Thorne reached into his thong and pulled out a necklace - and tried to thrust it over her head.
But Madison was quick. She dodged it, pushing his hand away. “No, thank you.” She did not want his ball-sweat soaked token anywhere near her.
He tried again, and this time Madison slapped his hand. “I said I don’t want it.”
He scowled, dropped the chain into his thong, and continued to bump and grind, his moves now so clipped and abrupt she was certain he was sulking.
God, when will this song end?
Finally, it did - and at last, Thorne - who straddled her knees - dismounted her. Without a word, he turned, presenting his ass to gather the tips tossed by Shawn and Bobby. He bent over - way over, no doubt to show her what he thought of her. Madison just wanted him to leave. And she wouldn’t tip him, either. It’s not like I asked for a lap dance! Thorne scowled and disappeared without a word, taking most of his Stetson cologne with him.
The emcee began introducing the next act - which, she had to admit, she kind of wanted to see. The magic was amazing. As the deep voice resounded from unseen speakers, people began returning to their seats - except for Shawn, who excused himself, saying he needed the restroom.
Madison didn’t want to be alone with Bobby but she needn’t have worried; within seconds, he followed his buddy who, apparently, couldn’t pee without him.
Madison looked at her phone. It was closing in on the two-hour mark and she decided it was time to go. Hurry up, Dette. She looked toward the restrooms but saw no sign of her friend. As she waited, she opened her Life Lessons file on her phone and added, NEVER go to a strip joint ever again!
* * *
Parked at the back of Club Mephistopheles’ lot under a stuttering lamp, the Volvo had rocked perhaps two or three times before Jeffrey Gimple had lost bodily control and in a moist, body-slapping spasm, reached blast-off.
In that moment, Olivia LeBlatte wondered what on earth she’d been thinking. It had seemed like such a good idea but now, she was disgusted with herself.
He looked at her, his magnified eyes wide, perspiration running in rivulets down his meaty jowls, his bottom lip quivering as if he were going to cry at the sheer beauty of it all.
But there had been no beauty for Olivia.
“Did you …?” he began.
For a moment, Olivia stared in disbelief. How could he even think I had a chance? She patted his sweat-slick bald head. “You were fantastic, Jeffrey.”
He beamed. “So were you! I didn’t know you even liked me!”
She wanted to tell him to get off of her - to get out of her. “Of course, I like you, Jeffrey.” She paused. “I need to sit up.”
“Oh, of course.” Unceremoniously, he hefted himself off, his doughy skin making a wet squish-fart sound as their flesh parted ways.
Olivia thought she might vomit. Seriously. What was I thinking? She tugged her dress back down while he muscled his pants up, the car rocking hard for the first time as he worked them around his fat ass and fumbled with his belt.
Straightening, she said, “Well, I suppose we ought to be getting home before …”
Gimple’s eyes went wide and the roses in his cheeks turned white. “Oh, Lord. Nedra …” Reality had struck; Olivia saw it settle in and knew it would make its home there.
“Don’t worry,” she said, reaching for her cigarettes. “She’ll never know.”
“But … but how do you know? What if …”
“Are you going to tell her?” Olivia lit her Virginia Slim.
He shook his head.
“Neither am I. If I don’t tell her and you don’t tell her, how will she know?”
His mouth worked like a fish chewing water. “I shouldn’t have …”
“Yes, Jeffrey. You should have. We had a good time. It’s not the end of the world.” But as the results of his pent-up passion began to take its unseemly leave of her, it felt like the end of the world. She shuddered and suppressed a dry heave. “Go home, Jeffrey. What we did tonight won’t leave this car.” And unfortunately, neither will the stains.
He opened his mouth but she cut him off.
“Go home, Jeffrey.”
“Uh, I … okay.” He slogged out of the car, then stooped by the window and said, “Will I … see you again?”
She stared at him. “We’ll see.”
His face began moving in but Olivia couldn’t stomach the idea of a parting kiss. Before his lips reached their destination, she exhaled a cloud of smoke in his face. “Give Nedra my best.” She started the Volvo and left him staring after her.
