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  She tipped her glass to me—it appeared to be filled with iced tea—and smiled. I smiled back. She was wearing a blue silk shirt and matching pants. Her hair was loose, just brushing the tops of her shoulders, and her earrings were long, silver blades. She was dressed up, especially by Cowslip standards. Alcohol made me brave, and I met her gaze longer than was strictly polite. She looked away first. I continued to stare, and soon, she looked back and smiled again.

  Even through my drunken haze, I recognized that feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach. It was pure lust. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to steady my nerves. Instead, I just felt dizzy. I drained my glass, whispered, “Excuse me” to Tipper, and walked over to her table. Once again, faced with the prospect of talking to a beautiful woman, I opened my mouth to speak before having any idea what I was going to say.

  I was relieved to hear myself say, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she replied.

  I put my hand on the back of the chair across from her to steady myself and said, “Mind if I sit down?” Before I fall down.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Thank you.” I wasn’t certain how to begin. I felt like Don Juan, a feeling I never have when sober. I’m sure I looked like Don Knotts.

  “So, what are you doing here?”

  With just the barest hint of a smile, she said, “I’m waiting for someone. And you?”

  “Drinks,” I said, “I’m having drinks. With my friends. Those are my friends over there.” I waved to the Faeries. The Faeries waved back. Suzy winked lasciviously and flashed me the okay sign. Tipper, who was wearing a pair of combat boots, gave him a sharp and visible kick.

  “Yes,” she said, laughing, “I can see that.”

  “You told my mother I didn’t need to call you back,” I said slowly. The muscles in my mouth had grown reluctant to move, and I was certain that I was slurring my words.

  “You mean yesterday?” When I nodded she said, “Actually, I told your mother that you didn’t need to call back if you were busy. I said I’d call you back.”

  “Oh. Did you?”

  She looked down at her hands. “No, I’m sorry. Something came up.”

  My brother. The blood pounded in my ears. If Tipper and Suzy knew Sam was a suspect, why wouldn’t Sylvie? I suddenly felt a maudlin, drunken desire to cry. “He didn’t do it,” I said. “It’s all a big mistake.”

  She looked up again, gazing at me curiously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bil. What’s a big mistake?”

  This penetrated the sangria fog and brought me up short. “I’m not making much sense,” I said, shaking my head in a vain attempt to clear it. “I’m afraid that I’m a little drunk.”

  “You’re a lot drunk, but that’s okay. I’m glad you came over to talk to me. I don’t think you would have if you were sober.”

  That I didn’t have a stroke right there in Fiesta Jack’s is attributable only to the massive amount of alcohol in my blood. Sylvie ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass, a gesture that poured gasoline onto my fire. I felt suddenly bold.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you go out with me sometime?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “Not to talk about Sam or your father. I mean on a date.”

  “I know what you mean. The answer is yes.”

  Sometimes it’s hard to get the answer you want, particularly if you’ve spent several desperate seconds preparing to be disappointed. “Yes,” I said, processing the information slowly. “Yes. That’s great! When?”

  “Bil!” Sylvie said suddenly. Our hands had been touching on the table, and she pulled hers back quickly. For one terrible moment, I thought she was going to slap me.

  Instead, she stood up.

  “Bil,” she said again. “This is my mom, Kate. Mom, you remember Bil, don’t you?”

  “Christ on a cracker,” I thought, though I managed to turn around and say, with almost perfect clarity, “How do you do?”

  Kate looked like an older version of her daughter. The blond hair was going gray, but she was still very attractive. Her eyes were the same intense green as Sylvie’s, and they regarded me with the same expression of mild amusement.

  “Of course I remember you, Bil. In fact, I remember the last time you came out to my house. You had a shoebox full of baby frogs, and your mother was trying to convince you to turn them loose. How is your mother? I didn’t get a chance to speak to either of you at the funeral.”

  “I still like frogs,” I said nonsensically. “My mother is fine.” She had to know I was stinking drunk. I turned to Sylvie, not meeting her gaze. “I’d better get back to my table. My friends are waiting.”

  My friends, in fact, were watching this whole scene as if it were a soap opera. All eyes were upon us.

  “Bil . . .” Sylvie began.

  “Lovely to see you again.” I nodded quickly to them both and was immediately sorry. It took me a moment or two to regain my balance. As I wove my way back to the table, Suzy graciously resumed his singing, and the other Faeries pretended to engage in lively conversation.

  Tipper leaned over and whispered, “What did she say? You two seemed to be getting along pretty well there for a minute or two.”

  “Tipper,” I said, falling forward onto the table and resting my head on my arms, “she’s beautiful, she’s a lesbian, and until a minute ago, she was interested in me.”

  Chapter 9

  Sylvie and her mother ate dinner and left. We stayed until just after eleven. By this time, Suzy had exhausted his repertoire of show tunes and was singing, “Give me a pig’s foot and a bottle of beer.” We were politely asked to leave. Then, not so politely.

