Chapter 10 The Station
The Shell Station
The front door stuck a little but reluctantly flung open with a hard yank, spilling AC/DC into the busy parking lot.
Painted pegboards covered the walls. On the right was a bar constructed of mostly card tables.
Behind the tables were taps, a soda gun, and a few handles of liquor resting in a kiddie pool full of crushed ice.
“Is this”—Elliot gestured to the slapdash-looking setup—“a temporary thing?”
“It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. The kiddie pool’s new,” she remarked. She imagined a broken mini fridge was to blame. She cupped his hand, roping him through the crowd like she knew what she was doing. He squeezed back firmly. Too firmly.
“Are you good?” she asked over her shoulder in a way that didn’t solicit an honest or thorough response.
Arms passed pitchers of beer and baskets of cheese curds over heads and around bodies with the familiarity of a family barbecue. These people weren’t family, but they might as well have been, and Lainey and Elliot stuck out.
Lainey felt a new persona slipping onto her shoulders like a jacket. Her “I Belong Here” persona. It was a subtle but significant shift. “You look around while I grab us some drinks.” She tapped his upper arm and drifted into the direction of the kiddie pool.
Somewhere within the throng of patrons was a man with a microphone, narrating the turtle activity just out of sight.
She returned to Elliot’s side, handing him a beer and keeping the other for herself as a prop.
Lainey didn’t drink—she found alcohol and a chronic migraine condition to be a lethal combination—but an empty hand would draw unwanted attention in a crowd like this.
Her eyes searched the edges of the crowd for any man who looked to be about Gran’s age.
“Are we looking for someone in particular?” Elliot asked, clasping her free hand again.
Lainey scanned his unreadable expression for insight into the hand-holding thing. “Uh, we’re looking for the person who can eventually give us what we want.”
“Can you let me into the plan a bit more than that?” he asked, annoyed.
“That wouldn’t be any fun, now, would it?”
“This is much louder and more volatile than Pottery Barn.” He looked down at her and leaned his head in close. “I need a little more information this time around.”
Something lit up in her chest at the words this time around. Which was ridiculous because he didn’t mean anything by it.
But it explained his nerves. He was feeling stage fright over his role in whatever odd little scheme she was about to cook up.
“Fair,” she agreed. “We are trying to infiltrate the inner circle here, and the best way to earn their trust is by betting on something.”
“The raffle tickets are behind the bar.”
“The raffle tickets are for suckers. We’re looking for something with higher stakes.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered, dropping her hand to massage his jaw.
“All right, fine. I guess I’m doing this.
” He clapped his hands together, like he’d done some internal calculus she wasn’t privy to.
“Where would one find someone running a high-stakes turtle betting ring? I’m guessing he’s not working the room dressed as the Monopoly man. ” He rolled tension from his shoulders.
“All I know is that my grandmother used to date him, so we want someone in their seventies who looks like they might’ve had their heart broken by the first Elaine Davis.”
He gave Laney a tight affirmative nod. “The one who boned Vincent Groff? Got it.”
“Don’t use the word boned when referring to my grandmother, but…yes. Vincent wasn’t her only conquest in this town.”
“Does she have a type?”
“Not physically, but confidence is big for her. She likes someone who can quietly command a room. Think Sam Elliot.”
“Jesus, the plan is to find the most ruggedly handsome man in rural Wisconsin at this disused gas station?”
“Why are all straight men so hot for Sam Elliot?”
“Do we have a plan B?”
Her insides twisted. “I have a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency backup that I’d rather not use if you don’t mind.” She swallowed hard. She really did not want to execute plan B if she could help it.
His brows turned inward. But he wasn’t irritated with her. He was considering her. Taking her words to heart. “Then we better find a gravel-voiced, seventy-something heartthrob.”
A man in the middle of a concentrated group of bodies shouted bitterly at someone, and an honest-to-god child cussed him out in response. Eventually, a short and stumpy man in a Badgers hat was ejected from the swarm by a seven-foot-tall man in black Shell Station merch.
Elliot watched the action closely, perhaps preparing his witness testimony for the inevitable court proceeding. “The energy in this place reminds me too much of Boston for comfort.”
Lainey’s lips made a pfft sound. “Boston wishes.”
Behind Badgers Hat Guy was a tall, gray-haired man hovering near the edge of the crowd.
