Free Where Echoes Live by Marcia Muller

it along this morning.
    Zelda’s red-and-gold neon sign flashed a welcome against the black sky. Music boomed from the building—country music with a hard-driving beat. Although I grew up on rock, in recent years my taste has shifted to classical and country. Classical because it soothes and inspires me; country because it’s either upbeat and humorous or so emotionally down-and-out that I know my life can never possibly get that bad. Lonesome whistles and lost weekends and prison sentences and all varieties of broken hearts—now that can lift the spirits. Besides, I have a family connection with the C-and-W world: my sister Charlene’s husband, Ricky Savage, broke into the big time with his “Cobwebs in the Attic of My Mind” and has followed it up with such hits as “My Library of Memories” and “The Cellar of Despair.” (If there’s a theme to Ricky’s songs, it’s more or less architectural.)
    Ripinsky held the door open for me, and we stepped inside. The noise was deafening; people shouted in order to be heard over the band, and in the lounge a crowd was cheering on a pair of arm wrestlers. The temperature and humidity were close to tropical; the smoke level rivaled L.A. smog on a bad day.
    I glanced up at Hy. He gave me a “What can I say?” look and nudged me toward the lounge. A howl went up from the spectators as one of the wrestlers forced his opponent’s arm to the table. The loser groaned loudly, then shouted that the next round of drinks was on him.
    We found places at the end of the bar near the lakeside windows and ordered a couple of Buds. When they came we leaned with our backs against the plank, looking for Nickles. We had seen her Jeep outside, but there was no sign of her. It was too noisy for conversation, so we merely sipped beer and I noshed on pretzels—I’d had nothing to eat since eleven that morning. When we finished, Ripinsky leaned toward me and shouted, “Maybe she’s dancing. Let’s you and I give it a whirl.”
    I hesitated—it had been a couple of years since I’d done much dancing—then said, “Why not?” and followed him from the bar. While I hooked my jacket on a coatrack near the door, he scanned the crowd on the floor for Nickles. The bobbing and dipping mass of humanity was tightly packed; individual faces were indistinguishable in the dim light and low-hanging haze of smoke. Hy shrugged, grabbed my hand, and pulled me after him.
    At first I felt awkward but soon found his lead easy to follow. He moved with agility and a certain western flair without trying anything fancy that might have tripped me up. His lean, hard body fit comfortably against mine; it seemed natural to be close to him.
    George, I reminded myself. George.
    And my inner voice retorted, Don’t be an idiot — you’re only dancing!
    The band segued into “Cobwebs in the Attic of My Mind.” I put my lips close to Hy’s ear and admitted my relationship by marriage to its author. That amused him, and he told me about his teenage cousin who was trying to be another Dolly Parton. “Looks like her, big tits and all,” he said, “but the only gigs she can get are singing the national anthem at Little League games.” The band played another Ricky Savage hit—“You Can Leave My Bedroom but Not My Heart”—and then I spotted Nickles.
    She was at the far side of the floor near the windows, draped against a short fellow in western wear. Her close-cropped head lolled on his shoulder, and the arm he had slung around her pulled up the back of her sweater, exposing a few inches of bare skin. The man nuzzled her neck, and Lily giggled and stumbled. I tapped Ripinsky on the shoulder and pointed them out.
    He glanced their way and grimaced. “I doubt we’ll get much information out of her in that condition. Shithoused, both of them—and it’s early,