at home in his hip pocket. He pulled it out, hoping against hope, but no joy. He must have transferred the tenhe usually kept there to his front pocket at some point. The front pocket made it tougher for barroom dips, which now seemed like quite the joke.
He looked at the snoring, splayed girl-woman on the mattress and started for her, meaning to shake her awake and ask her what sheâd done with his fucking money. Choke her awake, if that was what it took. But if sheâd stolen from him, why had she brought him home? And hadnât there been something else? Some other adventure after they left the Milky Way? Now that his head was clearing, he had a memoryâhazy, but probably validâof them taking a cab to the train station.
I know a guy who hangs out there, honey .
Had she really said that, or was it only his imagination?
She said it, all right. Iâm in Wilmington, Bill Clintonâs the president, and we went to the train station. Where there was indeed a guy. The kind who likes to do his deals in the menâs room, especially when the customer has a slightly rearranged face. When he asked who teed off on me, I told himâ
âI told him he should mind his beeswax,â Dan muttered.
When the two of them went in, Dan had been meaning to buy a gram to keep his date happy, no more than that, and only if it wasnât half Manitol. Coke might be Deenieâs thing but it wasnât his. Rich manâs Anacin, heâd heard it called, and he was far from rich. But then someone had come out of one of the stalls. A business type with a briefcase banging his knee. And when Mr. Businessman went to wash his hands at one of the basins, Dan had seen flies crawling all over his face.
Deathflies. Mr. Businessman was a dead man walking and didnât know it.
So instead of going small, he was pretty sure heâd gone big. Maybe heâd changed his mind at the last moment, though. It was possible; he could remember so little.
I remember the flies, though.
Yes. He remembered those. Booze tamped down the shining, knocked it unconscious, but he wasnât sure the flies were even a part of the shining. They came when they would, drunk or sober.
He thought again: I need to get out of here.
He thought again: I wish I were dead .
2
Deenie made a soft snorting sound and turned away from the merciless morning light. Except for the mattress on the floor, the room was devoid of furniture; there wasnât even a thrift-shop bureau. The closet stood open, and Dan could see the majority of Deenieâs meager wardrobe heaped in two plastic laundry baskets. The few items on hangers looked like barhopping clothes. He could see a red t-shirt with SEXY GIRL printed in spangles on the front, and a denim skirt with a fashionably frayed hem. There were two pairs of sneakers, two pairs of flats, and one pair of strappy high-heel fuck-me shoes. No cork sandals, though. No sign of his own beat-up Reeboks, for that matter.
Dan couldnât remember them kicking off their shoes when they came in, but if they had, theyâd be in the living room, which he could rememberâvaguely. Her purse might be there, too. He might have given her whatever remained of his cash for safekeeping. It was unlikely but not impossible.
He walked his throbbing head down the short hall to what he assumed was the apartmentâs only other room. On the far side was a kitchenette, the amenities consisting of a hotplate and a bar refrigerator tucked under the counter. In the living area was a sofa hemorrhaging stuffing and propped up at one end with a couple of bricks. It faced a big TV with a crack running down the middle of the glass. The crack had been mended with a strip of packing tape that now dangled by one corner. A couple of flies were stuck to the tape, one still struggling feebly. Dan eyed it with morbid fascination, reflecting (not for the first time) that the hungover eye had a weird ability to find the ugliest
He looked at the snoring, splayed girl-woman on the mattress and started for her, meaning to shake her awake and ask her what sheâd done with his fucking money. Choke her awake, if that was what it took. But if sheâd stolen from him, why had she brought him home? And hadnât there been something else? Some other adventure after they left the Milky Way? Now that his head was clearing, he had a memoryâhazy, but probably validâof them taking a cab to the train station.
I know a guy who hangs out there, honey .
Had she really said that, or was it only his imagination?
She said it, all right. Iâm in Wilmington, Bill Clintonâs the president, and we went to the train station. Where there was indeed a guy. The kind who likes to do his deals in the menâs room, especially when the customer has a slightly rearranged face. When he asked who teed off on me, I told himâ
âI told him he should mind his beeswax,â Dan muttered.
When the two of them went in, Dan had been meaning to buy a gram to keep his date happy, no more than that, and only if it wasnât half Manitol. Coke might be Deenieâs thing but it wasnât his. Rich manâs Anacin, heâd heard it called, and he was far from rich. But then someone had come out of one of the stalls. A business type with a briefcase banging his knee. And when Mr. Businessman went to wash his hands at one of the basins, Dan had seen flies crawling all over his face.
Deathflies. Mr. Businessman was a dead man walking and didnât know it.
So instead of going small, he was pretty sure heâd gone big. Maybe heâd changed his mind at the last moment, though. It was possible; he could remember so little.
I remember the flies, though.
Yes. He remembered those. Booze tamped down the shining, knocked it unconscious, but he wasnât sure the flies were even a part of the shining. They came when they would, drunk or sober.
He thought again: I need to get out of here.
He thought again: I wish I were dead .
2
Deenie made a soft snorting sound and turned away from the merciless morning light. Except for the mattress on the floor, the room was devoid of furniture; there wasnât even a thrift-shop bureau. The closet stood open, and Dan could see the majority of Deenieâs meager wardrobe heaped in two plastic laundry baskets. The few items on hangers looked like barhopping clothes. He could see a red t-shirt with SEXY GIRL printed in spangles on the front, and a denim skirt with a fashionably frayed hem. There were two pairs of sneakers, two pairs of flats, and one pair of strappy high-heel fuck-me shoes. No cork sandals, though. No sign of his own beat-up Reeboks, for that matter.
Dan couldnât remember them kicking off their shoes when they came in, but if they had, theyâd be in the living room, which he could rememberâvaguely. Her purse might be there, too. He might have given her whatever remained of his cash for safekeeping. It was unlikely but not impossible.
He walked his throbbing head down the short hall to what he assumed was the apartmentâs only other room. On the far side was a kitchenette, the amenities consisting of a hotplate and a bar refrigerator tucked under the counter. In the living area was a sofa hemorrhaging stuffing and propped up at one end with a couple of bricks. It faced a big TV with a crack running down the middle of the glass. The crack had been mended with a strip of packing tape that now dangled by one corner. A couple of flies were stuck to the tape, one still struggling feebly. Dan eyed it with morbid fascination, reflecting (not for the first time) that the hungover eye had a weird ability to find the ugliest
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