“Jesus Christ Almighty,” she said as she turned onto Killakee Road. “Why did I do that? Why?” Perhaps she was feeling neglected by Mr. Jones and Jeffrey had given her validation. She wondered what Anthony Robbins would say and reached under her seat for his audio book. Popping a CD in, she frowned at his picture on the sleeve. Suddenly he didn’t seem so handsome, and when his voice began speaking, it didn’t give her the little thrill of excitement it normally did. She shut it off, thinking of Mr. Jones. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him tonight. No doubt, he was busy. It was opening night, after all. I’ll call him tomorrow.
* * *
After dropping Darcy Cromwell at the station to file a report, Nick Grayson had stopped by Madison O’Riley’s house and found the place empty. In fact, the entire town seemed deserted, but when he saw a flyer on a lamppost, he remembered: It’s opening night at the club.
He’d considered stopping by the place. Surely, Madison - and her young friend, Alejandro - were there. But he felt that if he so much as caught a whiff of booze, his resolve might crumble to dust at his feet. Better to wait.
On Cameo Drive, he slowed the cruiser.
Though The Psychic Sidekick was obviously closed, the upstairs lights burned bright. Hoping that Beverly Simon might be able to tell him more about the “Disrobed Daredevil,” he parked in front of the shop. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he stared at the display items: books on holistic healing, packs of Tarot, braids of sweet grass, and even a spirit board.
What a flake. He considered turning around. And do what? Go home and not drink?
Nick Grayson pressed the buzzer, listening as a tuneful, flowery chime rang out. He sighed. Yep. She’s a total flake.
* * *
The same three women - the Hell’s Belles - were back on stage, but Madison wasn’t paying attention. Clint Horace had walked in, craning his neck, looking around. “Shit.” Madison turned away, shrinking in her seat. Please don’t see me, please don’t see me.
She saw Dette making her clumsy way toward her, straightening her blouse.
She’s drunk. Madison gathered her purse. “We need to leave. Now.”
“Wha- why?”
How much did she have to drink? “Clint’s here. He just-”
Right then, Shawn and Bobby headed over, dopey smiles on their flushed faces. Suddenly, Madison realized what had taken all of them so long in the restroom. She looked at Dette. She wouldn’t have … would she?
Dette fell into her chair.
Madison said, “We’re leaving,” to Shawn and Bobby and pulled Dette to her feet.
Dette tottered and giggled. The boys giggled, too.
Clint Horace stood near Eric Cooterman against the wall. She willed herself invisible as she dragged Dette through the crowd. They were at the doors when Dette stopped and jerked her hand away.
Madison turned. “Dette, let’s go.”
“One second, geez!” Dette stood before one of the stone-faced guards. She gently tugged his silver nipple ring and giggled. The guard didn’t move a muscle.
“Dette!”
“I just wanted to see if he was like those guys in England with the furry hats, you know? The ones that don’t move no matter what. And it worked! He didn’t move!”
Madison dragged her from the building, relieved when the giant doors closed behind them.
They were almost to the car when a voice rang out. �
��Maddy! Wait!”
Shit. Madison turned as Clint Horace bounded down the steps. “Not tonight, Clint,” she called.
“Just let me talk to you one minute.” He trotted toward them.
It was too late to make a getaway. Shit, shit, shit.
“Get in the car, Dette.”
A Sobering Set of Circumstances
Alejandro wandered down Main Street, keeping to the shadows. No one was out and all the shops were closed. Street lamps stuttered as he passed under them. He hoped Madison was home now, away from the old church. Bad things happen there. Remembering the woman in the alley, he thought, Bad things happen everywhere.
He thought of the man who’d attacked her. What did I do to him? Did I hurt him? But it felt like he’d done the right thing. I protected the woman from harm. Still, he was baffled by the hot, buzzy surge he’d shot into the man’s head.
Frowning, he walked under a shop’s awning, pausing when he saw his image reflected in the glass. Madison had told him - many times - that roaming in his undergarments was not acceptable but he did not understand why.
