Home, sweet home.

Stella is my building. She was originally named "Stellar Apartments" back in the sixties. By the time I bought her, she was so vandalized and covered with graffiti that the only part of the sign that was still legible was the word Stella. The first that I did when I bought her was to tear down the original sign and replace it with chrome lettering. Now it still just reads Stella, but it's much more attractive than it used to be. She's got two floors; five apartments on either floor. My office takes up two of the one-bedroom apartments on the ground floor. I live in the two-bedrooms across the hall, and Percy in the unit next to mine. The second floor is vacant; has been for a few years now.
On my roof there's a boxed garden. If I get out of this mess, I was thinking of building a greenhouse so I can have my tomatoes and peppers year round. Vegetables can get expensive in the city, and hot house tomatoes have no taste anyway.
The garden itself was built by the previous owner. Stella's on the corner facing east and south, so she gets plenty of sunshine. I'm rambling.
When I got back to the office,, I found Percy sifting through online clothing stores; looking for that piece of gothic gold. Did I mention that Percy is a goth kid? Percy is the kind of Goth kid that makes emos step back and say, "Whoa; man." He only ever wears Victorian fashion; riding boots, tails, ruffles, and scarves. He always looks like he just stepped off the set of A Christmas Carol. He even has a silk top hat that he likes to bust out on occasion.
I put my spy kit on the desk in front of him, staggered over to the slightly ratty leather couch in the living room and dropped heavily into it.
I didn't mean for it to be the first thing out of my mouth, but it was. I said, "I ran into Cynthia tonight."
Percy immediately stopped clicking the mouse, swiveled to face me, and said, "The Cynthia? The girl that you've been pining over for over ten years? The one person in this world that might have a chance to get you to stop drinking?"
I raised my weary, bleary eyes to him and said, "Yeah, that's the one."
He pushed himself away from the desk in my direction and leaned in with his hands on his knees saying, "How did that go?"
"She's working as a bartender at Victoria's club."
When I didn't say anything further, Percy slapped the back of my head and said, "Is that all? Come on."
Percy may not look like it, but he's a fighter and I didn't feel like having a tussle, so I suppressed the urge to hit him back and said, "What else do you want? She's working ass a bartender in a strip club and living in Russel. We had a nice conversation and I did my fucking job."
Do you know that look that girls get when they know you're holding out on them? Percy donned that visage and said, "Are you serious? Are you really going to tell me that you didn't even get her phone number?"
I was drunk. I so did not feel like talking about much of anything, but I knew that Percy would not let me go to bed until he at least had a summary of what went on with me and Cynthia. I took out my phone, tossed it to Percy and said, "She put her number in my phone and made me promise to call her."
Percy quickly looked up Cynthia's number and wrote it down on a rolodex card saying, "Are you going to?"
Rubbing my temples, I said, "I'll think about it."
This earned me another smack to the back of the head; harder than the last one.
"Think, nothing! If you don't call this girl, I will, and I'll fill her in on every intimate detail of the last decade."
I knew Percy was serious. I also knew what would happen if he was the one to tell /Cynthia about my life to date. Visions of flying rolling pins danced through my head for a moment. I closed my eyes and said, "I'll call her on Monday."
Percy tossed my phone on the couch and said, "How was the party?"
I glanced over tat my spy kit and said, "There's a few faces on there that need to disappear. You'll know when you see them. Call Bobby and tell him that he'll have everything he needs. There was more than enough gash being hashed at that party to give an old Irish Catholic a heart attack."
Percy nodded and set about uploading the video on the computer. I never was much for the technical side of detective work. It's a good thing that I've got Percy or I'd be completely adrift.
I pulled Punch's card from my pocket and tossed it on the table saying, "We need to call this guy tomorrow. He's an accountant for the Malloys."
Percy snatched up the card and said, "Punch? Like fruit punch?"
I smiled and said, "You should be so lucky. I really have no idea. Victoria gave me his card and said that he would bring us a stack of job apps."
