Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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I hesitated, thought, why not? “Sure.”

We parked along the highway and walked the steep, curved path to Abalone Cove.

As it was off-season, we had the beach to ourselves except for a pair of seals sunning

themselves on rocks. Several yards out in the slate blue water, wet-suited surfers sat on their

boards waiting for the next wave. Gulls squawked overhead, hanging motionless in the salty

air.

Guy nodded out at the sun-dazzled ocean. “They’re seeing more white sharks along this

stretch of coast.”

“Great whites?”

“Juveniles and sub-adults mostly.”

“Juveniles and sub-adults can do a lot of damage.”

“True.”

With his hair pulled back and the loose sleeves of his shirt, Guy had the look of a

buccaneer. I admitted to myself that trust or no, I was increasingly attracted to him – but

then, let’s face it, I’ve got a thing for pirates.

“You’re not seeing anyone?” I asked, against my better judgment.

He replied, as though stating it for the record, “I’m not involved in a serious

monogamous relationship.”

I was, but it was apparently a solo effort.

I stopped to dump the sand out of my shoe, gripping the hand Guy offered as I balanced

there on one foot. The muscles bunched in his forearm as he steadied me, his fingers locking

with mine. He didn’t immediately let go when I straightened. We stood there for a moment

holding hands; I tried to remember the last time I’d held a guy’s hand.

“It’s funny,” he said. “But the older I get, the more I value the conversation that takes

place between the hot sex, as opposed to the hot sex itself.”

I grinned. “You are getting old.”

He laughed and let me go.

We walked and talked a while longer, both of us deliberately avoiding any subject that

might disturb our newly-recovered amity. Guy spoke about studying and living in Great

Britain, and I talked about the thrilling adventures of running a local bookstore.

We were sitting on the rock wall, still gabbing, when Guy glanced at his watch, said,

“Good God. It’s five o’clock.”

I couldn’t believe it. It felt like we’d been gone an hour or two. “We should get back.”

He nodded, then smiled faintly. “The sun’s bringing out freckles on your nose.”

“It’s probably sand.”

He reached up to brush a finger along the bridge of my cheek. A gentle touch. “The

sand isn’t rubbing off.” Our eyes met – held.

He was going to kiss me.

I laughed and rubbed my nose, getting to my feet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Guy sitting very still. Then he relaxed and also rose.

We climbed back up the rocks to the highway.

* * * * *

The shop was closed, the upstairs flat very quiet when I got home. Quiet and empty. I

tried to imagine coming home to someone who welcomed me, who looked forward to seeing

me.

I went into the bathroom and wiped my soap message to Jake off the mirror, shaking

my head at my earlier jitters.

Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a beer, checked the machine for messages.

Nothing.

I headed back downstairs to view my e-mail. Several Internet orders, a couple of e-mail

Christmas cards from friends, the usual spam, and the usual offers of spam blockers.

I opened blackster21’s e-mail.

Nothing.

I decided to post another message to Dark Realm.

Los Angeles novice urgently seeking Blade Sable. Any information welcome.

I combed the web for the demon Gremory. There wasn’t much to be found, although a

site called Lemegeton listed all seventy-two demons from the Ars Goetia and gave their

availability status. Amon, for example, was noted as “currently Bound by Mindspring,” while

Gremory aka Gamori was down as “currently available.”

Bored and strangely restless, I signed off and went upstairs.

The answering machine light was blinking. I hit Play.

Guy, sounding unexpectedly self-conscious, had phoned. I called him back.

For once he answered right away. We chatted briefly. He said very casually, “There’s a

club in Hollywood called Hell’s Kitchen. Supposedly Betty Sansone and her crowd hang

there most Monday nights. Would you like to go?”

I hesitated. Jake generally chose Monday nights to put in an appearance, but I doubted

I’d be seeing him anytime soon – now having attracted the interest of Angus’s defense team

and Jake’s own colleagues. I didn’t want to wait by the phone in hopes that he might show,

but I didn’t want to have to explain what I was up to on the off chance that he did call.

From the moment Angus had been arrested, I had considered any promise – let alone

one given under duress – to stay off Jake’s turf, null and void. If Jake knew anything about

me at all, he had to know I wasn’t going to stand by while the cops railroaded Angus into

prison or a nuthouse because they hadn’t the imagination to look further than their own

noses. That didn’t mean he would be pleased to find out that I was playing detective again.

The situation was dicey enough between us.

“I’m not sure I can get away. Can I let you know?”

