Dalton laughed. “Yeah, true. But I’m not so sure about this one.”
“So what are you sure of?”
“You.”
Her face brightened in a way that made him want to be a better person. She licked the toothpaste from the corner of her mouth. “Me?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m sure we’re going to figure this out. Together. I’m sure we’re going to find the truth.”
What a cheesebag. Why don’t you give her your inspirational coach speech about how you have to play all four quarters and give 110 percent too?
“Oh.”
“And, also, the main reason I came is to let you know I’ve been to see Tarot.”
The skin around her mouth became taut. She hugged her knees to her chest. “You did? Really?”
There’s no professional reason you had to see her tonight, liar. No vital questions to ask, or information you absolutely had to get before morning. Bottom line, you walked all the way over here because you wanted to be next to her, just like this.
“He’s hooked solid.”
“On what?”
Dalton knew it was unwise to tell her everything. Sure, she was his client, but she also was still involved on some level with Chuff. Lex Cole would tear him a new clasp for being such a sucker. But, in the end, he wanted to impress Macy more than he wanted to live up to the dictates of Lex. “I’ve set something up for the party tomorrow night. The old-school Blah Blah Blagatha Christie method: Get all the principals in one room and see who flinches first. It’ll be like Colonel Mustard in the den with the candlestick.”
“What does that mean? You’re being way too vague.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I already don’t like it.”
“I think there’s a chance Wesley was more involved in the rackets than you may have realized. I think he was somehow brokering a deal. You’re right that war between Chuff and Tarot is the next logical step. It’s the only thing every clique can seem to agree on. Either way, I’m going to accelerate the process. There’s a good chance whoever grabs the reins is our killer.”
“That’s your plan?”
“That’s my plan.”
“What about the cash?”
Dalton blanched, thinking of Wesley’s envelope. “Whose?”
“Um, Inference’s? Um, the safe?”
He exhaled. “Money and murder are like peanut butter and jelly.”If that’s not the name of a Lex Cole novel, it should have been. “It’d be dumb to think Wesley’s killing doesn’t fit with the theft.”
“Do you really think this is the right thing to do? I mean, having a hand in stirring up violence? What if someone gets hurt?”
“People are already hurt. And this is going to happen no matter what I do. At least this way it’s for a reason. Besides, with Lee Harvies around, it can’t get too out of hand, can it? Caskets and Balls are both terrified of Lee Harvies.”
Macy nodded, dabbing her eye with the bedsheet. A bit of mascara ran into the material.
“Since when do you wear makeup?” he asked jokingly. She flushed maroon and he realized, idiot, she must have tossed it on before coming down to let him in. Embarrassed, and having no other idea what to do to make it right, and knowing that he totally wanted to anyway, he leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on the lips.
Why does every single thing you do contradict every single thing you say, or at least pretend to believe in?
“I want you to tell me why you do this,” she said, licking her lips. “Besides the money, I mean.”
“Kissing you? Good question.”
“No, crackstar. Why are you doing this Bogart stuff? Walking around with a magnifying glass, snooping, solving problems. Who just cranks out a website and starts telling everyone they’re a Private Dick?”
Dalton stared at his sock, considering. No way he was telling anyone about Landon until he was positive the shipment was on its way to the front. But Landon wasn’t the only reason.
“There used to be a guy, right? When I was a kid. Always giving me shite. Always on my back. I was… shorter then. Quiet. An easy target for the right type of sadist. Anyway, this guy, he was always pushing my head in the water fountain. Slapping the books out of my hands so they went flying down the hallway, everyone stepping all over them, footprints on my homework. And I just took it. He was bigger and I was smaller, so that was that. It didn’t even occur to me to fight back, you know? Put up your dukes? It’s not like the movies when you’re actually being punched. So one day this kid’s chasing me around the playground, says he’s going to pants me in front of everyone. Kids are standing around, everyone’s seen it all before. But there’s this girl. This girl I kind of liked. She wasn’t popular, not really even that pretty. But I liked her and I saw her in the crowd and I figured at least she’d feel bad for me. Maybe say something to the kid, tell him to knock it off. But she didn’t feel bad.”
“How did you know?”
“Because she was doubled over laughing at what a loser I was. Her friends were laughing too. There I am running, thinking, hey, these girls should know better, right? I mean, they’re the kind that get picked on themselves. They’re the kind that get made fun of for wearing the wrong skirts or having the wrong hair. But they don’t see the contradiction. And that’s when I realized no one feels bad for anyone. As long as it’s not you getting the stick, it’s like, hey, great, everyone else is fair game, let’s all crowd around and watch. None of us had any… what? Communion? Understanding? Nope, it’s all pure survival. So I stopped running. Why did I care what any of them thought about me? And if I didn’t care, like really didn’t care, there was nothing to be scared of.”
Macy grinned. “So you stopped and kicked the guy’s butt, right? You taught him a lesson, and then that girl was all into you?”
“No. I stopped and balled up my fists and waited. Then he came over and beat the spleens out of me.”
