMT, called from his booth.

"Shove it, Kyle," one of the hecklers said. "You can't stand the dude either."

"Calm down, guys," the mailman said, rising. "This is a friendly bar."

"Those jerks are just jealous, Vlad," one of the women said loud enough for them to hear.

That caused more grumbling among the men.

"I'll be right back," Marco said quietly, then slid out of the booth and walked calmly through the crowd of women to join Vlad and the other bartender behind the bar. He made eye contact with several of the loudmouths, as though reminding them who the alpha male was. The room grew quiet, then after a few minutes, conversation began again without further heckling.

Marco had a quick word with his buddy, filled two gla.s.ses with draft beer, and returned to our booth.

"What did you say to Vlad?" I asked.

"To cool it with the women until the guys get to know him better. There's some kind of turf war in progress right now."

"It doesn't help that the women are practically drooling over him." Not that I could fault them for it. There was simply something tantalizing about Vlad Serban.

Marco kept an eye on the crowd from our booth. "I hate to do this, Suns.h.i.+ne, but I'd better stick around here this evening."

Although I understood Marco's decision, the thought of going home alone saddened me. I feared I'd be doing that soon enough. "I'll stay, too."

"I'm sorry to ruin our plans," Marco said, reaching for my hand.

Forcing myself to appear cheerful, I said, "You didn't ruin anything. As long as we're together, I'm happy."

He turned my hands over and traced the lines in my palms with his thumbs, then raised his eyes to mine and studied my face with such wistfulness that I knew immediately he was thinking about our parting.

Gert, the waitress who'd been at Down the Hatch since the sixties decor was new, chose that moment to deliver our pulled pork sandwiches and sweet potato fries in two big takeout containers. "Here you go, lovebirds," she said in her gravelly voice.

"Thanks, Gert," Marco said. "We've decided to eat here."

"Good idea," Gert said quietly. "We've got some restless males in the room tonight."

As I unpacked the food, Marco's younger brother Rafe made his way past the people at the bar and slid onto the bench beside me. Without so much as a h.e.l.lo, he put his chin in his hands and sighed with such misery that I halfway expected him to burst into tears.

Great. Another long face. If we kept it up, we'd drive the customers away.

Rafe reached for one of my fries, chewed and swallowed, then sighed again. When he reached for another, I asked, "Want to order some food?"

He sighed again. "No, thanks. I don't have an appet.i.te." Then he took another fry.

Raphael Salvare was the youngest of Marco's siblings, and at the age of twenty-one, looked like a lankier version of his thirty-one-year-old brother. And while he had inherited the handsome Salvare looks, he didn't seem to have his brother's drive or common sense.

Rafe had quit college a semester before graduating, then lazed around his mother's house in Ohio, claiming he needed to find himself. After a few months of watching Rafe search for himself via cable TV, Mrs. Salvare, a widow, had driven him to New Chapel and handed him over to Marco to be molded into a responsible human being. Or so her theory went.

As one would imagine, Marco was ever so grateful. He'd put Rafe to work doing basic janitorial work, hoping his little brother would grow tired of it and go back to school. Instead, Rafe had taken a job in a nearby city working as a bartender trainee at Hooters. There he'd met the girl of his high school fantasies, Cinnamon Howard, and had impetuously proposed.

Marco's mother had nearly killed Rafe when she learned that Cinnamon was only nineteen. On top of that, Cinnamon's father had insisted the wedding reception be held at his gentlemen's club, which had turned out to be a sleazy strip joint. In the end, Mrs. Salvare had been spared the agony of the ill-suited marriage when Cinnamon's parents called it off, claiming that the Salvares weren't up to their standards. Rafe had been left with a broken heart.

Now he slumped against the back of the booth, looking bereft and friendless.

"Rafe, you can't go on this way," I said. "You'll make yourself sick."

"I am sick-sick at heart. Every time I walk into Hooters, I expect to see Cinnamon."

"Doesn't she work there anymore?" I asked.

"Her mom made her quit. Now whenever a girl with red hair walks in, my heart pounds so hard I want to puke."

h.e.l.lo-o-o. My hair was red. Cinnamon's was neon orange. But now was not the time to, well, split hairs.