Percy tucked Punch's card in a sleeve on the rolodex and asked, "Did anything else interesting happen tonight?"
I told him about Tommy and Katsumi, making note that she said nothing about my eyes. It's a rare thing when someone doesn't mention them.
I told Percy that I had a meeting with Benny, and that I would be taking care of the business with Punch. The last thing I remember before nodding off on the couch was Percy saying something about detective Ruiz, dinner, and Thursday.

Cheers

Home; Chicago, my dark kingdom. I call Chicago the Dark Kingdom because every Batman movie that's worth a shit was filmed here (excepting of course, Adam West's original), that and it's just so fucking big, and dark. I had a lot to think about on my way back to the DK. Forty minutes of it, with Fats Domino, Etta James, and Susan Tedeschi filling in the background. Mostly, my thoughts kept creeping back to Cynthia, and how we were together. I actually hadn't thought of Cynthia in a couple of months; not at any length anyway. I tried to concentrate on the work that lay ahead of me, but her amber eyes kept popping up, burning into my brain; keeping me off balance.
Thoughts of invoices and interviews were constantly interrupted by rumpled linen sheets and butterflies in the garden at the compound. New equipment lists were ripped to shreds by soft moans and singing in the ballroom. By the time, I reached Ohio St. I abandoned all hope of keeping Cynthia out of my thoughts.
I exited ninety-four at twenty-second St. and took it down to Uncle Benny's Irish Pub on the east end of Chinatown. It was three a.m. so I had a little time before last call. I felt like topping off the buzz that I had been acquiring through the night.
I took off my party glasses and tossed them in the glove box along with my mp3 recorder. I looked at my eyes in the mirror for a moment. A lot of people find my eyes disturbing. First off, they're blue, so the black hair really makes them stand out. They're not just blue though. My eyes are more like a bluish white really, than actual blue. It's not like an albino's eyes, but not far off either. Second, they never smile. Only a very select few people can make the smile come out in my eyes. Tommy Tsung, the bartender at Uncle Benny's is one of the few souls in my life who doesn't find my eyes disturbing. Uncle Benny is another.
Uncle Benny came to America forty years ago with nothing but twenty bucks and a dream. Benny Tsung wanted to own an Irish pub. Benny worked at more then twenty different Irish pubs between New York and the Dark Kingdom. He literally walked from the Statue of Liberty to Millennium Park. It took him five years to get here. He sold booze in at least seventeen different cities. When Benny finally got to the DK, he was two grand in the black, and looking to set up shop.
Thirty-five years ago, two k was quite enough to get started. He rented his space and bought booze and a license. For the first five years, he slept on a bed roll behind the bar and spent every last dime on making improvements. Over the course of ten years, his bar went from being a dinky little chirish dive to being a dark, smoky, dirty, grimy, beautiful Irish pub.
Benny has all of his furnishings from the same family owned Irish imports company, so by the time that he had any substantial gains from his efforts, he had a substantial discount on all of his furnishings. When Benny got word from home, about twenty years ago, that he had ten nephews, he changed the name of the pub from "Song Tsung Blue" to Uncle Benny's Irish Pub. Fifteen years ago, Benny finally bought the building and currently lives in the remodeled flat on the third floor.
When I walked in the door, Benny's nephew, Tommy greeted me with his big gopher grin. When I first started out with my business, Uncle Benny was having problems with vandals coming around; breaking his windows, burning large patches on the door with hairspray, general hoodlum shit. The police weren't doing anything for Benny because their hands were full elsewhere, so Benny found me in the phone book and called me up. He told me he'd give me an unlimited tab at the bar if I would take care of his problem.
This was Before I partnered up with Percy so I told him it was a done deal. I staked out the front of Uncle Benny's for three days before anything happened. On the third night, around four am, these four kids came walking down the street. They were all wearing homemade ninja costumes and one had a milk crate in his hands that clinked with the sound of full glass bottles with every step. I smelled the gasoline before they made it half way down the block.