“Umm… I don’t see how—”
“He kicked my ass. But while he was hitting me, we locked eyes. He really saw me, and I really saw him. And I knew he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I wasn’t scared, and I wasn’t going to be, no matter how many times he hit me.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. I wiped the blood off my shirt and went back to class. But I was filled with this incredible sense of power. The fear leaked away. Taking a beating? Sure, you want to avoid it. But getting punched is not that big a deal. It hurts for a little while, and then it stops. Just like anything else. And it’s, like, once you stop being scared, once it all seems inevitable, that understanding comes off you in waves, like cologne. People start to step out of your way. Or at least look for easier targets.”
“Okay, I get it. But how does that make you into a snooper?”
“After that, I challenged myself to find what I really was afraid of. That’s what this is. Taking these jobs. Pushing myself into these situations. It’s money, sure. But finding out what people don’t want you to know may be the scariest, most addictive thing of all.”
Dalton took a deep breath, surprised at himself. He’d never said it out loud. Actually, he’d only begun to truly understand while he was explaining it to her.
“Honesty is so effing sexy,” Macy said, and started unknotting Dalton’s tie. He let her but didn’t move. When it was off, she loosened his collar and started pulling at his buttons. She saw the Clash shirt beneath and made a face. It was a line-in-the-sand moment. You mean you don’t like the Clash? She reached over with an opinionless expression and raised the T-shirt, scratching her nails along the black hair running from his belt to the center of his chest. It somehow seemed like a highly non-Euclidian thing to do.
“Tell me more about Ronnie Newport,” Dalton said. “He and Wesley.”
“Now?” She reached her leg out back behind her and flicked off the lights with her toes.
“Newport lied to me,” Dalton said, in the dark. “Ma
ybe even set me up. He and Wesley were both Crop Crème. I can’t figure out his angle, but he’s involved for sure.”
“He’s a cipher now,” Macy said. He couldn’t see her but could sense how close she was. He could feel her warmth. The hairs on his arms stood up straight.
“Not that he ever said that much before. He came over a few times to hang out with Wes. They played dice games together, the dragon thing, writing numbers and casting spells. I think he liked Wesley because he could let out his inner nerd when they were alone. At school, it was more like James Dean 2.0. But now, you know, being his own clique, the whole gearhead thing… all I know is it’s creepy how he’s always being followed by those girls. They’re like a flock of crows.”
“A murder of crows.”
“What?” she said, inches away.
“Murder, Euclidian,” Dalton whispered, almost right into her lips. “Not flock. Pod of whales, pride of lions, murder of crows.”
“Smart is sexy too,” Macy whispered back. “Me and you, Dalton Rev? I mean, I know this sounds stupid, but I knew right away we… clicked. Even after the first e-mail…”
“Cliqued?”
“… but I didn’t know in person if it would, you know. Translate. And now you’re here. In the dark. Flesh and blood and bone. And I trust you. And sort of like you.”
“Sort of?”
“Sort of a lot.”
Dalton had been ready to be disappointed with her too. The person you wanted someone to be online was never the one they actually were, even just the image you had in your head. Let alone actually being better than that image.
Macy reached back without a word and pulled off her little pajama top, then slid down and pressed against him, moving slowly in the blackness, brushing herself in widening circles like she was painting a canvas.
“What about Chuff?” Dalton asked, almost unable to stand it.
“Huff Chuff,” Macy whispered.
It seemed like such incredibly, unbelievably good advice.
CHAPTER 16
CAUGHT DEAD-HANDED
Dalton woke in the middle of the night. Alone. He listened for sounds from the splashbox, maybe the sink running, but there were none. He sat up, reaching for his pants, ready to head down the stairs and scout around, when he saw Macy sitting at her desk. She turned to face him, holding a sheaf of papers.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes.”
Her face was haloed by a tiny candle on the desk. Her eyes were sharp and her features stretched. She looked angry.
“What are you reading?”
Macy looked down with a smirk. “You left your book bag before. Remember? Way back a million years ago when you ran out without a word?”
“I guess.”
“Well, since you didn’t seem concerned enough to take your things with you, I took the liberty of poking through them.”
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #31
No one snoops on a snooper. At least not a good one.
“You looked through my stuff?”
“I think the lawyers call it a question of eminent domain.”
“That’s not what eminent domain means, it—”
“Who is this Rev guy I hired?” Macy interrupted, her voice getting louder. “That’s what I asked myself. Maybe he’s got something to hide, you know? This guy who so easily runs away?”
“I told you why I—”
“Maybe he has something revealing stuffed in between his unread algebra book and his unread chemistry book. And, as it turns out, I was right.”
Before Dalton could answer, Macy began to read aloud.
THE A TO Z OF POSSIBLE GODS
By Dalton Rev
A. God exists, exactly like it says in the Bible. We’ll all be judged in heaven when we die, and a certain percentage of us will be cast down to hell.
B. God exists, which is proven by the fact that I am here to write this sentence. He will welcome me in heaven whether I go to church or not because I am generally a good person.
C. God exists, but it turns out he’s the one Amazon River cannibals worship. We’ve been praying to the wrong guy all this time, and Uglathuthlu is seriously pissed about it.