“Of course,” he said, disappointed.

I felt a little disappointed myself.

* * * * *

Sunday I was going through a box of books I’d bought on eBay, when Lisa called with a

spur of the moment invitation to go over to the Dautens’ and watch NFL football.

I can just about tolerate college football. Overpaid, steroid-enhanced goons wrecking

each other’s joints for a few feet of turf? Thanks, but no thanks. Not for all the beer and spicy

wings I can hold.

“It’s San Francisco at Cincinnati,” Lisa parroted, like she had any idea what that meant.

Eyes on a copy of The Pale Egyptian by R.M. Friedlander, I replied, “I’m not from San

Francisco. I’m not from Cincinnati. Why would I be interested?”

“Because Bill asked you. He knows you went to school at Stanford. He wants to see

more of you.”

“He’s seen plenty this month alone. I’ve had dinner twice with him. How much

bonding do I need to do with these people?” I flipped open the book to the copyright page.

Copyright 1989 by Robert M. Friedlander.

Velvet, standing a couple feet away, said, “I can manage. It will be dead today.” Which

showed how little she knew. Our customers would not be sitting home chugging beer and

cheering on the gladiators. With two weeks to go to Christmas, they would be out on the

mean streets, plastic in hand.

In my ear, Lisa’s insect voice persisted, “It’s three weeks to the wedding, Adrien. There

remains a lot to do.”

“Well, why would I be doing it?” I protested. “I’m not getting married.”

“Do you not have any interest in this wedding at all?”

Did she want an honest answer?

“Have you read the papers lately? I’m kind of…”

“Kind of what?”

Danger, Will Robinson. I’d nearly strolled right into that crater.

“Nothing. What time?” I wondered if maybe she and the big guy would take one of

those year-long honeymoons like Victorian couples did. Maybe I could get Lauren and

Natalie to work on that plan.

Lisa happily relayed the details. I promised Velvet this would be the last time I’d leave

her on her own.

“No big thing,” she said.

* * * * *

The Dauten homestead was located in the Chatsworth Hills on a residential street that

seemed to have seceded from Santa’s Village.

The house on the left was going for a Dr. Seuss Does Christmas motif. There was a

small-scale Whoville encircled by a miniature train track. The train bore a tipsy-looking Cat

in the Hat along with the Grinch and his pup, Max. Lights flashing, whistle tooting, the

dwarf train whizzed around the miniature Whoville in ceaseless and annoying activity. It

appeared that the homeowners had actually hired an armed security guard to keep the

onlookers at bay. Was hitching a ride on the toy train punishable by death?

The house on the right aimed for a Nutcracker Suite theme. Candy canes lined the

front walk. Fluorescent Sugar Plum Fairies were cunningly placed amidst the bushes and

trees. A two-story Nutcracker Prince guarded the front entrance, while a giant inflated Clara

bobbed gently in the smoggy night, hissing helium in a never-ending fart.

By contrast, the billions of white lights adorning the roof and trees and bushes of

Dauten Manor looked Spartan. I walked up the pseudo-cobblestones to the peacock blue

door framed by two topiaries.

I rang the bell, and Lisa answered, which was a jolt.

“Darling, you’re late,” she reproached. “It’s already the first inning.”

“First quarter?”

“Mmm. Possibly.” Then she smiled, reaching for the case of Beers of the World I had

picked up at Costco on the way over. “What a lovely job I did of raising you, Adrien.”

Adding under her breath, “He’s in the den.”

“He knows I’m coming, right?”

“Of course! You’re going to bond.”

Dear God.

I followed her through the immaculate and beautifully decorated foyer, into an

immaculate and beautifully decorated living room, through an immaculate and beautifully

decorated dining room, into a less immaculate, but still beautifully decorated family room,

which adjoined a kitchen that was full of girls. It sounded like an aviary. Or possibly a hen

house.

Actually it was only Lauren and Natalie.

“Hi, Adrien!” they chorused.

Did they all live here?

“Hey there,” I said. I could not for the life of me figure out why they were all beaming

at me with the delight of Aztec priests at the arrival of a well-nourished youth. What did

they imagine this bonding ritual entailed?

“For God’s sake,” shrieked Dauten from down the hallway. “The guy’s wide open!”

Lisa made whisking motions toward the den.

I went down a long hallway paneled with photographs of the Dauten girls through

years of bangs and braces and bustiers.

The den was neither immaculate, nor beautifully decorated. It was a barn-sized room

with a TV that took up an entire wall, two recliner chairs, and a long sectional sofa in a

muted plaid. A book shelf held a collection of beer steins and golf trophies.