  We left by the back door. There was no designated driver, so Tipper pulled his cellular phone out of his handbag and called for Cowslip’s one and only taxi. It arrived about ten minutes later. The Faeries piled gracelessly into the back seat, sitting on one another’s laps.

  Tipper opened the front door for me. I shook my head.

  “You know you can’t drive,” he said sternly. “Do I need to take your keys?”

  “No, you don’t. I’m going to crash with Ruth and Naomi. Their apartment is only a couple of blocks from here.”

  “Do you think you can stagger that far?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “I’m not sure you can see at all. Why don’t you let us give you a lift?”

  I shook my head again. Suzy leaned out the window and grabbed the front door. “Are you two coming or not? The meter’s ticking, Tippy!”

  “Shut up, Suzy,” Tipper snapped. “Get in, Bil.”

  “Opposite direction,” I replied. “Don’t worry about me. What do you think I am, a lightweight?”

  “Not you, sweetie,” he laughed and gave me a quick hug. “You drank me under the table. Call me tomorrow.” Then he hopped into the cab, and they were off.

  I leaned against the back wall of Fiesta Jack’s for a few minutes, taking deep breaths of cold night air. I hoped Ruth would answer the door, but with my luck, it would be Naomi the teetotaler. I decided to take the long way round to their apartment, hoping to sober up a little.

  The long way round took me right past the Underground, the closest thing to a gay bar this side of Spokane, which is to say they play alternative music. I stopped and rested against the wall next to the door. I didn’t recognize the band on the marquee, but they didn’t sound too bad from where I was standing. A. J. and I had often gone to a dance club in Seattle that was a lot like the Underground, only much hipper and much more expensive.

  I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to go in. I had nearly made up my mind to face the music at Ruth and Naomi’s when the door opened and A. J. walked out. She was fanning herself with a cocktail napkin.

  “Hello, Bil,” she said, smiling as if she had expected to meet me. “It’s so hot in there, and I’ve been dancing. Are you going
in?”

  “I hate dancing.”

  She stepped closer and put a hand on my arm. “Now why do you say that? We used to go dancing quite a lot.”

  I didn’t move away. A. J. was nearly as tall as me. She wasn’t as muscular, but she was athletic. She jogged, cycled, and swam. She looked good—in fact, she looked like Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8. I noticed that her makeup was more dramatic than it used to be. She had on red lipstick, and it suited her. While I doubted butchfemme would ever play among the granola dykes of Cowslip, I kind of liked the contrast between us. It was one of things that had attracted me to her in the first place.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said smoothly. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry about . . . well, you know.”

  “I don’t know,” I said stubbornly. “What are you sorry for?”

  She shrugged. “For the other day. I was rude to your friend.”

  “Oh, that. I thought . . . never mind.” I looked at her. Her eyes were half-closed, and she was standing very close now. The hand on my arm had slipped around my back.

  “You thought what?”

  “Nothing.” She’d never be sorry for the things I thought she should be sorry for.

  “Suit yourself.” Her breath smelled faintly of clove cigarettes, and I remembered tasting them on her lips the first time I kissed her. The flavor was sweet and spicy, and I could still taste it hours afterward. The way she was smiling at me made me wonder if she remembered, too.

  “Walk me home, Bil.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a dark night,” she laughed. “No one will see you.”

  They’d better not, I thought. We walked in silence for three or four blocks.

  “Where’s home?” I asked.

  “I’m staying with some friends. They’re out tonight. The house is dark, and I don’t like to go home alone.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I observed sarcastically. I knew this was a bad idea, and yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  A. J. tightened her arm around my waist. “Come on, Bil, can’t we be friends?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Um, let’s see. Because I hate you?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  We walked several blocks more, turning this way and that, before stopping in front of a large, run-down bungalow. The neighborhood seemed vaguely familiar, but between the dark and the drink, I’d lost all sense of direction. A. J. had neglected to leave the porch light on—deliberately, I suspected. We walked up the concrete path to the door.

  “Expecting to get lucky?”

  She laughed. “I have, haven’t I?”

  She unlocked the door, and we stepped inside. We were in a long hallway with a staircase going up the right-hand side. On the left, a double-door opened into a darkened living room. A row of coat pegs was hanging on the wall in front of the staircase, and A. J. had to close the front door to hang up her jacket. She held her hand out for mine. I shook my head.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “Would you like to go into the living room?”

  “No.”

  She stepped closer, until she was only inches away. I backed up, right into the closed front door. She smiled. “Well then, how about the bedroom?”

  “Why not right here in the hallway? I expect that would suit you just fine.”

  She just laughed and put her arms around my neck. I put my hands on either side of her rib cage, my thumbs resting just beneath her breasts. I held her for a moment and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open. She was waiting.

  I shook her until her eyes opened.

  “Bil . . .” she began.

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’re trying this on me. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  I let her go and sat down on the stairs, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I felt sick, miserable, and tired. A. J. stood there silently for a minute or two, and then she held her hand out to me. I looked up at her.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t try anything.”

