PART ONE
I had been feeling lonely anyway. Empty may be closer to the truth though. Since returning from England - my dream trip, the country I've loved most of my life - and coming home to Louisville, nothing had felt the same. I guess that's why I rented that convertible -- I needed to get out, feel free, and drive, and remember how happy I'd been in London and out in the English countryside.
I don't even know how long I had been driving when I pulled up in front of the place. I didn't recognize it; had never been there before, was uncertain I was still in Louisville, . . . and God knows the name 'Crowe's Tavern' was very unfamiliar to me. Sounded like a dive if ever there was one, . . . and I have never been the bar hopping type. Then again, something felt very right about the place, so like in England, when I traveled that alone and far from home for the first time in my life, I decided, hey, why not. Steering the Chrysler Sebring into the main driveway, I handed over the keys to the clean appearing valet; took the ticket, and eased my way up the front steps and inside.
Okay, I expected a disaster. Lights every few tables; sticky floors; unintelligible country-western or rap blaring over a jukebox; the tattooed motorcycle ilk or gang members smashing chairs or bottles over one another's heads. Yes, all the 'wonderful' things which make a bar a bar. If it had been anything close to that, I would have backed right up. Instead the large room was cheerful. Brightly lit, but not garish in a seventies-disco way; the floor was spotless; a current hit I liked was playing over a well-modulated sound system. Framed movie posters dotted the walls, but offhand, I couldn't make those out. This wasn't a dive -- this was a very nice location, but not so formal that guests didn't feel relaxed. I could see people milling about in the background, some on the dance floor, some at the pristine table. Scanning over several signs, I noticed one which said "Please Seat Yourself" and another which read "Place Order at Bar Before Getting Table", so I did just that.
"Welcome to Crowe's Tavern. Can I help you?" the bartender asked almost before I could seat myself on one of the cushioned stools.
Thinking a second, I blurted, "Yeah-mm . . . Bucks' Fizz." Then I shook my head, realizing what I'd said, and that the bartender looked slightly puzzled at the request. "Sorry. I meant a Champaign Mimosa. Sorry about that."
"I've heard of Bucks' Fizz before I think."
"That's what they call Champaign Mimosas in England. I just got back from there a few weeks ago, and I'm still calling a lot of things by what they do there. You know, chips for fries; lift for elevator; loo for bathroom. I still catch myself looking right-left-right before I cross the street."
The bartender laughed. "Sounds like you had a great time."
My smile was wistful. "Yes, yes I did. I really did."
As the bartender turned away to fix my drink, I suddenly heard another voice - suave, deep, quite seductive - close to my right side. "Did you know that England has more ghosts per square foot than any other nation on the face of the Earth?"
Why was it that although I'd only seen that movie once, I knew exactly who the voice belonged to? It dawned on me suddenly. Crowe's Tavern . . . The movie I had just seen a few nights before and fallen so in love with, in a way I hadn't felt since 'Titanic'. The video I had watched last night, and felt equally about. The video a couple of weeks before of a movie filmed in my own hometown. Oh my God, now I knew not only where I was, but why I was here. I had been in similar places before throughout my life.
"That's probably the most unusual come-on line I've ever heard," I said, still not looking his way.
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" He chuckled. "Did you know that though? About the ghosts, I mean."
"Yeah, I did, but I never saw any while I was there. I finally looked at the figure who was just in the corner of my eye, and for a second my heart skipped a beat. Oh *boy* did I know him! Half the time I could barely remember the name of the movie (I know it starts with a 'V' and I always want to call it 'Velocity'), and when I first decided to look at it, that was for three reasons. One, I've usually admired Denzel Washington's work. Two, the plotline fascinated me -- a computer programmed with a variety of serial killers, mass murderers, spree killers, and sociopathic leaders who had walked the planet. Three, I work crime scenes for a living -- how could I pass up such a movie? I never finished it, and only remembered the actor who played the computer generated monster. That deviant called Sid 6.7 (Did they even say why) had all the appeal of another handsome killer named Ted Bundy. Especially since Ted and hundreds of other psychotics were in every inch of his virtual circuitry. I almost gulped. It's not every day you look into the face of a golden Greek god.
