Seaweed on the Street by Stanley Evans Page A

straight. What made it worse, she was pregnant. Pretty soon we couldn’t rely on her.”
    The room was full now, crowded with noisy beer drinkers. People were jammed three-deep around the bar. A waitress in a flapper outfit came over and asked us if we’d mind sharing our table.
    I said, “Give me another minute with Mr. Smith first,” and leaned forward, speaking urgently now. “Mr. Smith, if Marcia had a child, it couldn’t lose by meeting its grandfather.”
    â€œOh, Marcia had the baby, all right. Little girl, cute as a button. I saw her a few times.”
    â€œHelp her. That child deserves to get what’s rightly hers.”
    â€œYou talking about an inheritance?”
    â€œYes. If Marcia doesn’t get it, or that baby, most of her family’s money will go to charity.”
    He looked around the room as if for a portent. “I gave my word, friend. Guy breaks his word, what’s left?”
    â€œYou gave your word to a strung-out woman, 20 years ago. Marcia wasn’t even making sense then. I think it’d be very ethical to help me find her. She and her child will gain by it. You’d gain too. There’s a reward for information.”
    The old man nodded, eyebrows lifted. “Yeah? You may be right. I dunno.”
    His resolve was weakening so I kept pushing. “The other thing is, Marcia could be dead. It’s one thing to get mad at your folks, run away after an argument. Another thing to stay away forever. But Marcia’s child could still be alive.”
    Ray shrugged. “Let me think about it, okay?”
    The band broke into its opening number, “Swanee.” The people who wanted to sit with Ray stood nearby, waiting.
    I got up from the table. “Okay if I check with you later? I’m going back to the bar now.”
    â€œSure. Hugh Baines will ask me to play a few numbers after, when the band takes a break. Maybe we can talk then.”
    â‰ˆÂ â‰ˆÂ â‰ˆ
    The Banjo Club regulars were mostly middle-aged, but they knew how to kick up their heels. They crowded the dance floor all night, doing ’50s jive, ’30s Charleston and fancy two-steps I had never seen before. As Hugh Baines had promised me, the music was loud and the beat was fast. Waitresses served non-stop as the band worked through its Dixie repertoire. After a brief intermission, Baines introduced Ray Smith and some other guest performers, and the regular musicians took a breather. The new band broke into “Melancholy Baby.” Ray was good, squeezing clear sweet notes out of his horn. The crowd, grateful for a slower number, again filled the floor. Somebody turned the house lights down. Watching, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
    Barb stood right behind me. “I need a change from pouring drinks. Can you dance, big fella?”
    â€œYou bet.” I took her hand and we went onto the floor. She closed her eyes, rested her cheek against my shoulder, and we held each other close, matching our steps effortlessly as if we’d been dancing together for years. We kept holding even after Ray finished his number. It was there, that old magic. I knew that she felt it too. During the applause her arm tightened around my shoulder for a second before she pulled away.
    â€œGotta go.” Her voice was low, husky.
    â€œOne more,” I said, still holding her around the waist.
    â€œI’m a working girl. They need me at the bar.”
    â€œI need you here,” I said as Ray, urged on by the enthusiastic crowd, began to play “A Sleepy Lagoon.”
    Barbara smiled; we danced again. I said, “If I let you go now, can we continue this later?”
    She nodded.
    By now it was standing room only. Ray left the stage to loud applause. I ordered a beer. Hot from dancing, I drank half of it before looking around. Ray was not at his table. I crossed to where he had been sitting. People at the table looked up. I said, “What happened to