  I took her hand and let her pull me up, tripping a little in the process.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, straightening up with the help of the banister and A. J.’s arm. “I’m a little drunk.”

  “More than a little,” she replied. “I’d say a lot.”

  “Funny, you’re the second woman tonight who’s told me that.”

  She laughed. “You do get around these days. Anyway, it’s me who should apologize. I wouldn’t have pressed the point if I’d realized how out of it you were.”

  “No?”

  “No, and you can stop looking at me like that. I knew you’d had a drink or two—your shirt seems to be made out of red wine and orange pulp. I didn’t know you were falling-down drunk. I thought you came back home with me because you wanted to.”

  “Because I wanted to? Why would I want to?”

  She was angry now. She jerked away from me and opened the front door. “You can leave. I don’t need this from you.”

  I slammed the door shut again and leaned against it, crossing my arms over my chest. “You don’t need it from me because you’re getting it from Tigris, or Amazon, or the mighty Mississippi . . . what the fuck was his name?”

  “Euphrates,” she snapped. “And, just for your information, that’s over.”

  “Yeah, of course it is. The poor bastard. Did you actually bother to break up with him, or did you just let him walk in on you and whoever—no, make that whatever.” I shook my head. “Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be the same old story. You got bored, you felt tied down, you just didn’t want to commit. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you decided to bring your dog-and-pony show to Cowslip. It reminds me of what I’m not missing.”

  She shoved me aside and tried to pull the door open. I pushed against it with my foot.

  “Okay,” she said, “what will it take to get you to leave? Would you like a big fight, right here and now? We can do it in person this time. I don’t suppose calling me up once you were safely back in Idaho and telling me it was over really satisfied you. Go ahead, yell at me. Call me a whore. Tell me how much you hate me.”

  I took my foot off the door and stepped aside so she could open it. She didn’t move.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m waiting.”

  I didn’t answer. Finally, she reached out and put a hand on my arm.

  “What do you want, Bil?” she asked softly. “Do you want me to take you home? I could probably borrow a car from one of the Avengers. If not, you’re welcome to stay here—you can sleep on the couch.”

  I looked at her, and I suddenly felt very stupid. Perhaps she was right, maybe I did want a fight, a chance to tell her in person what I thought of her. I had my chance now, but all I could do was shake my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s late, and I’ve had a long weekend. My sisters live around here somewhere. I’ll just walk over to their place.”

  “I don’t think you should walk by yourself. You don’t know if you’re coming or going. Come on, I’ll go with you.”

  She brushed past me and pulled a jacket off the peg, draping it over one arm.

  “Is that okay? Bil?”

  I put my hands on her arms and pulled her to me, forcing her to drop the jacket. I kicked it aside with my foot.

  “Are you sure about this?” she murmured.

  I kissed her hard until her mouth opened. A second or two later, she was kissing me back. She unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it back off my shoulders. I let it drop onto the floor behind me. Then she pulled her own shirt off and tossed it on top of mine. She never wore a bra. Her breasts were small and round, the nipples erect. I felt her hand tugging at the buttons on my jeans.

  “No,” I said, taking her hands and holding them together behind her back. “Not yet.” I bit her gently on the neck before making my way down. She had perfect breasts, like small, f
irm apples.

  “Bil,” she said.

  Some sober spot in the back of my mind was screaming at me to stop this, but I ignored it. I could be stupid, just for one night. I could be stupid forever, what did it matter?

  It was just after six a.m. when I woke up. I wondered for a moment why I didn’t have a headache, and then I realized that I was still drunk. A. J. turned over as I got out of bed, but she didn’t wake up.

  “You always were a heavy sleeper,” I said. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll forget all about this.”

  She didn’t stir.

  I thought about leaving her a note but decided against it. What would I say? All is forgiven? All was not forgiven. I still hate you, but I can’t keep my hands off you?

  I felt cheap and foolish. I also felt appeased. Sex is more compelling than the best arguments. I could get mad, or I could get laid. Why did it have to boil down to that? I knew that I’d come to regret the night I’d just passed, but as I walked down the street, I couldn’t help feeling just a little smug.

  I was halfway down the block before I realized where I was. The east end of town, not far from campus, an old neighborhood of run-down bungalows. Some were in the process of being gentrified, but most had been cut up into apartments for students. The bungalow where A. J. and the Avengers were staying was at the very end of Broad Street, two blocks up from the Safeway. Just behind it, separated by a chain-link fence, was the Lilac Trailer Court.

  Burt Wood had walked down the street where I now stood. Then he’d wandered into traffic and been taken to jail to die. I was too tired to do more than register this fact and promptly forget about it. When I got back to Fiesta Jack’s, I climbed into my truck, stretched out across the front seat, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 10

  I slept in the truck until about eight-thirty and spent the next hour in the Cowslip Café, drinking strong, black coffee. At nine, I ordered a fried egg on toast and smothered it with enough Tabasco to kill a more virtuous woman. It was well past ten before I felt fit enough to drive home, praying all the while that Emma would be out when I got there.