"Pity. I love England . . . Such a bloody past."
"I know. That was one of the things which drew me to the country in the first place." I couldn't believe I was carrying on a normal conversation with someone like Sid, but he was breathtakingly handsome. "That and her history, her people."
"Indeed, her people." He slithered closer, and I caught myself unconsciously pulling my right shoulder away in case he tried to touch me. He was starting to invade my space. "Jack the Ripper--"
"I...was thinking more along the line of Elizabeth I, Churchill, Disraeli, Henry VIII, Dickens, the Brontes?" I watched him crinkle his nose as if in disgust. "However, I did take one of those Ripper walks when I was in London." Interest sprang into those cool, blue eyes. "I'd always wanted to take one."
"Really. Tell me more." He eased onto the stool beside me. Talk about a smile that could kill -- literally. That was the kind of smile which lured unsuspecting women to their deaths. By now the bartender was returning with my drink. It looked cool and refreshing inside a tall, slender glass, and I was looking forward to relaxing with it and memories of England. I already had a $5 bill in my hand, ready to give to the man, when Sid purred, "Put it on my tab, A.J."
I threw up one hand while practically crushing the bill into the bartender's hand with my free one. "I've got it. Thanks anyway."
"Please." He almost sounded like a hurt child. "I'd consider myself less a gentleman if I didn't perform this small courtesy."
"No thanks," I firmly repeated. "You're kind, but I have it."
"Do you want to start a tab, ma'am?" this A.J. asked me.
I shook my head. "I'll pay as I go. Thank you." I have never been much of a drinker anyway. Two was normally my limit with most drinks, wine or frozen. Beer or hard liquor straight up -- not up my alley. The bartender gave me $2.50 back in change, and I left two quarters in his tip jar. Peeping at Sid, leaning on one fist and giving me a seductive smirk, I said, "Excuse me." Readjusting my shoulder bag, and taking the edge of a small bowl of peanuts, my feet slipped to the floor.
"You must let me buy you a drink some other time," he called, that smirk still there. "Or give you a little turn on the dance floor." I didn't answer, making my way to an empty table. That was when I realized there were footfalls behind mine. I was only glad there were lots of people around, and I reminded myself to get someone to escort me to my car when I left.
When I'd taken my seat, Sid moved closer. As in the movie, when he went from virtual to almost human, he was too real: the way his suit clung in all the best places, accentuating his key attributes (which reminded me of one indelible scene). That cologne -- I had smelled it in the best department stores. Very expensive.
"You're going to deprive me of your charming company?"
"I didn't realize we'd reached the charming stage?" My voice was starting to exhibit real annoyance, especially since I had not felt all that great anyway.
"My dear, we reached it the moment you strolled into this dismal place. I couldn't take my eyes off you." There was that voice again, the kind which left one weak-kneed. I stared into those eyes, and tried to read what was behind them. It was doubtless Sid was electrifying, but so was Hitler, and that had been part of his appeal, too. They are all there, I reminded myself: Hitler, Vlad the Impaler, Stalin; Gacy, Speck . . . Maybe even the lesser known ones, like Louisville's own three serial killers. I needed to keep thinking along those lines to keep from falling into his arms. "When you mentioned England --"
"Are you *always* this persistent?"
"More so, . . . to get what I want." A rosebud on a long stem appeared from behind his back, and he suddenly dropped into the chair beside me. He offered me the flower, but when I didn't move, he shrugged and tossed it aside. "You never finished telling me about your Ripper walk. Has it changed much? Whitechapel, I mean. Is it the same? Are the streets still as narrow and dark?" I nodded. "And still overrun with Irish and Jews?"
My eyes narrowed. "Mostly Asian now: Pakistanis, Indians--"
"No, it hasn't changed then. More rats, only of a different color."
