Sisters of the Road by Barbara Wilson

now.”
    Me, sophisticated? He was having me on, but he knew it. There was a controlling quality underneath his boyish charm that was unnerving. If I were younger, if I were an adolescent, it might be attractive. Now I just felt annoyed and unsettled.
    “Listen,” said Wayne. “Trish was a smart kid and there was zero for her at that house. I mean, my father’s a redneck, face it. A beer-guzzling, football-loving hick. My mother just married him to get away from home, to shock her parents. I mean, I like the guy and all, but I was raised pretty differently. My mother and I traveled, she made sure I was exposed to art and interesting people. I just wanted to share a little of the world’s richness and variety with Trish. And old Melanie got jealous.”
    There was a knock at the door and Wayne excused himself to answer it. The man who came in seemed familiar somehow. Dressed in black chinos and a black leather jacket, he was in his early forties, bald, with sinewy arms, narrow shoulders and short, skinny legs. His black eyes were flat and unreadable as twin cameras with the lens caps on; he had a weak mouth and a silky black beard. The artist Trish had mentioned, one of Wayne’s interesting friends.
    “Karl Devize,” Wayne introduced him, with a hesitancy I didn’t expect. I didn’t know if it came from respect or fear.
    The name was familiar too. I’d read an article about Karl Devize in the newspaper a couple of years ago, when he’d first moved to Seattle. Something about bringing the East Village to Seattle and shaking up our provincial notions of art. “Misty skies and rain forests,” Karl had scoffed when the reporter had asked uncertainly if he didn’t admire at least some of the local artists. I’d been a little skeptical. Successful New York painters had better things to do with their time than shake the Northwest out of its dreamy dampness. Nor had the two reproductions of Karl’s work impressed me much: flattened metal trash cans mounted on large canvases and spattered with dayglo paint.
    “Pam Nilsen,” I said. “I was just wondering if Wayne knew where to find a girl named Trish.”
    Karl grunted and sat down on the sofa. His hands shook slightly as he lit a cigarette. “Thought you were going to meet me at the Virginia Inn?” he said to Wayne. It had been better when he grunted; his voice was unpleasantly squeaky, as if there were a rubber mouse trapped in his larynx that the throat muscles kept stepping on. After his initial impassive look he hadn’t given me a second glance.
    “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Trish?” I asked him.
    He ignored me. “You just about ready, Wayne? I could use a drink.” I had a feeling he’d already had several.
    “Yeah, sure. I’m ready,” said Wayne. He seemed flustered, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He’d been acting the good-time party guy with an artistic streak for me, the concerned stepbrother who nevertheless hadn’t seen Trish for ages. Now all he wanted was to get me out.
    “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” he said. “I don’t know what Trish has been up to lately. I’ve been gone a couple of weeks.”
    I thought he was emphasizing that a little too much, but I wasn’t ready to challenge him on it. “I’m sorry too. If you see Trish tell her hi, though.”
    He showed me to the door, dancing a little to the reggae. Young, good-looking and devil-may-care, that was Wayne. I wondered how many paintings or photographs you had to sell to afford a set-up like this, how many girls you had to have working for you. Or were they working for Karl? Were they all—Wayne, Trish, Rosalie—working for Karl?
    Before we parted he touched me on the arm with misplaced intimacy and gave me another one of his disarming boyish looks: Baby, we could be great together. No wonder Trish had been, was, bowled over by him.
    “Be careful going down the stairs,” he said softly. This neighborhood’s not the greatest.”
    “I think