D. God exists but is some sort of floating electrochemical stew not capable of thought, emotion, or profundity. The Stew has no investment whatsoever in our lives.
E. God exists and is indeed a bearded old man on a throne, but that old man is cold, confused, and scared. He would very much like it if some cosmonaut flew up to heaven and told him what he’s supposed to be doing.
F. God doesn’t exist. The universe is vast and unknowable. Everything within it is cold brute logic. The fact that there is life on Earth is mere mathematical happenstance. Eventually the sun will run out of hydrogen, and our planet will freeze. Nothing awaits us but eons of silence.
G. We do not exist. Our nonexistent selves dreamed up our nonexistent god to make our lack of existence more palatable.
H. Alien gods showed up in 1952 in a pie-shaped landing craft to explain the pyramids, but the government killed them.
“Enough,” Dalton finally said.
“You’re quite the philosopher, aren’t you? This is really cheery stuff. I can’t believe there’s half an alphabet to go. Or, really, that this got you into Harvard.”
“It didn’t. And I’m not. Listen, believe me, I know I can’t write. At all.”
“Oh, stop with the coy routine. It’s boring.”
“Fine.”
“So, Mr. Philosopher, are you saying when we die we don’t go to heaven? That it’s all just a farcking joke?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I was trying to make the point, I guess, that anything’s possible. That if you believe in one thing, you know, by definition, you sort of have to believe in everything.”
“So that really sucks for Wesley, huh?”
Dalton just looked at her.
Macy threw his story on the floor. “Um, remember my brother? Wesley? Who we buried a month ago? Remember what I’m paying you for? Your investigative skills, not to mention your overwhelming empathy?”
Dalton collected his papers and shoved them with his socks into the book bag. “I remember exactly why you’re paying me.” He pulled Wesley’s envelope from his back pocket—The one I tore open and took your dead brother’s money from—showing her the lyrics to “The Ballad of Mary Surratt.”
“Any idea why Wesley kept this in his room?”
Macy wiped the corners of her mouth. “Are you trying to change the subject?”
“You’re a Euclidian. Wesley was a Populah. Why is he writing down Pinker Casket lyrics? Not only these, but why would he use them as a suicide note?”
“Who knows? Because he was bored? Because he was desperate and not thinking straight? Because he had lousy taste in music?”
“I looked on the Internet. About this woman? This Mary Surratt? I couldn’t figure out why Wesley—”
“You couldn’t figure out anything!” Macy said mockingly. “Not about me and not about yourself. I mean, god, do you even know what a Dalton is?”
“No, but I know why you’re mad.”
“A Dalton! Duh! It’s a unit that expresses the weight of proteins!”
“You’re mad about us being together.”
“And Daltonism is a form of color blindness otherwise known as protanopia!”
“I know last night was my fault.”
“And John Dalton was the father of modern atomic theory!”
“So, if you want to blame me…”
“He printed the first table of atomic weights!”
“Go right ahead.”
Macy threw up her hands in disgust. “Blame? What a stupid word. Is it going to make me feel better? Am I going to blame Tarot and suddenly everything’s fixed?”
Dalton knew it was his fault. Coming over. The lead-up. The letting go of control. Flirting like he was some dumb kid on his first case.
What a knob.
But, mostly, the reason he sh
ould be blamed is that after a while of wrestling around under the covers, he’d told her they should take it slow.
God, how lame.
He hadn’t pushed her away, exactly. But he’d made it clear she was a client. She was vulnerable. He wasn’t going to take advantage of that, and he wasn’t doing anything else, at least until the case was over. He’d tried to explain it gently, but she barely seemed to be listening. She’d turned over in disbelief, pulling her shirt back on and refusing to answer his questions. They’d both lain there, looking at the ceiling. He rehearsed things to say in his head, adding, subtracting, starting over, and at some point had fallen asleep. He’d sort of been counting on her waking up and realizing he’d been right to say no, that she’d be glad he’d been strong.
She didn’t want you to be strong, she wanted you to be weak. To crack the facade and expose yourself, even a little. And maybe you should have. Weakness is at least honest.
“I was named after a bouncer,” Dalton finally said. “Not the scientist. I was named after this actor with a mullet who beats people up in my dad’s favorite movie.”
Macy didn’t say anything. She put her face in her hands. Dalton tried to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away. He could barely believe what he’d done himself. In every teen movie he’d ever watched, there was always a scene where the hero had some hot girl alone, and she wanted him, but he didn’t go through with it for some infuriating reason, like suddenly growing a conscience. The girl had too much to drink, or she was his best friend’s girlfriend, or he liked some unattainable cheerleader instead. So the hero turns her down, even though she’s right there in front of him, mostly because the writers don’t want you to think he’s a jerk, and meanwhile every single guy in the audience is like, That’s bloshite! C’mon, dog, grow a sac! Get busy and tap that ass and stop making dumb excuses!
And now he, Dalton, was that guy. The excuses guy. The totally ridiculous, inexplicably sexually inert, doomed-to-virginity loser.
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