I am young, he thought. His hair was short and he was certain he did not know how to cut hair. Someone did it for me. So why is no one looking for me?
A small spotted dog barked and ran down the sidewalk toward him, ears flopping, tail wagging, its entire body a wiggly happy mass.
Alejandro bent, scratched the canine under the chin, and looked back at his reflection.
His body was trim with muscles that suggested he’d done plenty of manual work. Or perhaps I exercise on purpose. On the teevee, he’d seen women doing what Madison called “air-robix” - which wasn’t done in the air at all - and he didn’t think he would have enjoyed that very much. Also, that did not account for his tanned skin because “air-robix” took place indoors and seemed to require shiny clothing that clung to the body.
The small dog barked, wanting more attention, but Alejandro ignored him. He turned, looking at himself from all angles. Perhaps I am a farmer. He tried to envision this ... and could not. Or perhaps a pet doctor, like Madison suggested. He looked at the dog. I cannot see myself as … anything. All he knew was that, according to the interwebs inside Madison’s glowing box, he probably had “episodic amnesia.” Whatever that was, it often happened to people who’d had strokes or head trauma or even drug overdoses. Perhaps I am a drug addict. But he hadn‘t noticed any withdrawal cravings. The only thing he ever craved was honey - and he did not think you could overdose on honey and get “episodic amnesia.”
The dog pawed at his leg.
Alejandro looked down and saw two more mongrels. The dogs sniffed at him and waggled their tails excitedly. From around the corner of a building, a fourth dog cut across the street, bounding toward him. Alejandro liked dogs very much, but he paid them no attention. He had to figure himself out before he hurt someone else the way he’d hurt the bad man in the alley tonight.
The interwebs said victims of “episodic amnesia” lost track of life events but not the fundamental knowledge of themselves. But Alejandro did not believe that, for he knew nothing of himself except what he’d learned in the past days. The webs also claimed that some memories lingered, though not necessarily in the order in which they occurred. He did not believe that either. Alejandro had no memories of his life before Madison’s house - none at all. But if I could just remember something - anything - that memory might lead to another, and another after that. But he could not remember anything.
He heard a meow and felt the silky brush of a shiny black cat who’d pushed its way through the canines to stroke itself against his leg.
He began walking, the crowd of dogs - and one cat - trailing him. As he wandered, his thoughts moved to Madison.
I like her very much. He smiled, hardly noticing when he nearly tripped over one of the dogs. I like her hair, and her lips, and her skin, and her eyes. I like her hands, too. They are soft and I liked them very much when she rubbed ointment onto me. He felt the annoying buzzy feeling again and frowned down at the stiffening point in his undergarments. Madison had told him that it was very impolite to walk around with an erection. But that did not stop it from happening. It was always there in the mornings, for instance, and often it took great effort to make it go away. He had learned not to slap it or push it, though; that only made it worse. It was best to just ignore it.
It happens when I think of Madison. The trouble was that he liked thinking of Madison, even if it caused his body to be impolite.
The pets that had amassed around him did not seem to be bothered by his erection and this, he decided, was another reason he liked animals: You did not always have to be polite around them, just kind.
He cocked his head as a distant sound reached his ears.
A voice. A familiar one.
It was very soft. He concentrated on it, listening for words. When they came, they chilled him.
“Just get away from me … leave me alone …”
It was Madison.
“I said stop it!”
And it came from the old church.
Alejandro took off for St. Agatha’s, several dogs and cats bounding behind him until, one by one, he lost them.
* * *
“Guys?” Dette’s vision swam, the world tilted, and she wanted to go to bed. “Guys, I think I’m going to be sick.” She sat in the passenger seat, the window rolled down. Maddy and Clint were talking about something but she didn’t care - she was worried the evening’s drinks were about to come back up.
“ … don’t want to talk about it …” Madison sounded pissed.
“Don’t be like that, Mads …” Clint did not sound pissed. He sounded -
Dette’s stomach muscles contracted and she sat up, expecting the worst.