Emma knelt at a huge coffee table littered with chicken wings and an assortment of

dips and chips. She was laboring over a pile of colored pencils, rulers, and what looked like a

Spirograph. Dauten lounged in one of the recliners. He held the TV remote control in one

hand, a beer mug in the other.

“Crrrrap!” he howled. “Go around the end! You idiot!” He glanced my way and said

pleasantly, “Hello, Adrien. Grab a beer and pull up a chair.”

I sat on the sofa, which was as wide as a twin bed. Emma looked up at me from under

the fringe of dark bangs.

“Hello. Who do you want to win?”

“Hello.” I reached over and selected a barbecue chip. “I don’t care.”

Her mouth dropped. Her eyes popped. I opened my mouth to retract this

unsportsmanlike sentiment, but she giggled and returned to her squiggles. I realized that a

twelve-year-old had successfully yanked my chain.

Natalie slipped into the room, deposited a bottle of Carlsberg and a frosted pilsner on

the table in front of me, gave me thumbs up, and slipped out again.

I stared at the screen watching the burly ant figures race up and down the green field,

my thoughts on the brief visit I’d paid the Library of Congress Web site before driving over.

Robert M. Friedlander, born in 1954, had several literary works to his name. Unlike the

early efforts of G.O. Savage, Friedlander wrote “beautifully written, critically acclaimed

literary fiction that no one wanted to read.” He had stopped writing in 2000, which

coincidentally was when Gabriel Savant had appeared on the literary scene with The

Illuminati Initiative, which had rocketed to the top of the New York Times Best Sellers list.

So you had two capable, but not particularly successful writers who had given up

writing at approximately the same moment that the immensely successful Gabriel Savant had

appeared on the scene with his “handler,” Bobby Friedman.

Gabriel Savant’s prose reflected none of the literary flourishes of Robert M. Friedman

or the pulpy excesses of G.O. Savage. It was fast-paced, easy-reading, well-researched mass–

market fiction. But the thing that truly set these books apart was the author himself. By all

accounts Savant was a marketing genius. He was tireless and inventive. He was handsome

and charismatic. He was a publisher’s dream come true – and he managed to turn out a book

every nine months like clockwork, while constantly touring and promoting.

I remembered my first visit to Friedlander at the Biltmore. He had been printing off his

laptop. His world disintegrating around him, his author-charge MIA, Friedlander had been

running off a manuscript. Now who did that sound like? It sounded like 99.9% of the writers

I knew.

Emma spoke, interrupting my reflections.

“Did you ever notice,” she said, tucking her long, dark hair behind her ear, “that if you

change the ‘p’ in pink for an ‘o,’ it spells oink?”

“No.”

“It looks really funny.”

“I bet.”

“Halftime.” Dauten snorted. “They call this excuse for a Las Vegas floor show halftime?

Emmy, do not look at this TV.”

“Do you know what?” Emma said, fixing me with those doe eyes. “Santa spelled

backward is Satan.”

I did a double take. She continued to look at me, all rosy-cheeked and innocent. I

mean, come on. What was I thinking. Damien?

“It spells Atnas, doesn’t it?” I objected.

She frowned at her paper. “Oh, yeah. It’s a mammogram.”

I narrowly escaped spilling my beer in my lap. “Anagram, maybe?” I suggested.

“Umm-hmm,” Her tone implied that this is what she had said. She went back to

working on her crossword or Da Vinci’s code, or whatever the heck she was scribbling at so

earnestly.

* * * * *

I didn’t want to go back home to my lonely flat after the noise and hubbub of the

Dautens’ – not that I could take five minutes longer at my future in-laws. I didn’t know

what I wanted.

Yeah, I did, but that wasn’t possible.

So I took a chance and went to see if Bob Friedlander had already checked out of the

Biltmore Hotel.

I didn’t bother inquiring at the front desk. He was either there, or he wasn’t. I didn’t

want to give him a heads-up.

The elevator opened onto the hushed hallway. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. I walked

slowly to the room, thinking they could use more lights up here.

He took a long time to answer my knock. I began to fear I’d missed him, when I heard

the bolt slide.

The door swung open. I had a glimpse of a tidy and impersonal hotel suite. No printer,

no clothes strewn about, no booze, and no gun as far as I could see – which wasn’t that far.

Bob appeared to be packed and ready to go.