"You knew her for a week," Marco said. "Get over it."

"Two and a half weeks," Rafe corrected.

I gave Marco a frown to let him know he wasn't helping. "Why don't you get a new job, Rafe?"

"No one's hiring right now," he said, taking another fry. "I could've worked here as a bartender, but no. Someone else got that job." He nodded in Vlad's direction.

"You went to Hooters because you didn't want to work for me," Marco reminded him.

"I didn't want to be your janitor," Rafe said. "You never offered me the bartender's position."

"Because you have to learn the ropes first," Marco replied.

"Did that guy learn the ropes first?" Rafe nodded again at Vlad and reached for a piece of pork that had fallen out of my bun.

"That guy has a master's degree," Marco said.

"In bartending?" Rafe asked.

Four to three. Rafe was ahead by one. I smacked his hand when he reached for another fry. There was a limit to my charity.

"I need someone smart and reliable to run the place if I have to go overseas," Marco explained. "Vlad ran a lab at a Chicago hospital for five years. He has managerial skills."

"Are you saying I'm not smart enough to handle things here?" Rafe asked.

"You're not experienced enough."

"Then train me. Give me the experience."

Marco glanced at me for support, but I was staying out of that argument.

"Wouldn't you rather leave the bar in a family member's hands," Rafe posed, "instead of in the hands of someone half of your customers dislike?"

Score another point for the younger brother.

Gert stopped by the table to say to Rafe, "I suppose you're gonna want something to eat, too."

"Yes, he would," I said.

"What can I get you, handsome?" Gert asked him, ruffling his dark, wavy hair.

"I could really go for a big, juicy cheeseburger," Rafe said, gazing at her with his liquid brown eyes, "if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

She wrote down his order, then turned to Marco. "Boss, you need to bring this kid back. We miss him here." She winked at Rafe and left.

Marco glanced at me and I shrugged. He put his hands on the table, leaned in, and gave his brother a searching stare. "Do you really want to work for me?"

"Yes!" Rafe answered, then added, "As a bartender."

Marco sat back. "Show up tomorrow morning at eleven."

Rafe's eyes got wide. "Are you serious? That early?"

Before Marco could lay into him, he said, "Just kidding. I'll be here at eleven sharp."

Rafe extended his fist to give Marco a knuckle b.u.mp. "Thanks, bro. I'm going to go get myself a beer. Either of you want anything?"

After Rafe sauntered off, I said to Marco, "It was very nice of you to take him back."

"He won't last," Marco said. "He hates taking orders from me."

"Then you won't give him a shot at being your manager, in case Vlad doesn't work out?"

"Suns.h.i.+ne, mark my words. Rafe will quit before he puts in a full week."

Marco and I ate breakfast in front of the television the next morning, a habit I'd developed in college, being a morning talk show junkie. It wasn't Marco's usual routine, but since he was staying with me for his remaining few weeks, he was adjusting. As long as I kept the volume down, it didn't bother Nikki, who worked the afternoon s.h.i.+ft as an X-ray tech at County Hospital and liked to sleep until nine o'clock. But I'd forgotten that Nikki's white cat, Simon, loved oatmeal, and since that was also Marco's breakfast of choice, Simon a.s.sumed they would share.

"We could eat at the kitchen table," Marco said, as I shooed Simon away for the second time. He hissed at me. Being a feline, Simon didn't take kindly to being told no.

"I can't see the television from there."

"Do you need to see the television?"

"No, I want to see it. Simon, get down!" I put aside my toast with peanut b.u.t.ter and sliced bananas, and scooped him onto my lap. "Okay, fat boy, you've been warned. It's off to the bedroom for you. You'll just have to amuse yourself by threatening squirrels from the window."

At that moment the TV anchor said, "In local news, the green Hyundai belonging to Lori Willis, a New Chapel woman missing since Wednesday, was discovered in the parking lot behind the Casa Royale Apartments early this morning. There has been no sign of the missing woman, but police are hopeful that her car will hold clues to her whereabouts."

Marco muttered, "d.a.m.n."

"What?"

"Casa Royale is where Vlad lives."

"Maybe the woman lives there, too."