Arms folded, he leaned against a high stool, more for show than actual relaxation.
She eyed Elliot and then tilted her head in the man’s direction.
Elliot set down his plastic cup of foamy beer and grabbed her left hand with both of his to weave her protectively through the room in a way she wasn’t not into.
His mouth tilted down to her ear. “Remember, we’re married.” His index finger tapped her wedding band, and she wondered if he was noticing how sweaty her palms were from all this extended hand-holding. “No propositioning septuagenarians,” he instructed.
He pulled his mouth away just enough to wink at her.
Her internal organs jumped. “I promise nothing.”
Within the swarming mass of bodies, they now had a better view of the action.
Drinkers hovered around what had been the original bar top before it was repurposed for the true draw of the establishment: turtle races.
People of all ages were slapping the counter, beckoning their turtle into the red zone to win an electric-blue JELL-O shot from a Styrofoam cooler.
Behind the bar wasn’t a wall of taps but a large, circular platform with a sign mounted behind it that read, No Touching, No Booing, No Side Wagers.
On the platform, crawling every which way, were six disoriented box turtles.
A woman in a green Packers hoodie walked up to the gray-haired man to furtively hand him a wad of cash. Without looking away from the race, the man accepted with a casual nod. If Lainey had to guess, that silver-haired man was definitely engaging in the third prohibited item on the list.
Lainey squeezed Elliot’s forearm, and when they latched eyes, she tilted her head in the direction of the confident-looking older man.
“Let me do the talking this time,” he whispered, his breath brushing against her temple as he leaned in close to be heard over the noise.
“I’m sure that’ll go splendidly. You’re always so good on your feet.” Her tongue was acid, but her back ached to lean against the hand pressing at the curve of her spine.
Face-to-face with their target, Lainey didn’t give Elliot the chance to fumble the bag in the name of some misguided sense of chivalry. She spoke clear and loud: “Elaine says you’re the man to talk to about making these races a bit more interesting. I’d love to put a little cash on Speedy.”
There were few things a person could count on in this world, but one was that there would always be a turtle ironically named Speedy.
The silver-haired man counted the bills in his hand, not even deigning to look up. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t know any Elaine.”
This had been a possibility, but she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to pivot to plan B so soon. Her skin heated and shrunk, tightening around her internal anatomy. She really hated plan B. Plan B was humiliating. Plan B was…
She cleared her throat. “Okay. What about—”
Elliot cut her off, positioning his body between the two of them. “What about Gil Hodges? Know him?” he asked.
She looked up at Elliot, her mouth drifting into a smile in spite of herself.
The man raised an eyebrow with dim recognition. “Might. Who’s asking?”
Elliot folded his arms over his chest, making himself bigger and broader. In an instant, everything about Elliot was a little different. He looked like himself, but not. Like he was wearing a coat that fit him but most certainly wasn’t his.
“I’m Gil’s nephew,” he answered, his voice even more baritone than usual. “I took over the Shore Thing last month.” Elliot lifted his chin up toward the scores written on the back wall. “Reading the board, it looks like Shell Shock has a little heat. What is he? Seven-one on your sheet?”
“No longer interested in Speedy?” The older man snorted and finally lifted his head to look at them. “Just drifted. Eight-one.”
Elliot nodded, as though this man’s words had made sense to him. Meanwhile, Lainey wondered whether she was suffering from a highly targeted brain aneurysm. “Okay. How does fifty across the board sound?” Elliot posited.
The man leveled him with a look. “Son, it sounds like you’re jumping in blind. Everyone’s been leaning Koopa Troopa tonight.”
Now Elliot was the amused one. “Do you think I’m looking to put my money with the chalk? Plus, I saw Koopa earlier. He’s getting the spins. I’m not worried.”
The silver fox leaned back against his stool and gave Elliot a long once-over, his expression settling into something like begrudging respect. “Combos?” he asked.
“Nah, just straight bets today. The missus likes to play it safe.” Elliot slung an arm around Lainey’s neck. This was payback for Pottery Barn.
The older man scoffed. “You married a Davis girl?”
This asshole knew exactly who her grandmother was.
He shook his full head of gray hair in disbelief. “You either have the best luck in the world or the worst, son. I’ll let you find out tonight.” He slyly turned his palm up on top of his knee.