“We got into the car and drove away. Eva opened the glove compartment and looked in, and said, ‘Where’s that joint I left in here?’ I told her I’d smoked it. We got on the freeway. Eva said, ‘This guy I was talking to put XTC in my drink.’ She stared out the window, then said, ‘He seemed really nice, despite that. That drug made me so — hot. God, I wanted him. So he took me into this room, but there were these two other guys there. I tried to get away. They just laughed. They threw me on the bed. Over and over, they took turns.
“‘What?’ I said.
“‘They did everything,’ Eva said. She started to cry.
“‘Do you want to go to the hospital? Do you want to call the police?’
“‘No,’ she said. ‘Just take me home.’
“‘Okay,’ I said. After I dropped her off, I went home myself. Mommy wasn’t there. At the door were some roses waiting. They were from Daddy, for me. A card said: ‘Flowers for my flower. Please don’t be mad at me, honey. I love you.’
“I took a shower, dressed, and I drove down to the mall where my father’s store was. I watched him from outside, watched him talk and laugh with two of his female employees. He was being flirtatious. I wondered if he was sleeping with one of them, or both? And where was this Tammy?
“I left. I drove around. I stopped and got gas. I called my mother. Mommy answered, but I hung up. What did I have to say? What could I say? Writer though I supposedly was, I could think of nothing to say. I called Eva; there was no answer. I drove to a liquor store and looked at the selections. There was a short old man behind the counter. I told him I wanted a pint of bourbon. He looked at me and said, ‘You old enough to buy this stuff, missy?’ I said yeah. He asked for ID. I got out my fake ID, which I had had since I was sixteen, and slammed it down on the counter. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said defensively, and sold me the pint of bourbon.
“I sat in my car and turned on the radio. I opened the bottle. Drank. It stung. I forced myself. I drank nearly half the pint, very fast, feeling it burn down my throat. I sat back, eyes closed, and listened to the music. Quickly, the Warmth spread from my stomach to my blood, bones, and brain. This is better, I thought. I feel much better.”
“Hey, look who’s here,” Amelia says.
Chapter 8…
“Holly,” Amelia says. “Ms. Late. In the flesh.”
We all turn to look. A slender Asian woman with jet black hair in a dress and overcoat approaches the table. She smiles and says hello to all and they say hello back. She looks at me.
I nod, ready to explain my presence, but Amelia does it for me, saying, “This is Leonard; he’s Tasha’s ex-hubby.”
“Well,” Holly says.
Amelia moves into the booth and Holly sits by her. I notice Holly has wider eyes than most Asian women and wonder if she’s fully Asian.
Tasha waves for the waitress.
Holly looks at me and says, “You must feel gauche.”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Or lucky,” she says. “How many men wouldn’t kill for the chance to be with six such wonderful women?”
“Here, here,” from Sheila.
The waitress comes by. More rounds are ordered. I notice Lisa looking down at something, nothing, then look up. I wish I knew what she was thinking about. I want to ask how Eva is, if she ever ran across Waite again.
“Sorry I’m late,” Holly says. “Again.”
“Again,” Cara says, smiling.
Holly says, “But we found out who’s been sending me all that e-mail. We finally caught the bastard.”
“You did?” says Sheila.
“Someone’s been harassing Holly on-line,” Tasha tells me. “It’s been going on for a while.”
“I don’t have e-mail,” I say.
“He doesn’t even have a computer,” Tasha says.
“I got a late start on the information superhighway,” I say.
“Well,” Holly starts.
“So what about this guy who’s been sending you the e-mail?” Cara says.
“You don’t want to get Holly started on the information superhighway thing,” Amelia says to me. “She’ll never shut up.”
“Well, this guy,” Holly says, “turns out to be the system administrator of our computer network!”
“What?” says Sheila.
“At your work?” Tasha says.
“The very one,” Holly says.
“I thought he was helping you catch the guy,” Lisa says.
“That’s probably why we couldn’t figure out who he was.”
I ask, “What kind of e-mail was he sending you?”
“He was a pervert,” Sheila says. “And even if I do like perverts,” she grins, “this guy is, was — is a jerk.”
“Sexually harassing stuff, mostly,” Holly tells me. “What he wanted to do to me: rape, bondage, the usual garbage.”
I don’t know what the usual garbage is.
Holly says, “We knew whoever was doing it had to have known a lot about system networking and hacking. The headers of his e-mail gave no origination routes, so there was no way to trace where they were coming from. I had a feeling it was someone in the company, because the guy knew how I dressed, what my schedule was — so I knew it wasn’t somebody off the net, like from one of the Usenet groups I post to now and then. I would look at the men in my office and wonder, ‘Are you the one?’ The thing is, Mr. Huegen, the sys-op who was doing it, is a quiet, nice fellow. Tall and thin, wears glasses, acts shy.”
“The perfect neighbor-next-door,” Sheila says, “turns out to be a psycho-killer on America’s Most Wanted, and everyone is shocked—‘Oh, he was the perfect, quiet neighbor.’”
“Yeah,” Holly says, “I know.”
“That’s insane,” Amelia says.
“I feel like such an idiot,” Holly says.
“Don’t,” Tasha tells her. “How could you have known it was him?”
“I told Huegen how much these letters were bothering me, that I was scared, and he seemed so sincere, as if he understood. But—”
“—he was secretly laughing about it,” Cara finishes.
The waitress returns, placing the drinks down.
“Boy, do I need one of these,” says Holly, drinking half of it with one drag on the straw. “What a day — but I don’t want to talk about it. What were you kids chatting about before I got here and what do you”—she looks at me—“think of all this?”
“Drinking,” Amelia says, “Lisa’s drinking.”
“It’s interesting,” I say.
“Or when she used to be a drinker,” Amelia adds.
“I bet,” I say, and I’m not sure I understand Holly’s glare. Her eyes are too dark, and so is this bar.
“We’re all drinkers right now,” my ex-wife says.
“The first time I got really drunk — and it was my first time ever drinking anything — I was, I think, thirteen,” Cara says. “It was gin. Things were spinning everywhere. I puked all over the place.”
“Did you do anything bad?” Sheila asks.
“Nah. I was inside, alone, at home, and bored, and I wanted to try the gin my folks had out. From that day until now, I can’t drink gin.”
“Maybe I’ll order a gin and tonic next,” Sheila smiles.
Lisa still stares at her wine glass; I still want to know what she’s thinking.
“I don’t think I’ve really ever gotten drunk-drunk,” Amelia says. “At least not to the point where I’ve gotten out of control or sick.”
“You must’ve at one time,” Sheila says. “We all have at one time or another.”
I think about Tasha, and Veronica, and other times later, drinking, Tasha and I hitting each other during a fight.
“I’ve lost control before,” Amelia says, “but not from drinking.”