By the time that I was finished with those thugs, they were all tied to a lamp post, doused in their own gasoline and I was standing over them with my grandfather's commemorative CPD Zippo burning in my hand. I didn't say anything to them. I didn't need to. When the police showed up four hours later, they were crying and begging to be thrown in holding cells so the "eyeless mother fucker" couldn't come back and burn them.
Nowadays, when I want to drink, I just walk down the street and pop in to see Tommy or Benny. I'm pretty sure that's why Benny helped me get my building at such a low rate. The only liquor I still keep in my apartment is Bailey's and Berenjager.
I walked up to the bar, sat down, and was immediately presented with a tall Crown and Coke. I thanked Tommy, who's grin was plastered to his face like it was painted on, and took a look around the bar.
It was the usual Friday night crowd. All but three tables by the door were packed with second shifters, lowlifes, and late night partiers. The jukebox was blaring "Hurt so good" by John Cougar Mellencamp while the Irish band cleared their equipment from the small stage in the back corner. There was a blonde sitting with some friends who had noticed me when I came in. She absolutely wreaked of the coven, and Hawaiian white ginger. When my gaze rested on her for a moment, she winked at me. She had extremely deep brown eyes; so deep that they could have been red. I'd just seen Cynthia for the first time in over a decade. I was so not in the mood to let some young stripper try to work me over. I just passed over her like she was part of the scenery.
Off to my right was a table filled with UPS teamsters drinking their paychecks and flirting with the waitress. One of them; a big, beefy fucker with hair and eyes to match the color of the trucks he loaded for a living, had his hand up her short denim skirt, fondling her left butt cheek.
I think I've made it clear that I have very few scruples about who I work for. Uncle Benny's Irish Pub is a front for a Chinese brothel. The waitresses disappear at random into the back rooms past the kitchen for fifteen minutes to an hour at a time. I've been propositioned non-gratis for services rendered to the bar. Now, I'm not one to turn down a pretty face out of hand, butt something about the smell of shower sex with some nameless face in the bar cranks up my moral-o-meter.
I'm not being judgmental; just cautious.
The only things about Uncle Benny's that don't look Irish are the bartenders, the waitresses, and the bathrooms. There's little that screams "Chinatown!!!" like the intricate tile work on the floors and walls of Uncle Benny's privies. It's like stepping from Dublin to Canton in three easy inches.
The bar itself sat in front of the kitchen in an L shape from the corner in front of the stage to the middle of the wall to the right of the door. Uncle Benny never put an entrance in the bar. If you wanted to get back there, you had to either jump it or go through the back rooms. Bags of sawdust lay stacked in a corner by the office door, just in case. All in all, it's a pretty nice place.
It took three Crown and Cokes to get my head too fuzzy to linger on too much of anything. Tommy knows how I like my drinks. Most men my size would be put in a severe coma by the sheer volume of alcohol that I consume on a daily basis. What can I say? It's all in a day's work.
I've known Tommy for two years now; ever since he was fresh off the boat. His dream is to be a news anchor. He's been taking speech lessons since he got here and now he sounds a lot like Dan Rather. Tommy drinks almost as much as I do, but he's still a good kid.
By the time that I was halfway through my fourth Crown and Coke (I'm not much for beer), I finally remembered the actual reason that I came to Benny's that night. Getting drunk is not a reason. It's an excuse.
I looked to my left and saw Tommy chatting up a very cute asian girl. I reached over and tugged on his sleeve. He looked my way and I motioned him to come in close.
Tommy brought his chin to my shoulder and I said, "Tell your uncle that I need to see him tomorrow." The first try sounded something more like "Kell erncle Inedu seem chumba." By the third try, I just said, fuck it and forced my brain to function.
In that moment, I noticed something significant. Tommy had pulled away to give the universal "just a sec" sign, so I took a sec to look over his potential lass. First off, her eyes were fixed on Tommy. Secondly, she was biting the inside of her lower lip. Third thing; the fingers of her left hand were fidgeting with last three inches of her chestnut hair. Fourth, and finally, her right thumb was stroking the neck of her Corona bottle.