False alarm. This time.
“I’m serious, guys. I think I’m going to-” She couldn’t say it. Saying it would make it happen. She closed her eyes. How much did I drink? She couldn’t remember.
“ … One more chance. Please?” Clint’s voice held such hope it made Dette bark a laugh.
“Good luck, Horace!” Dette called out the window. It came out, ‘Horash.’ She giggled. “You messed with the wrong chicky!”
Clint, who was tipping sideways, shot her a dirty look, and Madison said, “Stop it, Dette.”
“And she’s been a bitch all night, so good luck!” Dette slapped the side of the car in laughter. “Hey, Clint! Does anyone ever call you Cunt? Or Clit?”
“Dette! Enough!” Madison’s voice was as cold and hard as ice. Her eyes probably were, too, but Dette couldn’t focus enough to tell.
“Fine,” said Dette. “But hurry up! I don’t feel good and I think I’m gonna throw-” Oh God! There was no warning. She threw the door open just in time for her stomach’s contents to splash onto the asphalt with a sick but satisfying sound. It was red - Devil’s Punchbowl red - and it just kept coming and coming, her ribs contracting, her head throbbing, her body seizing and relaxing, seizing and relaxing as her stomach turned itself inside out. How the Christ-much did I drink? she thought as she hosed down the parking lot, painting it red. At last it ended. She wiped her mouth and when she looked up, the world was a little less spinny.
Maddy and Clint were staring at her.
“I, uh, sorry.” Dette closed the door. “I’m just gonna lay down in here, okay?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Maddy.
Dette closed her eyes and slumped in the seat. The world continued to spin, but slowly, manageably. Those Devil’s Punchbowls pack a fuck of a punch! Heh. Fuck of a punch. The punchbowls. She would have laughed but unconsciousness was already taking bites out of her, leaving black holes in her awareness.
“ … Just get away from me. Leave me alone …”
“ … You’re in no position to tell me no, Mads …”
Those were the last words she heard before she lapsed into the blissful void of oblivion.
* * *
The woman on the other
side of the door stared, her expression cautious.
Nick had long ago become accustomed to that look - all cops did - and he didn’t mind it. An expression of guilt was a sign of a solid conscience. It was the cool-as-a-cat types you had to watch out for. Usually. “Ms. Simon?”
“Yes?” She peered out past the chain lock. “Can I help you?”
“I’m hoping you might be able to. I’m Nick Grayson, chief of police.” He flashed his ID. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“No, not at all.”
“Would you mind if we spoke a moment?”
She shut the door, undid the chain, and invited him in.
When he saw her wet hair - and the pale blue robe she wore - he felt like a jerk. “Sorry to come by so late. I didn’t think-”
“It’s fine. It’s not late at all.”
The shop was cozy, smelling of strawberry incense. An Oriental rug was tossed over a highly polished hardwood floor. Rows of books lined one wall, a stone-faced fireplace dominated another. In the center of the room stood a round table, covered by a lacy lavender cloth. He frowned at the crystal ball resting in the center.
“Please, come in.” She led him into a quaint parlor beyond the shop floor. There were two leather armchairs and a divan. Several portraits hung on cream-colored walls. On both end tables stood lamps with fringed shades. A polished coffee table rested between the divan and armchairs, and he noted the coasters - Van Gogh’s Starry Night. She gestured for him to sit.
Nick had heard of people sinking into a chair, but this felt as if he were being swallowed whole.
“I’m sorry,” said Beverly. “I wasn’t expecting company.” She pulled her robe tightly closed.
Nick tried to get comfortable. The leather chair seemed to be drawing him in, devouring him by inches until he was half-swallowed.
“Would you like some coffee? Tea?”
“No, thanks. This won’t take long.”
She perched on the arm of the sofa - a position that said, Let’s make this snappy. The seeded pearls at the collar and wrists of her thin robe glittered in the light - and Nick realized she was quite pretty.
The Angel Alejandro Page 26
