Bloomer

21. A Bath to Die For

The smoke and curses pouring out of Annie's Bath House and Pub advertise that it's more pub than bath house.

While Bastian scopes out the situation inside, looking for trouble-making lowlifes like Rake and Merrick, Whiskers and I wait in the street. The old man is trembling from the exertion of walking, and every breath he takes sounds like it's going to be his last. Hopefully, a warm bath will set him right. Maybe they'll add a little eucalyptus oil to the water.

Bastian returns and hands me his satchel. "The place is low-key, for the moment. There's food in the satchel, which should pay for Whiskers' bath, as long as he doesn't ask for a shave. Remember, we're all meeting at Miss K's. It's a couple blocks in that direction." Bastian gestures toward a narrow street and pats Whiskers on the back in one blurry movement. "I expect you to escort Ivy safely to the door, my friend. When we see each other again, I hope to have a new first mate in tow."

"See if you can find one with better manners than the last." Whiskers grins, showing off his stained teeth.

Bastian rests his hand on the small of my back and heat radiates through my dress, soothing me better than ointment. He lifts his hat to kiss my cheek, then escapes into the crowd like a ghost returning to the grave. I hold back the knot trying to form in my throat, hating how he can yank my feelings around. One second I'm swooning, and the next I'm stinging from the hole he left in my heart. I take Whiskers by the hand, ignoring the crusty stuff on it, and walk him into the pub.

The scent of perfume and cheap cologne does a lousy job of hiding the stink of cigarettes and other rolled substances. I spot the sign in the back of the room, hanging over a dark hallway. It's just a plank of wood scribbled with paint, but the word 'Baths' is clear enough. The trouble is, we have to wade through a sea of tables to get there. Most of them are filled with rough-looking men and girls in short dresses. I duck my head and hurry Whiskers towards the hall, hoping no one will notice us.

"Hey, girly in pink," a voice croaks. Damn. I'm not even halfway there. "When you're done givin' that old timer his bath, will you give me one?"

The room breaks into raucous laughter and, just like magic, the place is no longer low-key. Whiskers pays no attention to them as he pulls me toward the bar.

"Look! They got my favorite whiskey here."

"Sorry, Whiskers. We aren't here to drink today."

"Awe." Whiskers has no energy to put up a fight, and he lets me drag him away from the bar and further embarrassment.

The narrow hallway leads to a wooden counter covered in bumper stickers. I read some of them as we walk up. Most are funny, like 'Beam me up, Scotty' and 'My other car is a broom'. But the one that really stands out claims, 'If anything can go well, it will.'

A woman is sitting behind the ironic counter, reading a magazine. She has blistering red hair, bottled for sure, and it's swirled on top of her head in the most ancient-looking style. Great Granny Bea wore her hair the same way in all the pictures I saw of her. Mom called it a beehive. I don't even try to figure out how the woman gets it so stiff. Hairspray is definitely a luxury.

"We're here for a bath," I say, trying not to stare at her hair.

She lowers the magazine slowly, pretending she didn't already see us walking up, and purses her lips. "We don't run that kind of bath house."

Like I'd be in that kind of bath house.

"What I mean is... This gentleman needs a bath," I say.

Whiskers grins. "I ain't been called a gentleman since my dear wife passed. She was the only woman I knew who could tell a lie and make you believe it."