I'd never seen a girl look at Tommy that way before. I just had to know what kind of girl my friend was landing.
When Tommy brought his attention back to me, I said, "She really likes you, man."
Tommy glanced at her then asked me, "How can you tell?"
I smiled and said, "I can smell it on her. What's her name?"
"Katherine."
I smirked and said, "What's her real name?"
Tommy smiled sheepishly and said, "Katsumi."
My eyebrows raised a little and I said, "Japanese girl, huh? What's Uncle Benny have to say about that?"
There was a distinct and audible "thud" as Tommy shrugged his shoulders and said, "This is America, Jack. Benny can think whatever he wants. It's not going to make a lick of difference, if he sees grandnephews."
I couldn't help myself. My eyes wide in shock I said, "Wow! Did it hurt?"
Tommy got a confused look on his face and said, "Did what hurt?"
I grinned and said, "Just now, when your balls dropped. You should really pick those things up, man. You don't want 'em dragging, you know."
Tommy smiled, embarrassed. He was used to my back-handed jokes and compliments, but they always hit close enough to home to make him blush a little, or a reasonable facsimile there of. Tommy has a good sense of humor though, and takes everything in stride. He adjusted himself accordingly, and sniffed with faux derision.
He said, "So, what do you need to see Benny about?"
"Irish guy, name of Robert Malloy. He's in the family way, and I need to know things that computers don't."
Tommy knew exactly what I was talking about. It's very difficult for Chinese americans to operate on the levels that Uncle Benny operates on without having connections with Triad. You've played six degrees of Kevin Bacon. You do the math.
Tommy nodded and headed over to the other side of the bar, yelling back at the irate customer who was in turn, yelling at him to "Stop dragging ass!"
Katsumi traveled the two seats down the bar to sit next to me. She moved with all the confidence of a dancer and all the grace of an inveterate office clerk.
She said, "So, you're the infamous Jack Bowman."
I gave her the most sober and suave look that I could manage. This consisted of one half raised eyebrow and a pale shadow of an Elvis sneer.
I said, "So, you're the infamous Katherine."
This was apparently quite amusing because the lovely Katsumi burst with laughter.
Tommy turned around with a jealous look on his face, which faded when he saw that it was me making her laugh. I'd been trying to hook that boy up since I met him. There was no way I'd try to make a move on his girl. The last girlfriend he'd had, left him to make internet porn with every Harry Dick and John that didn't mind being filmed. Besides, everyone who hangs out at Uncle Benny's know who I am. They know that I'm the reason that you don't mess with Uncle Benny or his family. From that night on, no one at that bar would ever try anything with Katsumi Shinobi.
When she was finished laughing, she brushed aside her hair with her left hand and offered me her right, saying, "Just call me Kat. It's easier."
I gave her a knowing smile and took her fingers in my hand. I said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Kat. I'm sure you'll be seeing a lot more of me. This is my haunt after all."
I released her hand and she said, "Tommy's told me a lot about you. I must say that your apparent sense of honor impresses me."
Tommy has a habit of playing me up when he tells people about me. I said as much to Kat. We talked for about twenty minutes before Tommy called last call. She told me how she and Tommy had met on the blue line the week before. She said that she fell in love with him the second he gave up his seat for her. We talked about law school and dealing with cops. Kat was going in for small business law. I told her about my police liaison, Detective Ruiz, and about Percy and how we got into business together.
When last call was sounded, I excused myself and headed for the door. I would be walking home that night, as I do at least three nights a week. I've never gotten a DUI and I'd like to keep it that way.
I went to my car, grabbed my spy kit and started the trek two blocks north, to Stella.