“Adrien!” Bob exclaimed with a distinct lack of pleasure. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“No.” I hadn’t wasted time on social niceties. Neither did Bob. “I don’t have time.” He

started to shut the door. I reached out to stop him.

I said, “Bob, we both know Gabe isn’t staying out in Malibu. They have him, don’t

they?”

“Be quiet,” he said fiercely and grabbed me by the front of my jacket, dragging me into

the hotel room. I didn’t resist; I wanted into that room.

The hotel door slammed shut. Bob let go of me, breathing hard. “You’re crazy,” he said.

“You’re going to get us both killed.”

Same old song, same old story. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll go away. Who or

what is Blade Sable?”

“I don’t know!”

“Bullshit. You have to have some idea.”

“Why the hell can’t you leave this alone? What the hell does it matter to you?”

Not a bad question, but moot.

I didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited him out. Jake had pulled that trick on me a

couple of times, so I knew it was effective.

After forty seconds (which is a sizable stretch of silence when you’re mad enough to

throttle someone), Bob burst out, “Blade Sable was Gabe’s project. How many times do I have

to tell you? Gabe was doing his own –” He stopped.

“Gabe was doing his own thing,” I said. “And that isn’t how it works, is it? Gabe is the

front man. You write the books. It’s a partnership, but not an equal partnership, because you

do all the work, and Gabe gets all the glory.”

His face, already flushed with anger, turned a medic-alert shade of puce.

“What do you know? That’s the way we wanted it! We started out trying to write

together, but it worked better this way. I don’t want what you call “the glory.” I don’t want

to get out there and meet my public – our public. You saw those freaks. You think I want to

rub shoulders with that?”

“Okay, so it’s a real partnership. But Gabe decided he wanted to write this book, this

expose.”

“He’s always taken this stuff too seriously. The occult. He had to dabble – he had to

experiment.”

In other words, It’s his own damn fault.

I guessed, “But then he connected with Blade Sable.”

He ran his hands over his sparse hair. “He went to a party the last time we did LA. That

was a year ago in October. I remember because we were doing a lot of Halloween tie-ins for

Vertex of the Vampyres. Anyway, something happened. He saw something or overheard

something. Whatever it was, it terrified him. I’ve known him twenty years, but I’ve never

seen him like that.”

“You have no idea what?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know the details, because he never shared any. Though he

was scared, he kept poking, kept prying, kept trying to find out more. He thought it was

huge, that it reached all the way to City Hall and beyond. He thought there was a book in it.”

He added bitterly, “A book for him, not us.”

“Where was the party held?”

“I don’t know. In Los Angeles, I think.”

I took a random shot. “Pacific Palisades? By the ocean?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did he say who was at the party? Did he ever mention any names?”

“I told you, I don’t know the details.”

“Did he write the book?”

“I think so. He must have written a lot of it.”

“Was it on that disk that disappeared?”

“I think so.”

“He must have had a couple of backups.”

“I’m sure he did, but they wouldn’t be where I would find them. He didn’t want me to

know what he was doing.”

“The panic over the lost disk was because he was afraid this group or this person would

find out what he was writing? He was afraid of them.”

Bob nodded.

Then why the hell had Savant brought that disk with him? Why had he told these

people about it – because he must have told someone. I didn’t believe they saw it in a crystal

ball.

I turned my attention back to Friedlander. “What was the deal with that postcard?

Why did you try to convince me that Gabe was safe when he’s still missing?”

“They told me to. They told me to let it go. They said a postcard would be coming from

Gabe and that it would prove he was alive. They said if I didn’t play along, he would be dead,

and I’d be next. They said the police didn’t believe me, anyway, and it’s true. The police

didn’t believe me. Or at least they pretended not to.”

“Who told you all this?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them. They called from a phone inside the hotel. They knew

my room. They knew everything.”

“When did they call you?”

“I don’t remember.”

I was tempted to prompt him, but I knew better. “Try,” I said.

He thought hard. “Last Wednesday, I think.”

“The day I came to see you?”

He looked confused, then nodded. “The first time, yes, that’s right. They said to call

you and tell you that it was all okay, Gabe was safe –”

I interrupted, “They said to call me? They mentioned me by name?”

“Yes. They said you were nosing around, that if you kept it up, they’d kill Gabe and

then me.”

I put that aside to consider later. “So what happens now?”

He couldn’t meet my eyes. I said, disbelieving, “You’re walking away from this?”

