“And then I turned around and saw him. This kid, laid out on the floor like a turkey on the day after Thanksgiving. And these geeks who killed him, they start coming after me, only this—well, somebody scared ‘em off.”
“You go to the cops?”
“No.”
“How come?”
She shrugged, glancing around uneasily. “I don’t know.”
Baby Joe rolled his eyes. “You know, every movie I see, somebody witnesses a horrible murder, but they don’t go to the cops. And I’m like, Why don’t they go to the cops! So, why don’t you—”
Annie started to slide from the booth, furious. “This is not a fucking joke, Baby Joe! If you’re not gonna—”
“Hey! Hija, sit—” His hand clamped around hers and he pulled her into the seat beside him. “It was a rhetorical question. So you saw a bunch of Barbie’s playmates waste this kid and you figure they’ll pin it on you. Okay, I’ll buy it. Hey, if Angie’s involved, I’ll buy anything. So now what?”
Annie glowered, her buzz cut sticking out in tiny spikes around her pale face. She looked even more like a feisty kid than she had back at the Divine. Feisty, but scared. When she didn’t say anything Baby Joe tilted his head toward her second martini.
“Drink that. It’s costing the paper thirty bucks.”
Annie stared at him belligerently. Suddenly her hand shot out; she grabbed the glass and drank it, then gestured for the waitress to bring another.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes watering. She turned sideways to face Baby Joe. “What do you remember about Oliver’s death?”
“Oliver?” Baby Joe looked taken aback. “Oliver Crawford?”
“Yeah. Did you go to his funeral?”
“No.”
“Know anybody who did?”
Baby Joe stared at her, brows furrowed. “No. Hasel and I wanted to go, but we got a call from Professor Warnick. He said the Crawfords didn’t want anyone there but immediate family.”
“Did you ever actually meet his immediate family?”
Baby Joe frowned. “Do you mean do I think they exist? I know they do, my brother was—”
“No—I meant, did you see any of them then. After Oliver supposedly jumped out the window of the hospital.”
Baby Joe was silent. The waitress brought Annie’s drink, disappeared into a flood of ruby light. Baby Joe looked at Annie holding her double martini in both hands, like a child drinking a glass of milk. “You think Angelica killed him?” he said at last.
“I don’t know what I think.” Annie sipped her martini, made a face. “This really costs thirty bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“No wonder your newspaper’s in trouble.” She shuddered. “Listen. I want you to do me a favor.”
Baby Joe raised an eyebrow.
“Labrys canceled the rest of my tour. Angelica called them. I don’t know how she did it—like maybe she pulled Fiona from a flaming plane wreck once and I never knew about it. But Fiona called me a few nights ago and the tour’s off. Angelica Furiano threatened them with a lawsuit, some bullshit about me making a statement to the press that Angelica was involved with that murder in P-town. Only I never talked to the press! I never talked to anyone except Helen and now you. But unless I go along with her, Labrys pulls the plug on me, MTV dumps my video, and the masters for my next album disappear somewhere between here and Iona Studios.”
Baby Joe whistled. “Sounds like you’re fucked, hija.”
“Tell me about it. So I’m going underground for a little bit.” She sighed and leaned back into the booth, her cheeks bright with a false rosy glow from the martini. “See, I’m thinking that maybe Angelica’ll just kind of forget about me. Like maybe she just wanted to scare me; so Whoo! I’m scared.” Annie fluttered her hands in front of her face, then cocked her head. “Think it’ll work?”
“No.” Baby Joe looked at the empty stage, his expression remote. When the music blared out again and another girl pranced onto the platform, he ducked his head to reach inside his jacket. “Here. You better read this.”
It was Hasel’s letter, and the worn obituary notices from the Charlottesville paper. Annie scanned them quickly.
“What is this?” Her face went dead white. “Baby Joe… ?”
“It’s what happened to Hasel,” he said softly.
“But—is it true? I mean, this stuff he wrote you about Angelica?”
“I think it’s true, hija.”
“B-but—but why?” Annie’s voice broke and she looked away. “Why would she kill Hasel?”
“Why would Angelica kill anyone?” Before she could protest, he lit his cigarette and took a drag, leaned over and slid the pages from her hand. “You know what this is, hija?” He waved the papers at her and put them back inside his jacket.
Annie shook her head, hardly seeing him at all. “What?”
“This is some bad fucking fallout from the Benandanti.”
“The Benandanti? But Angelica hated them, she told me! All that patriarchal shit—she was like, way ahead of the curve on that,” Annie said, and in spite of herself smiled wryly. “She’d never go along with the Benandanti.”
“I’m not saying she went along with them. I’m saying she’s coming back at them. You ever read her books? No?” He looked surprised. “I would’ve thought you’d be into that shit—”
“Why? Because I’m a lesbian? Please.” Annie’s glare softened into curiosity. “So what about her books?”
“They’re a fucking blueprint for a new religion, that’s what. Dios ka naman! She’s got women from here to Bombay, reading this stuff, making these círculos—” He inscribed a circle in the air, looking as though he’d spit into it. “—these, like, covens. Talagang bruja! When I first read her stuff, I couldn’t believe it—I mean, I couldn’t believe anyone would buy into it. Goddess rippers! Like Witchcraft 101. But now…”
His black eyes grew distant, unfocused; looking at him, Annie shivered. The Benandanti. For the first time in years she thought about Baby Joe being one of them. She swallowed, her mouth tasting bitterly of vermouth.
“Not any more, hija,” he said softly. “I’m like Angie: I got out. But what she’s doing—Dios ko, this is some serious shit! I been hearing about it for a while, at the paper. We get all the crazies, you know? Wife beaters, guys who want to stick it to little girls, but this is crazier even than that. These guys call us, saying their wives and girlfriends are into some kind of cult, you know—get together with the gals once a month over on the Upper East Side or wherever, and we should be writing about that instead of trade sanctions against Japan. Girlfriends dancing in the moonlight, snake handling, calling up demons, whatever. These guys talk about blood, they say the women’re up to something weird. But you know—guys like that, they always think women are up to something weird. So who pays attention?