Reunions

I found Victoria's choice of words unsettling, but hid my discomfort with practiced ease. Victoria led me into the hallway where she instructed me to turn my camera back on. We then went back out onto the balcony where we were met by writhing, sweaty bodies and the powerful voice of Peter Steele, singing "I like Goils" coming from the loud speakers. Coming out the door, we veered immediately to the left. We walked along the catwalk over the main floor. At the intersection, we came across a couple of furries engaged with one another. He had on an elaborate goat costume which had obviously received much love and care in the making. The mask, which as proportionately accurate as I've ever seen, featured glass eyes with amber irises framing the horizontal hourglass pupils. The horns were actual goat horns that had been etched in gold. The face itself actually had faux fur with tan, white, and black facial markings. Said mask was attached to a faux fur cowl with the same colors which draped down just past his chest in front, and down to form a tail at his posterior. On his forearms, he wore faux fur gauntlets. He wore a pair of faux fur speedos which apparently opened at the crotch, as well as faux fur leg warmers over a pair of hoof-like boots. His bare skin was airbrushed in the same colors and pattern as the cowl and mask.
His playmate was dressed as a red vixen. Her costume had obviously been constructed by the same hands that had produced the goat costume. Her face was covered by a tightly fitted faux fur vixen mask which connected to a cowl which came down to the middle of her back, but covered nothing of her natural endowments in front. Instead, it came down to her collarbone where it attached to full-length sleeves. If she had been wearing her own bikini at some point, it was long forgotten by now. All the bare skin on her backside, hips, thighs, feet and hands was air-brushed in red. All of her nails were painted black. She wore wrap lace six inch stiletto sandals underneath her leg warmers. The front of her from breast to box was blessedly bare. Her pale flesh was light enough a hue to simulate the white crest of the beast she wished to emulate.
With her hands gripped firmly around the guard rail, she pushed herself back into her lover's thrusts. As I followed Victoria along the catwalk, I noticed the fluff of red and white fur which indicated the tail and bikini which completed the vixen ensemble.
The section on the opposite wall where Victoria seemed to be taking me looked like a series of storage rooms filled with dim lighting and couches. Each of these little rooms had impromptu curtains hung at the entrance to offer a sense of privacy. There were seven rooms in all. Each looked to be about six feet square. Several of the rooms had the curtains drawn to hide the obvious activities going on inside. Were the music not blaring so loudly, I certainly would have heard the goings on that I had glimpsed on Victoria's security monitors.
When we reached the balcony, Victoria directed me to the right. We walked down to the fifth set of curtains. Victoria stopped, drew aside the curtain and guided me inside. Once inside the threshold, I had to stop short. I literally froze in place. The scent in this room was as familiar to me as my own, as familiar to me as the lithe yet curvaceous shape laying seductively across the couch in front of me. My nostrils flared of their own accord and my hackles raised, as it were.
Victoria stepped past me into the room and with a grand gesture said, "Norman MacQuade, I would like to introduce you to Synergy." Cynthia.
I released the breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Memories flooded the room like a backwash of velvet covered boulders; each one hitting me hard, but not entirely unpleasantly. The smell of lilies and fresh cut grass overwhelmed all of my senses. For a moment, I was back in Beatrice's library, sitting on the divan in front of a warm fire in the middle of a very cold January with Cynthia's head resting on my chest. I recalled looking down at her oval face and watching the flames dance in her enormous amber eyes as it gently illuminated her high cheek bones and button nose. Though it was more than ten years ago, I could still feel her short, sugar blonde hair between my fingers. I could still feel her delicate fingers resting on my lower ribs. Her right shoulder tucked under my left, we laid wordlessly for hours, just enjoying the feeling of each other. She always said that she loved the way my skin felt; that we should just lay in bed all day some time, and just be naked with each other.
We never got the chance to do that. I left the commune after being there for only a year or so, and just never really kept in touch. The two months that I had with Cynthia were the brightest time that I can remember. It seems such a shame now that we were cut short so quickly.
Cynthia had changed certain things. Her hair was red now, a little darker than Victoria's almost burgundy curls. The sequined belly dancer costume was certainly a far cry from the baggy white sweater and tight jeans that she wore when I first met her. Overall though, she was still the same exact Cynthia who made me laugh until I cried, and made me cry when I needed to. I haven't cried in a very long time.