“What am I supposed to do? Getting myself killed won’t change anything. Gabe is

dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

He looked up then. Though he shook with anger, I understood that the anger was not

truly directed at me. “They couldn’t let him go. He knew too much.”

“You don’t even know what it is he knew – knows.”

“Whatever it was, it was too much.”

“So you’re going to pack up and fly out of here and…you think no one is going to

notice when bestselling author Gabriel Savant never shows again?”

“They won’t find him, and anyway, I have the postcard. The police are the ones who

decided he left by his own volition. I did what I could.”

“Bob…” I gave it up as I read the stubborn fear on his face.

He said, “Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”

* * * * *

Monday was Velvet’s day off, and I was too busy dealing with the legions of shoppers

to worry about the legions of evil. The holidays were great for art books like Strange Sisters:

The Art of Lesbian Pulp Fiction 1949-1969, and audio books. We were having an

unbelievably good Monday. By eleven o’clock I had sold Langman’s A Guide to American

Crime Films of the Forties and Fifties, priced at over a hundred dollars, which had been

sitting on the shelf for over a year, and three copies of Gunn’s The Gay Sleuth in Print and

Film. One customer even tried to talk me out of the replica Maltese Falcon statue perched

behind the counter.

Then, like that, the rush was over, and the place was a boneyard. I washed down half a

chicken salad sandwich with a can of cold Tab and was lugging coffee-table books the size of

paving stones back to their shelves, when Jake walked into the shop.

I smiled, then stopped smiling at his expression.

“I need to talk to you.”

I nodded. “We’re alone,” I said, turning toward the office, but he walked toward the

front of the shop, so I followed. We stood in the alcove that faced the street. His face looked

like granite as he stared out the window trimmed with the fake pine boughs he had helped

me hang so short a time ago.

Had he found out about my trip to Pacific Palisades? I’d realized that he might be

pissed. But no… This was different. My stomach churned, waiting for whatever was coming.

He met my eyes levelly. “I’m telling you first. Kate and I are getting married.”

I had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any less painful. My throat closed,

so I nodded.

He folded his lips tightly. “I want this marriage to work. I want it to be a real

marriage.”

“I figured.”

Then he seemed to run out of words. We stood there. I was afraid my face would give

me away, so I stared out the window at the cars flashing by down the street. Red, white,

white, green….

“I’m not going to try to explain or make excuses,” Jake said, and his voice sounded too

loud, like if he didn’t speak strongly, it would shake. “This is my chance for a normal life. I’m

taking it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not going to apologize. You knew the score going in.”

I lifted a shoulder.

There were things I might have said. Maybe even things I should have said. But I knew

they wouldn’t change the outcome, and I wasn’t sure I could say them and keep control of

my voice and face. Right now, keeping control in front of him seemed like the paramount

thing.

“It’s not because of your health.”

“I know that.” Hostility turned my gaze back to his. He looked away from me.

“I know that asshole you were with in college –”

“Can we leave that asshole out of it?”

Please, gentlemen, one asshole at a time.

He seemed reluctant to drop this tangent. “It’s got nothing to do with the way I feel

about you,” he added, as though I were making an argument.

But, after all, that was a stupid comment. I surprised myself by giving a sort of ironic

laugh and saying, “Whatever.”

“Whatever?”

His eyes were so dark they looked black. I realized that he wanted to get angry, that

anger would make it easier, and I didn’t want to make it easier. He didn’t deserve to have it

made easy.

So I met his gaze. Asked quietly, “What do you want me to say, Jake?”

His face worked. His jaw clenched so hard, my own hurt watching. He shook his head

fiercely.

“Good-bye,” I said.

* * * * *

“Is everything all right?” Guy asked suddenly. The Miata whined as he downshifted to

veer around a slow-moving dump truck materializing out of the darkness ahead of us.

It was Monday night, and we were on our way to Hell’s Kitchen. Guy had picked me

up about fifteen minutes earlier.

“Sure.”

He was silent.

The CD playing almost inaudibly in the background clicked over. I recognized the

delicate opening chords to “Rain.” Instinctively I reached across to turn off the CD player.

Guy glanced my way. “Patty Griffin. She’s sort of an acquired taste.”

I made a noncommittal noise.

He made another try at conversation. “I saw on the news that Angus and Wanda were

denied bail.”

I nodded. “Flight risk.”

I’d had another visit from the defense team investigators late that afternoon. I’d told

Best I had nothing more to say and shown him the door.

I didn’t know if I was making life harder on myself or not. I just didn’t give a damn at

the moment.

We finished the rest of our trip across town in silence.

