Chapter 26
Buried in Cyberspace
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:45 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Can you believe it? What Lady Copperhead has offered the recent Roadkill to his Poor Relative?
What is she up to? I mean, should Poor Relative have to pay for burying a rotten relative?
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:52 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: ToFlack@neon.net
I hope you don't mean "rotten" literally. Of course the Lady Copperhead is just exerting pressure.
But this might not be a bad idea. Think about it.
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:54 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Poor Relative can't afford to be magnanimous in this maggot's case. And, yes, I do hope I mean
"rotten" literally.
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 9:58 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: ToFlack@neon.net
No, but Hattrick can afford to be magnanimous. He can even spring for a nice announcement in the newspapers' obituary pages. What if we held a funeral and watched to see who came?
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:03
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Nobody would come to watch that worm go to his long-delayed last reward. It would be a waste of money.
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:07 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Flack@neon.net
Maybe. But it's my money. I say, let the games begin. Tell Poor Relative it's on the house.
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:11 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Some consolation! Poor Relative would have to put up with seeing the worm treated like a real human being, and he would hate being indebted to you.
From: Hattrick@ginjoint.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:14 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Flack@neon.net
He need never know if you come up with an inventive story. Shouldn't you be in bed with someone?
From: Flack@neon.net
Date: 1/2/98 10:20 PM
Subject: Re: Roadkill
Address: To Hattrick@ginjoint.net
I am. He has shiny dark hair, big green eyes and a world-class tail. Nighty-night.
Chapter 27
Remembrance of Things Passed Up
The cab dropped Matt at his ten o'clock appointment at five to the hour.
Knowing he was the first customer of the day, he dawdled his way to the front door. The first and only time he had sought this woman's services, it had ended with him jumping to an awkward conclusion and bolting. He owed her an explanation, but what he thought had happened between them had been so unspoken that explaining himself was a sure road to embarrassing them both. Killing time allowed him to anticipate the worst, and the best.
When he rang, the bell was answered soon enough that he didn't feel too early.
"Hello again." Janice Flanders stood in the shadow of her entry hall, sounding like an old friend. Everything about her was easy and earth-toned, from her short ash-blond hair to whatever subtle makeup she wore, if any.
"Come in. I can't wait to get to work on this. You said the other sketch had 'borne fruit?'"
"Yes."
He followed her through shadow and sunlight from the sky-lights to the same completely cozy sunroom in which they had worked last time.
"Take your jacket off; I'll hang it up. You know the routine: get comfortable. Then we go to work."
He winced writhing out of the jacket. "Pulled a muscle working out."
"Oh. What do you do? Weights?"
"No. Tai chi. Other stuff like that."
She nodded. "I run, do free weights and yoga. The price of living in the physically fit nineties.
Would you like coffee? Decaf? I forget what I gave you last time."
"Ah, lemonade, I think. I don't remember either. Coffee's fine."
She vanished into the adjoining kitchen.
"Kids back in school?" he asked to make conversation. Then wished he hadn't. He might sound . . . hopeful.
"Yes! Time for me to play at my own work. So." She came back with the mugs and set them down on glass-topped metal tables near each of their chairs. "Tell me about your success with the first sketch."
He sipped the coffee first, aware of her relaxation and his stiffness. She was wearing tight-fitting leggings this time, not jeans, and an oversized knit top that emphasized her trim legs.
Earrings must be a signature with her. Today they were huge beaded iridescent circles that ricocheted the sunlight like stained glass.
Her sketch pad lay tilted against the corner of the sofa. Daybed, it was called, he thought.
Stacked with small pillows of all shapes, infinitely programmable.
"You seem . . . stiff today," she noted.
"A bad muscle pull. Every move I make reminds me."
"Tough. You want a back support?" She lifted an oblong pillow covered in some flowered purple fabric. Hyacinths? he wondered.
She tossed it to him and he stuck it behind his back. It did relieve the strain, actually.
"So. Mr. Effinger."
"Simple really. I reduced the sketch to wallet size copies and laminated a bunch to show around town. Then I had to trail him through a few sleazy bars." Her eyebrows lifted. "But I found him and reported him to the police, who questioned him and let him go."
"Got your man and they put him on the streets again. Typical." She shook her head. "Well, I'm glad my sketch worked. Maybe now he'll be nailed for something else."
"Oh, yes."
She picked up her sketch pad. "You had a lot of emotion toward the last subject. Who's the next one?"
"A woman. I've seen her only twice, but recently."
"Hmm." Janice was in her interviewing mode. Abstracted, impersonal, as acutely attuned to his unspoken testimony as a Geiger counter is to buried uranium.
Getting up the courage to see her again, letting her draw conclusions from his description was like going to confession, Matt decided. He expected another ordeal, but he was grateful she was as good as she was at it.
"A woman." Her mouth quirked into a tiny smile. He saw that she was curious about this
"wanted" woman, almost as curious about her as she was about him. "For an ordinary citizen, you require an extraordinary amount of police services."
"Yeah." He wanted to adjust his position, but realized it would dislodge the tapes, which itched constantly now, marking his skin more virulently than the healing gash. "She's hard to describe. I guess it's because she'd be considered beautiful, and that's so vague."