I did not miss a beat. I did not skip a step. I released Victoria's hand, took a step forward, then offered my hand to Cynthia saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Synergy."
She blushed when she took my hand, just like she had so many years ago. Then those terribly familiar words came tumbling out of her mouth, filling me with a sense akin to de javu. "Just call me Sin. Everyone else does."
Just like rote, the long unuttered words that I had almost never hoped to say again, "I could never call you a sin." For the first second time, I raised her proffered hand to my lips and kissed it. Just as it had then, her blush deepened and again, when I said once again, "It would make me a hypocrite."
Victoria stepped out silently with a look of approval plastered on her slightly pinched features.
When boss lady was gone, Cynthia jumped up and hugged me so tightly that I was afraid she might break my mp3 thing. Something did break though, I'll tell you that for free. The last decade or so just melted away and I wrapped my arms around her and breathed in her scent. I was twenty-one again and she, nineteen. We were standing under the mistletoe at Christmas dinner. The other hundred and fifty or so members of the commune were either sitting to eat, talking in their small cliques, or cutting a rug.
Just as suddenly, I was thirty-three again, and it was a frigid fucking February, and my hand was once again in her hair; three feet longer now than it had been then. I crept my hand up her neck, grabbed a handful of hair and twisted it tight. She gasped a little, then backed up with one eyebrow raised saying, "You always said you wanted to do that."
Her voice has this breathy quality that makes my heart slow down then skip a beat. When it was time to cool my temper, Cynthia was always the first person that everyone would turn to. Her voice quiets the beast. I cupped her left cheek in the palm of my hand and said, "What are you doing here?"
Cliché I know, but what else do you say in a situation like this?
She turned it around on me saying, "What are you doing with that ridiculous moustache? It looks like a Chihuahua scooted across your upper lip!" She sniffed the air and a look of revulsion crossed her face as if someone had thrown rotten meat at her. She said, "Oh God! You've been drinking! A lot."
I had no response for her; no witty retort about embalming or preservatives. I could only stand in silence while shame quietly crept over me. This was the woman that I measured all women up against. It didn't matter where she was or why she was there. She was still the same Cynthia that I remembered, and I had changed drastically in a downward direction.
Cynthia didn't let me remain morose. She quickly gave me a kiss, then rubbed her upper lip where my moustache made her itch. The humor of the scene made me smile though I still felt the pangs of guilt gnawing away at my subconscious. I heard that little bastard at the back of your head who likes to kick you when you're down. You know, the little fucker that's always wearing a blue and yellow baseball cap and a ripped red t-shirt. What the fuck are you thinking, you loopy cock-sucker?!? You think you can still measure up? When's the last time you went on the hunt? You're pathetic! In my head, he always sounds like a midget.
She sat me down on the couch, then sat down next to me and nuzzled her right shoulder under my left. She undid two of the buttons on my blue Hawaiian shirt and slid her hand inside to rest it on my stomach. All that was missing was the library and the fireplace. Almost as an afterthought, she sat up, snatched my glasses and tossed them on the table. Thankfully, they did not break. She looked me in the eyes and said, "Don't ever wear glasses around me. I've missed these eyes, and I wanna see 'em while I've got 'em."
Just then a disturbing thought occurred to me. I said. "Did you know that I was going to be here?"
Her face turned slightly stricken. She knew what I was thinking. Emotional attachments aside, how could I not have suspicions?
She bit her lip, embarrassed, then tapped her fingers on my chest and said, "I heard Vic mention your name yesterday. I was in shock, so I told her that I knew you. She asked me how long it had been since I'd seen you. I told her and then she told me to be here tonight. Don't usually do the parties. I just bartend next door."
At that moment, I was hit by a ton of bricks called relief. After what I've seen, I'm not sure how well I could handle my Cynthia being a dancer.
"Speaking of the bar," said she, "I have to be around guys who smell the way you do all night. If I'm gonna see you again, I wanna smell less of it."
