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"That apartment's been empty for years," John said.

"You bet."

"So what happens next?" I said.

"The cops — four uniforms — go up into the apartment and they're in there a while. The old lady's still outside wringing her hands and looking like she's gonna have a heart attack right then and there. So Gustavo says fuck it, leaves his drink on the bar and walks over and asks the lady what's going on and the lady tells him that she keeps hearing this loud banging sound coming from upstairs. She's spooked. The apartment's wiring's bad and nobody's supposed to be up there. She's too scared to check it out herself so she calls the cops.

"Finally they come back down, and three of them are carrying kids wrapped in blankets. Little kids. A few minutes later an ambulance arrives. Turns out the kids are a year old, two years old, and about three years old — two boys and the oldest one's a girl. Their parents went dead two days ago, OD'd on heroin and then came back with brains so fried they were totally retarded, wandering around and jabbering and bumping into walls. But that's where they were living, in the old apartment over the flower shop. Squatters, sneaking in and out at night."

"So they died. And came back…?"

"Five days later. But for those five days…"

"Oh shit. Nobody to take care of the kids. They're lucky they didn't starve to death."

"Right. And the apartment's a total shithouse. Gustavo talked to one of the cops and I guess it was pretty grim. Garbage all over the place, clothes and dirty diapers and human shit all over the floor. The three-year-old told them that they were drinking out of the toilet bowl. Sinks hadn't worked in years."

"What'd they do with the parents?" John said.

"Dead junkies walking? Took 'em straight to the ovens. Can you believe it? Stuff like that happening right across the street?"

"So what was the banging sound?"

"Huh?"

"The banging sound the old lady heard."

"Oh jesus, yeah. The three-year-old was whacking cockroaches with a hammer. That's what they ate."

My stomach went sour. John was shaking his head. But it was just another case in point as far as I was concerned. Some people were total fuck-ups, alive or dead.

Even after the roaches-as-baby-food story Neal still had the munchies. He ordered two more sides. Oysters on the half-shell and grilled octopus. I ordered another drink.

I guess we were all getting pretty tanked. The ass-end of Happy Hour was long gone and it was getting dark. We listened to Jagger singing "Midnight Rambler" on the juke. The bar was filling up. Now that the sun was going down most of the action was coming in. Down at the end, Madeline was sitting with her current squeeze and we heard her laugh at something he said, the same phony laugh she always used on them, a lawyer's laugh, dry as a ten-page brief. Madeline drank zombies. She thought that was pretty funny.

"Be honest," John said. "You ever make it with one?"

"With a dead woman?" I shook my head. "Never. But Burt did. You know Burt, he'll fuck damn near anything."

Neal laughed. "Burt? That psycho's so perpetually horny he'd probably fuck this plate of octopus."

"Better finish it quick then," John said, "case he comes in. Burt say it was any good?"

"Said it was damn good, actually. Wasn't what he expected, her being dead and all. I guess it got pretty lively. Of course he had his Colt under the mattress just in case. He said they're not cold inside the way you'd think. More like room temperature."

"Stands to reason," John said.

"Get one at high noon this time of year, I bet she cooks," said Neal.

"But what about winter? Be like sticking your johnson in a Slurpee."

"It'd be different, that's for sure." He shrugged and sucked down an oyster. Then his eyes bugged and he swallowed fast. "Eyes left, gentlemen," he said. "I mean really left!"

We looked.

"Christ in a coffee shop," John said. "She looks like…she looks just like…"

"…Daryl Hannah," I said. "Oh my god."

And for a moment I thought the tall, willowy blonde peering in through the window really was Daryl Hannah. The resemblance was utterly uncanny. The long, wild hair, those thick, parted lips, that graceful neck, those big, bottomless eyes.

Neal damn near knocked over his scotch.

"She's looking right at us!" he whispered.

She was.

I was loaded enough to shoot her a smile and raise my glass. Neal and John just gawked at her.

"Know what, fellas? I'm not sure she's looking at us," John said. "I think she's looking at you, slugger!" He slapped me on the back. Hard. Scotch spilled. Ice tinkled in the glass.

But he was right. It was me she was looking at. Our eyes held for a moment.

And then she was gone.

John slapped me again, easier this time. "Don't take it too hard, old buddy. You know the babes. One minute you're Mr. Chick Magnet, you're fucking Fabio for a second, and then…"

"Chopped liver," said Neal.

"That's right, chopped liver. Maybe she caught one of your two grey hairs. Thought you were old enough to be her daddy."

"I am old enough to be her daddy."

"Nah," said Neal. "She took one look at our man here and realized he was out of her league. That she's outclassed all the way. Huffed off probably to pout about it."

"No she didn't," said John. He was looking over my shoulder. "Huh?"

"She didn't huff off. She's coming in."

I turned and there were those eyes on me again, directly focused on mine like lasers coming toward me. There was something deliberate and almost predatory about the way she walked. The designer jeans were so tight they looked sewn onto her hips and legs. Long, long legs. Daryl Hannah legs. I get my share I guess but I knew I didn't deserve this. God was either smiling or laughing at me. I didn't know which.

She stopped directly in front of us and her gaze took us all in. "Who's got the balls to buy me a drink?" she said.

"Why does it take balls?" I said. First thing that came to mind. The scotch speaking.

"Because after a couple I might be more than you can handle. When we go back to my place, that is."

I guess we all came pretty close to losing our drinks through our noses on that one.

Bar-tramp, I thought. Either that or a prostitute. Though I'd never seen a whore who looked as good as she did. But when they came onto you that hard, you knew something was wrong. Ordinarily it was an instant turn-off. Not with her, though. Not with some Daryl Hannah look-alike. With this one it went the other way. You just had to play it through. See where it went.

"You sure know how to make an impression, lady," John said. "Thanks. I'll have a Hurricane. Who's buying?"

I was. I introduced her to John and Neal and told her my name. She shook hands like a man, hard and abrupt.

"And you?" I said.

She laughed. "You care about my name? You guys really give a damn about my name? Come on. That's not what you care about."

The smile softened it some but she was still being an asshole. Haughty, arrogant, maybe buzzing on something stronger than a Hurricane — whatever the hell that was. Maybe even crazy. In a bar you got used to seeing them now and then.

She asked what we did for a living. Another turn-off under most circumstances, asking right off the top that way. But we told her. Artist, cameraman, writer. She didn't seem particularly interested or particularly uninterested either. Just seemed to take it in. Normally you tell a woman you're a writer the next question is what do you write. Not with this package. She nodded and drank and pretty soon the first one was gone so I ordered her another.