“That was…Joanne, yes,” he said softly.
“Julie favors her,” she said, turning back around. “How are you coping with all that?”
“Poorly,” he said immediately, then almost regretted his candor. He didn’t know her that well. “I mean, I get by, one day at a time, I suppose. There are places I don’t go. Like chapel-I stopped going to Sunday chapel because I’d get too emotional. The senior chaplain-he’s an ex-Marine-asked me one day whom I was weeping for, her or me. As in, Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“That’s such bullshit,” she said. “Grief suppressed poisons the soul.”
“Well,” he said with a small shrug. “He did make me think. Didn’t take me long to figure out the real answer, either. But I still stopped going.”
“Showed him,” she said, and he smiled despite himself.
“How about you?” he asked, surprising himself. “Worth said you’d been married before. You have someone in your life?”
“No one of substance,” she said. “I was married twice, actually. You know what they say about the triumph of hope over experience? Well, my first ex was a Marine aviator. That one was all experience. Second ex was another lawyer, and that was hopeless.”
He laughed. “I know all about those Marine aviators,” he said. “We had a couple in my first fighter squadron. Certifiably crazy bastards, but definitely fun.”
“Precisely,” she said. “But, trust me, you wouldn’t want to marry one.” She shook her head and got up to leave. He got up, as well.
“We need to take this Dell matter one day at a time,” she said. “It’s in their interest to put it to bed quickly, so unless there’s some glaring evidence of foul play, that’s what they’ll do. I’ll keep Julie as safe as I can.”
“Good,” he said. “And I’ll keep in touch with you, too. Julie will probably want to talk to me.”
“Yes, please do,” she said, pausing at the front door. “And if you need to talk-about anything-please feel free to call me.”
He looked down into her eyes and saw a smile of friendly sympathy. “Thanks,” he said. “I will.”
It’s me. I’m in computer lab. Finished their stupid little finals project. So, let me tell you how it went. My after-hours town libs, that is. I mean, it was a blast. Met up with the Goths in their lair on West Franklin Street. That’s what they call it-“their lair.” Okay, so these Johnnie chicks are seriously whacked, but they’re hot as hell underneath all those black rags and the weird makeup. What a surprise when you check out the underscene! And they will do anything as long as I play along with their Goth shit. And I mean anything. I’ll bet you know what I mean.
It’s a rush, especially when I can experience such a total Jekyll and Hyde existence. By day, I’m supermid. Sir! Yes, sir! At the top of my considerable lungs. A-J squared away to the max. Creases on my creases. A military-bearing ramrod stuck so far up my ass that my ears are aligned. Hoo-ah! And then, once the superstraight world of Mother B is asleep, out comes the vampire Dyle. That’s right, vampire. Okay, okay, so the whole Goth-vampire-death worship scene is-what’s the word, infantile? Fucking laughable? Especially when you realize that they’re serious about that shit? Thing is, though, I’m like a dead ringer for the bad guy, especially in costume. One of the girls is in their drama club, so she got her claws on a vampire costume. And that’s our town gig-the Goths as bait, and Dyle as the hammer.
You ought to come along. Works like this: past midnight-the girls in their Goth drag: calf-length black dresses, some very white makeup, lots of eye shadow, red, red lipstick, hair everywhere, maybe a dog-collar, laced-strap witch-bitch boots. Those swirling black dresses are slit up the sides, so if they work it right, they can flash black mesh thigh-highs. And that’s what they do: They stroll down the street after midnight, ease into and out of the townie bars. Inevitably, a couple of locals will rise to the occasion. Come out onto the street and make their drunken noises. Jeering at the Goths. Calling them “lezzies” “freaks,” the usual. The girls pretend to ignore them. Put their noses in the air, supremely intellectual Johnnies, much too high-and-mighty to respond to the provocation of mere village louts. Tossing back quietly muttered words about losers, white trash, the makings of a permanent underclass. But swirl the skirts just a little, enough to flash. Look back. Smile.
The boys follow, of course-they almost always do. Usually, one of them is the alpha dog, the others, onesies, twosies, almost never more than two, the perpetual followers. Not quite sure of what they’re going to do next, but enjoying the scene. Everyone shining attitude, which goes pretty quick to sexual taunts: The girls are pros, sluts, whooers, ready to peddle their asses, and hey, the boys are game, right? They’ve each got two-bits. That’ll do it, right, babe? Then the girls begin to ape the walk of working girls on the stroll, laughing at the following rubes, putting an element of challenge into it, but keeping thirty feet or so between the boys and themselves, leading them, always leading them, toward the alley. Toward me. The girls flash some more leg, attend to a stocking, maybe rub each other on the ass a little, making sure the rubes are watching. That usually does it.
When they get to the alley, they turn on the boys and make vampire faces at them, hissing, showing teeth, looking ridiculous, of course, but setting up the play. By now, they’ve undone their tops a little, giving the village idiots an eyeful, then pretending to discover that they’re exposing themselves, hissing some more, making witch signs, but grabbing at their clothes, maybe a little scared now as the big bad boys approach while the poor defenseless vamps retreat farther into the alley. Toward where I’m waiting.
“Who-ee! It’s Draculady! Hey, Draculady, bite this. How ’bout it? Want to suck something? Here it is, witchy woman!” Grabbing at their crotches and laughing their asses off as they turn into the alley, their jeers and taunts becoming more explicit. They’re aroused now, sensing the possibility that they can maybe get some. Hell, there’s no one around. The girls have been flashing T and A for the past block, begging for it, really. There’re three of them and just two weird-ass St. John’s College bitches playing at being vampires or some other equally strange college-girl shit. The girls stop halfway down the alley, blank brick walls rising into the dark on either side. They back up to one of the walls, spread their arms out behind them, flat on the wall, breasts heaving in obvious excitement, moving their bodies. The boys are locked on now, alpha dog intent, responding to a raging short circuit between his brain and his crank, the followers eager but not sure who’s going to do what.
Then the girls start chanting weird shit in unison: “Begone! Begone! Fie on the lot of you.” The boys, jeering again at the vampire act, approach in a loose semicircle. The girls let their slit skirts part just a little, showing off some more, but keep chanting. “Oooh, I’m so scared!” the alpha dog goes, rubbing his crotch again, letting them see his action. “Don’t bite me. Please, don’t bite me!” Trying to laugh, but mostly focused on what they’re showing them.
And then: I’m there. Behind them. In full fucking costume: black cavalryman boots that add about two inches to my height. Black midshipman uniform pants stuffed into the boots. White Ballanchino formal shirt with no collar. And the cape: this huge fucking cape, black outside, all red satin inside, sweeping down to the tops of my boots. My face painted dead white. Eyes circled in yellow-looking makeup. Teeth glistening with a little Vaseline. My very big teeth. My shaven head covered in a black rubber wet suit hood. I’m stretching up to damn near seven feet tall, arms wide under the cape, black rubber gloves on my hands. Sometimes I stick two extra-long white plastic fangs on my canine teeth.