I smiled at her and said, "Is that a threat? You gonna sic the dogs on me?"
She smirked and said, "You've seen the dogs that we have here."
Thoughts of Mr. Sweeney made me squirm a little. I said, "Yeah, about that. Do you know what you're in the middle of here?"
Cynthia blew a stay hair out of her face and said, "I know exactly where I am, mister. When I left the coven, I left their ways with them. I don't take after bigots like Donald. So long as we remain civilized, everyone gets along just fine."
"How much does she know about me?" The question was burning too hotly to be denied.
She hit me in the chest with her fist and said, "Probably more than I do. I haven't seen or even heard from you in twelve years. Ass! You could have at least sent me an e-mail."
Her eyes burned through me with the passionate fire which still sometimes invades my dreams. I never could turn away when she had that look. It was like staring into a vortex of inferno, flames dancing and swirling into each other in a scene that could have been choreographed by Fred Astaire.
She resumed her comfortable position under my arm and said, "I don't know how much Vic knows about you. She's a very tight-lipped human being. All I really know about her is that she's a fair boss, and that her brother hates her. I don't even know his name. She always just calls him, 'me bruther'. It seems kind of weird to me, a little too detached. It's like she doesn't really want to acknowledge him. You know what I mean?"
I certainly did. When the police were investigating the bank robbery and my brother's death, they never referred to him as Tony. They only ever called him "the victim". It takes a while, but eventually you become accustomed to detachment. It just becomes a part of the character that you have to assume to make it through the day; like rum, or whiskey. When you finally reach the point where you are no longer feigning aloofness, you should take a moment of silence to mourn the final passing of your childhood. I haven't called a victim by name in eight years.
She went on to say, "You know, Donald won't even let anyone say your name when he's around?"
I cocked my head to look at her face and said, "When did you see Donald?"
She turned her face up to look in my eyes and said, "About a year ago; when I left the coven."
"How long have you been working for the Malloys?"
She rolled her eyes in thought and said, "I've been working here for about eight months now. There's no real benefits, but the pay is good."
Without even thinking about it, I said, "Do you have your own place? I own an apartment building in the city on twentieth. We've got six apartments just taking up space, right now."
Three things happened. First: her eyes lit up like roman candles. Second: she blushed a bright scarlet. Third: she giggled like a school girl. Then, she said, "Don't ever let anyone ask you why I love you." Which she followed up with, "I've got a place in Russel with a two year lease. I don't want to think about how much they'd charge me for early termination."
I could easily cover any charges that her slum land-lord might lay against her, (who the fuck makes you sign a two year lease anymore?) but I bit my tongue. I wouldn't want her to feel beholden to me. Freedom of choice has always been very important to me and I would not assume to take that freedom from someone else, no matter how good my intentions.
I decided that changing the topic might be good tac. I said, "What made you leave the coven?" I hadn't called it a coven in a very long time, so the word stumbled clumsily off my tongue rather like a sailor walking sown the wharf on his second night of shore leave. Certain things are by rule when you separate yourself from the commune. First, and foremost: you don't talk about the commune to outsiders. I've only ever talked to Percy about it. Second: if the commune calls you, you answer. I've never had to worry about that one.
Cynthia just stared off at the curtains for a moment then said, "It was Jody."
I thought about it for a moment. When I couldn't match the name to a face, I said, "Who?"
She waved her hand dismissively and said, "You don't know him. He joined the coven maybe three years ago. Immediately, he was obsessed with me; didn't stop hounding me till the day I left. That, and he was one of Donald's clique, so of course Donald kept on pushing for him. He kept on telling me to give Jody a chance. It was all bullshit. He just wanted to have something over me because he hates you so much. Finally, I just got fed up. I went to Bea, told her I was leaving; she set everything up and out the door I went. No one knows where I am but you and Bea."
That was good to hear. Beatrice is good people, but I fear it won't be too long before Donald makes a move to knock her out of the power seat. When that happens, I may just have to bring myself out of exile. I know Bea'll call me then.
