Story of my life, thought Dewey.
“How’d you get here?”
“I think somebody dropped me off.” She gazed around again.
“Are you looking for somebody?”
“No.” She put her unlit cigarette in the ashtray, leaned her head on top of her folded arms on the table.
“You okay and everything?”
“I’m tired.” She grabbed the purse in front of her, dug through it, pulled out the pack of cigarettes again. “Merit menthol,” she said. “Yuck!”
“Aren’t those your cigarettes?”
“It’s not mine,” she said, shoving the purse away. She glanced mischievously at Shannon. “Have you got any cigarettes that aren’t menthol?”
“Uh, sure.” He pulled out a pack of filterless Camels, shook it expertly to make some shoot up from the opening.
She laughed. “Yikes! That’s okay.” She grabbed the Merit from the ashtray, put it in her mouth, dug through the purse some more. “There’s got to be a lighter in here.”
“Here,” Shannon said, offering a Bic lighter. She leaned forward to light up. Big pupils in those strange eyes. She was really stoned. Shannon lit up a Camel.
“So what about those kids?” said Dewey. “You forget about them too?”
“What kids?”
“The weasels.”
“Oh yeah, them.” His eyes were still on her. “They’re not here, I guess.”
“We better split then, huh? This place is about ready to close.” The girl had her head down on the table now, and was looking at Shannon with the air of a tired toddler. “I suppose,” said Dewey, tapping an ash off his cigarette.
Dewey leaned again toward Shannon, spoke into his ear. “Is she awright? Look at her eyes.”
“Yeah, very nice. Hey, babydoll? You’re beat, aren’t you? Tired?”
“Mmmm,” she said.
“We better go. What about Roni?”
“Who?” said Shannon, crinkling his face in puzzlement, like he’d never heard the name before.
“Your wife, Veronica.”
“What about her?”
“We we’re supposed to pick her up at the Limbo.” Plus, thought Dewey, she exists.
“She’s left there by now,” said Shannon. He put his hand on the chick’s shoulder. “Say girl, you wanna go somewhere else?”
“I just want to go to bed,” she said, keeping her head down and eyes closed.
Dewey almost shook his head. Wow. Talk about asking for it.
He glanced over the girl again, thought of what he’d seen in the men’s room. Well, on the other hand… Pass up an opportunity like this? Would he, if he picked her up hitchhiking? But, no.
“Hey, bud, this is our table,” said a guy standing near, in a deep, threatening voice. Dewey looked up. An unshaven guy and a girl, the girl looked annoyed, the guy a little drunk. Wants to impress the girlfriend, probably. Not a big guy, but trying to act tough.
“Greg, don’t,” said the girl with him, scolding, a little worried. That should help some.
“I guess you left it, man. No reserved tables,” said Shannon.
“Say again?” said the guy, glaring, trying to act bad.
“No reserved tables at the Grasso. You want to keep your table, you gotta stay at it.”
“Like shit,” said the guy.
“Greg, just get me my purse,” said the girl. The guy, Greg, reached over and yanked the purse up by its strap, handed it over to the girl. She opened it, looked through, frowned but said nothing. Greg folded his arms and scowled. He looked a little silly to Dewey, and probably more so to Shannon, who broke out laughing.
“Awright, Greg, the table’s yours, my man. Enjoy.” Shannon put his arm around the chick who had remained still through the exchange, not opening her eyes, even. But now she did, threw her head back, fingers through her hair, and stood up, putting her arm around Shannon’s waist and her head on his shoulder. She was holding the other girl’s pack of cigarettes in her hand, but if that girl noticed, she didn’t say anything.
They stepped off together across the ballroom toward the exit, and Dewey followed after. Dewey thought he might have heard this Greg guy say something behind them, but nobody turned around.
They went out the door, stepped over to the T-Bird. As Shannon went around and unlocked the door, the chick was hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arms around herself. She had a jacket on, but it was cold out.
Shannon got in the car, reached over the back seat and opened the back door for her. Dewey opened the side door, got in. “Cold?” asked Shannon as she dropped into the back seat, shuddering.
“No,” she said, “I’m fine now.”
“It’ll warm up in here in a minute,” said Shannon. He started the engine.
“Okay if I lie down back here?” she asked.
“By all means, suit yourself.” Dewey watched in the mirror as she snuggled down and pulled up her legs. For a moment, he could see up her dress: nice thighs in that black and white pantyhose. And nothing underneath it. Maybe something would happen, but it was up to Shannon.
CHAPTER 6
RONI AT HOME
When Roni got home, she slammed the door, flopped down in an armchair in the living room, put her face in her hands for a minute, then tossed her head back with a scowl. She was not only furious at Shannon, but mad at herself for crying. Fuck him, she didn’t care if he came home at all. Fucking dealing again, God knows what he’s getting into now.
She didn’t want to think about it any further, not tonight. Was there some of that fucking beer in the fridge? She stepped into the kitchen to check, and yes, there were four bottles of Mex Negri. She wasn’t going to let herself drink them all; she didn’t want to make herself sick and still be sick tomorrow at work, or to gain weight, or for Shannon to come lollygagging in and find her a little soused and the beer all gone. She could just hear him: “What, you drank all my fucking Negris? Sheesh!”
Shannon Boner, her husband. Couldn’t believe she’d married a Boner. At least she hadn’t taken his name. No way was she going to be Veronica Boner.
She fretted about work. Some church group was raising a stink about the posters for the marathon Hobie had come up with that said “Satan Is Lord” in blood-dripping lettering and showed a scene of a wild-eyed bare-breasted Asian girl with a gruesome, gore-dripping hole in her chest, holding out a blood-dripping heart to the viewer. This, Hobie had said, was from a movie titled Succubus, the Girl of Prey, that was supposed to be shown Sunday night. The church group objected to both the reference to Satan and the image of the girl and, in a letter to Hobie, shared with the local news media, made reference to the Westside Slasher, but hadn’t directly mentioned the rumor the Slasher’s victims’ hearts had been cut out.
The slasher thing brought to mind that time a couple years before when a guy tried to drag her into his car outside the vintage clothing shop where she worked as she was waiting at the bus stop. He may have seen her there before and knew when she got off and would be at the stop. He was a thirtyish guy who looked very straight, balding with blond hair in a widow’s peak. She didn’t know cars, but it was a small black car. He had a big weird grin, showed a lot of gums and his teeth were dull yellow and had cracks in them. Looked like he was delighted as he pulled her forward in a strong grip, until she, in desperation, bit his hand until he yowled and let go.
She ran back to the shop where her boss, Helen, an older woman, was fortunately still present. The car charged up and sped away. She didn’t get the license number. Helen thought she should call the police, but she didn’t want to because she was frazzled and wanted to go home. Helen gave her a ride home. She hadn’t worked there much longer.