Read Online The Missing Person by Alix Ohlin - Free Book Online Page B

his teeth gleaming against his dusty skin, and then sprang away from the door with a light, quick step. A millisecond later, it seemed, he was sitting on the passenger side.
    The streets were crowded with traffic, and I rolled down the windows and sighed, asking myself what the hell I was doing. Angus gave me occasional directions and fiddled constantly with the radio, listening to ten seconds or less of every single song, ten words or less of talk. It was basically the most annoying thing ever. I kept glaring at him, which only made him laugh. This went on for fifteen minutes as mothers in minivans cut me off, truckers barreled down on top of me, and packs of teenage girls stared at us and giggled for no reason that I could see. I was sweating a lot and hating it. Finally Angus reached behind him into the backseat of the car, leaning far over to rummage around on the floor, his sweatpanted butt perilously close to my shoulder.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?”
    He turned around clutching a fistful of cassette tapes in his hands and sorted through them quickly before sticking one in.
    I heard strings.
    â€œThe sweet sounds of Frank Sinatra,” Angus said. “They’ve always been a favorite of mine.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œIt is. Take this left on Indian School, please.”
    The sweet sounds seemed to calm him down, and he sat looking out the window and mouthing the words. Two crooned songs later I pulled up at a motor lodge on a deserted strip of road. On the sepia-colored sign was a neon martini glass and the word “Cocktails” in a flowing script.
    Angus leapt out of the car and opened the door to the cocktail lounge. Inside, through the gloomy dark, I could just make out booths with cracked red vinyl and tables made of dark pressed wood that was supposed to resemble mahogany. It looked like the set of a canceled TV show.
    The waitress, a woman in her forties with a devastated face, sat smoking a cigarette on a stool at the bar. She wore a black miniskirt and beige panty hose with no shoes, and she was the only person there. We slid into a booth so small that my knees were touching Angus’s. I shifted around and crossed my legs. Angus leaned back and ran his hands approvingly over the vinyl. “I think I’m going to have a martini,” he said. “Would you like a martini?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œJeanine,” he called to the waitress, who had not gotten up. “We’d like two martinis here.”
    â€œVodka or gin,” said Jeanine, stubbing out her cigarette with what appeared to be total exhaustion. She reached down past the ashtray to where her shoes—black flats—were sitting on the bar, then pulled them on with a grimace.
    â€œGin, of course,” Angus said. “And a big glass of water for my friend here,” he added, smiling at me. “You know, gin is the canonical martini. If I wanted a vodka martini I’d
say
a vodka martini. To distinguish it from the standard version, right?”
    â€œOlives or a twist,” said Jeanine.
    â€œOlives!” he said. “Olives, definitely.”
    â€œMe too,” I said.
    Jeanine nodded and set to work behind the bar.
    Angus Beam would not stop smiling. He leaned forward, putting both his freckled hands palms down on the table. His fingernails were ragged and chapped around the edges.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” I said.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œYou’re smiling like there’s something funny.”
    â€œI’m smiling,” he said, “because I’m happy.”
    To this I had nothing to say. Jeanine brought the drinks in small plastic glasses, two tiny dark olives, shriveled as raisins, speared on each toothpick.
    â€œI didn’t think you’d do this kind of thing,” I said.
    â€œWhat, go on a date? I just had the impulse. I’m an impulsive person.”
    â€œThis is a date?”
    â€œWell. Never mind, if