By this point, we had been talking for a good fifteen minutes, and I didn't want to stop, but I was working. I was working on a time limit at that. That was why Victoria had put me into this room with Cynthia in the first place. She wanted me to spend the rest of my time at the party catching up and reminiscing. She really didn't know me. I knew that it would kill this warm, comfortable mood, but I said it anyway.
"So, Victoria said that you're supposed to escort me around the party."
Cynthia dug her nails into my stomach and gave me the look of anguish that I knew was coming.
"You're working."
She knew that work was the only thing that would make me break a moment like this. Of course, If she hadn't known that I was working, she didn't know who I was working for, and I really didn't want to tell her. Thankfully though, I think that she was too upset to ask. Instead, when I nodded she said, "Of course you're working. I've been dreaming of this for twelve years; imagining what I would say to you, what I would do to you. I'll tell you right now, mister; it wasn't all as nice as you got."
I could imagine. That's why I stopped her talking by grabbing her by the back of the neck and kissing her; kissing her the way that I'd been wanting to for so long. This was the kind of kiss that soldiers dream about getting upon their home-coming; the kind of kiss that makes other people blush when they walk in on it.
In that kiss, everything was right. It felt as natural as slipping into my battered bomber; true as the rain on my face. It felt like coming home after trudging through fields, knee-deep in dead bodies. In all honesty, I've seen enough dead bodies to make that analogy fit.
When I released her, she had a dazed and happy look on her face which she promptly shook off before smacking me and saying, "Did I give you permission?"
I simply smiled, scooped her up into my arms and stood up. She squealed and giggled, and I knew that I was forgiven.
She buried her face in my neck and bit me, hard. It'd been so long since anyone touched me the way that she does that I very nearly said, "Fuck work," and threw her back down on the couch. I didn't though. I set her down on her feet and picked up my glasses from the table. They weren't broken, but they had shut off when Cynthia tossed them down. I pressed the button on the right wing until the green light flashed twice to indicate that they were in working order. I checked my recorder to see if it was running. I had to turn it back on as well. This was a good thing. It meant that no one else would hear our conversation. I didn't need Robert finding anything to hold over me. It was bad enough that one mob boss knew that Cynthia and I have a past. If things like that get around, it can cause problems quickly. Look at Superman.
As I was gathering myself, Cynthia reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone. She quickly dialed her cell phone, then with a satisfied expression, placed my phone back in it's proper place.
I was absolutely amazed. I said, "How did you know what pocket that was in?"
She smiled an impish grin and said, "That's the pocket that you always kept your phone book in. Now you can't just ditch out on me again."
I didn't say anything. Nothing needed to be said. I simply cupped her face in my hand and smiled. She put her hand over mine and pressed it tight against her face. With my thumb, I wiped away the single tear that had welled up and run down her cheek.
"I've missed this," she said, then took my hand and led me out through the curtain.
I'd like to say that Cynthia and I had a grand adventure at the mystical, magical, fetish party. I'd like to say that we made more than our fair share of noise. Truth be told, Cynthia simply took me back downstairs and escorted me around, introduced me to all the right people like a good little girl, and when my time was up she escorted me to the door. We kissed goodnight and I started the trek to my car.
God, that was the longest party ever.
In the parking lot, I heard a constant rustling in the snow all the way to my car. Once I reached my car and opened the door, the light from inside illuminated something small and furry just behind me and to the right.
Did you know that it takes less than three pounds of pressure to crush a rat's head? That's assuming of course, that you are faster than the rat. My boot came down with the full force of my weight behind it. The satisfying crunch and squish told me that I was indeed faster than the rat. I crouched down to inspect the rodent and found a now ruined lipstick camera strapped to it's back. I lifted my leg and sniffed at my pants cuff. Smelling nothing, I repeated the process with the other leg. This time, I gagged and almost threw up. I pulled down the cuff and out fell a piece of moldy green cheese.
Nonplussed, I kicked the rat off into the woods, got in my car, slammed the door, turned on Little Willy John, and started on my way home.