There was no parking near Hell’s Kitchen. We parked down the street, Guy set his car

alarm, and we hiked back to the club. From a block away we heard the music – the bass

thudding against the heavy night clouds.

Outside the building there was a short queue of Hammer Films extras waiting to get in.

Guy and I were conspicuously underdressed, me in black jeans and a black turtleneck (which

fitted my mood nicely) and Guy in black jeans and a black muslin Renaissance-style shirt

with leather ties. The flock of femme fatales in black plastic and leather minidresses – hair

lacquered about three feet high or arranged in Medusa-like dreadlocks – kept a prudent

distance. There seemed to be a lot more girls than boys present.

We paid the cover charge, wriggled our way through the crush of young bodies

blocking the doorway. Once inside we were engulfed in smoke and purple mist. Strobe lights

flashed, illuminating glimpses of the monster mash on the gameboard-sized square that

served as a dance floor. Canned music boomed overhead. I felt the bass vibrating in my chest

cavity. You make me want to La La…

It really was the Devil’s playground.

We stood there for a time, adjusting to the heat and noise and mass of people. The

place had to be in violation of the fire code. That was probably the least of their violations.

How were we going to find anyone in this hellhole? I could barely see six feet ahead of

myself. Guy’s hand closed on my shoulder. I turned back and saw him indicate an abandoned

table covered with empty glasses and spilled liquid.

I nodded. We fought our way upstream, grabbed the chairs, and sat down. I stood up

again. I’d sat in a puddle of beer. Jesus. I hoped it was beer. I grabbed some crumpled napkins

and mopped the seat to the great amusement of the spiky-haired and very drunk couple next

to us.

A waitress, dressed in red sequins – not many of them – flitted by, but didn’t stop to

take our order for drinks.

I couldn’t see Betty Sansone, but it was difficult to make out anything through the

combination of haze and bodies in motion. I became aware that Guy was trying to get my

attention.

I lip read his words. “Want a drink?”

I nodded. I’d need a lot of drinks if we were staying long.

He vanished into the mob.

I peered at the drunk couple at the table next to us. I realized they weren’t talking,

they were singing the background soundtrack to each other, their faces about one inch apart.

He had green spiky hair and rings in his ears and eyebrows. She had magenta spiky hair and

rings in her eyebrows and her nose – and a gleaming stud in her tongue. I wondered if they

had any trouble disengaging after a kiss. I watched her mouth the lyrics to her be-ringed

swain across the unsteady table.

“Save me from the nothing I’ve become …”

Maybe that was what it was all about, I thought. Sure, rebellion was part of it, but

maybe the fascination with the dark side, the flirtation with death and danger, was an

attempt to pierce the isolation and alienation inherent in adolescence and young adulthood.

Or maybe they were just the bored and pampered spawn of Satan and needed a good

spanking.

Guy was gone a long time. I watched the mob of dancers writhe and wriggle in tribal

ecstasy, awarding them points for persistence. As I watched, a girl slipped and fell on her ass.

No one seemed to notice, including her. She continued to gyrate from a sitting position.

At last Guy returned with two glasses of blood red liquid. It could have been poison or

Kool-Aid. I didn’t much care.

“Love Potion No. 9,” he shouted.

I nodded, made my stiff lips smile. I knocked mine back. Cheap red wine.

Guy’s brows drew together. He said again, “Is everything okay?”

I pretended I couldn’t hear him and turned away in time to see Betty Sansone stalk

through the front entrance with a coterie. I recognized one of her companions, the kid from

the Biltmore who looked a bit like Harry Potter. The rest of Team Wicked was unknown to

me.

I reached for Guy’s arm, nodded toward Betty.

He nodded back. Then he did a kind of double-take. I couldn’t tell what had startled

him; the next time I looked his way, his face was expressionless.

We watched Betty and the gang appropriate a long table across the room. Two of the

minions rose and shoved their way onto the dance floor to join the other thrashing bodies.

Harry Potter headed for the bar – and who would blame him?

Guy’s hand closed fleetingly on my arm, and we abandoned our table, making our way

through the carnival of souls toward our target. Guy was ahead of me. I saw him raise his

hand in a cursory greeting. Betty smiled, looked past him, saw me. Her pug features twisted

into disbelieving anger.

She made an aside to her compadres and pushed away from the table. There was a

shuffling of chairs and bodies, and a couple of scraggy youths rose to block us as Betty made

her way to the dance floor. I broke off from Guy and moved to intercept her.