I stiffened. Just from looking at me, Sid obviously had to realize that *I* was multiracial. Was he goading me? "I didn't ask you to sit," I firmly whispered. Right now, I really was in the mood to be alone.
"Of course you did. Every move you made when you left the counter said, 'I want you.' That quickness in your step; the twist in your hips when you walked. Your exotic coloring in this lighting. How could I not follow?" I swallowed hard. There was nothing I could do about my "exotic coloring" as he called it, but I hoped to God I had not given him such an impression . . . But considering his animal magnetism, I wasn't sure. Sid went on: "And we have not been properly introduced."
All of a sudden I started to chuckle, and shake my head. I think it surprised me as much as it did him. "Dr. Holmes would love you."
Now it was my turn to stiffen. "Doctor . . . Holmes?"
So part of his programming recognized the name. "Yes, Dr. Ronald Holmes. I've had several classes with him at the University of Louisville. Do you know him?" *That* was almost rhetorical. Ted Bundy would know Ronald Holmes, one of the nation's preeminent scholars on deviant behavior, cults, Satanism, devil worship, serial killers and mass murderers. Holmes had interviewed Bundy many times before his execution, and was considered a Bundy expert. Sociologist, a profiler . . . I had enjoyed any class Holmes taught. I was watching Sid take on a sick, greenish color which clashed with his suit.
"Why would I know a Dr. Holmes?" Had I broken through his composure? Nevertheless, this wasn't a game, no more than in 'The Silence of the Lambs', when Clarice interviewed Lecter. I definitely didn't want Sid 6.7 in my head. He sighed. The smirk was back. He knew I was on to him, and his next words were low and clipped. "Just *who* the hell are *you*?" Our eyes were staring daggers.
"I think the lady's had enough, Sid."
That voice startled me. It was Sid's voice, but it was not; no, the accent was more . . . I wanted to say a throwback to a Bogart movie. My stomach did a flip-flop. I knew who I would see when I looked around, because *he* was the second character I had become acquainted with.
Sid practically snarled, "We're busy, White! Go away!"
"I said . . . " The voice was nearer now, and I glanced from Sid to the stern profile leaning over him. Although both men were . . . well, yes, the same height and build, the "intruder" appeared bigger and more menacing. He continued: "...I think she's had enough of your bull, Sid. Time to move on."
Sid almost pouted as he leaned back in his chair. "You always try to ruin my fun, don't you? Always playing the rescuer when you're nothing but a bully. Don't you know that women aren't attracted --" In one swift move, the cop grabbed Sid by his lapels and pulled him from the chair. "Hey, my Armani, you stupid son-of-a --"
"Watch the mouth, Sid. Now say goodnight to the nice lady."
Sid straightened his jacket, smoothed out the wrinkles, and once more he was Mr. Suave. Clicking his heels together and bowing to me, he said, "Mademoiselle, I regret our interruption by this - clod. He's never known how to mind his own business." He disdainfully looked him up and down. "If he manages anything more than a Homer Simpson 'Doh!' I'll be shocked." Sid bent at the waist so he was at my eye level again. I could almost feel his breath on me. "Don't stay with this big oaf too long, mon chere, or his bad tastes will rub off on you, especially his taste in clothes. Your own right now are so impeccable -- like mine." Geez, I hoped not. Then I realized I was involuntarily tugging at the hem of my black chemise, and wondering if it was too short. "I'll be around. Just give me a call when you get tired of --"
My "Go!" and the cop's "Sid, . . . now!" were almost simultaneous.
He straightened. "Oooo -- scared of you, Bud," he chided White while playfully backing off in fear. He blew me a kiss, and backed away, behaving as if he was the center of the universe. A couple of women approached him almost immediately, and they moved to a corner, appearing to be whispering 'nothings' into each other's ears.
I shook my head. "Unfreaking believable." I caught myself using one of my cleaned up police department epithets (I've learned some stronger doozies in fourteen years).
"Oh yeah, he's something else all right . . . A real piece of work." For the first time, our eyes finally met. I could read concern in those blue eyes.
