Inconstant Moon - Default Font Edition

by Laurel L. Russwurm

  “Yeah, right,” says the brunette, “there's a recession on, didn't you know?” but she palms a card anyway.

  Lewis purses her lips and puts on her most concerned face. “The young lady who was attacked is getting out of the hospital today, but it will be some time before she's really right again. If you can help us out at all we'll do our best to keep it confidential.”

  “What do you mean, attacked?”

  “Neil put somebody in the hospital?”

  “That's what we're trying to find out.”

  “Ohmigod, I just thought he was a dirty little pervert.”

  “We're just conducting a routine investigation,” says Wolfrom, pinning Lewis with a sharp look.

  “What happened to the woman?”

  “If you know anything that may help, just give us a call.”

  Some of the women are accepting Wolfrom's cards when Lewis feels a hand brush hers from behind.

  The detective's instinct is to grab the hand but she suppresses the impulse, forcing herself to stay relaxed. Lewis smiles as she feels a bit of paper slip into her waiting palm. She closes her fingers around it then drops it in her pocket as the women scatter at the approach of the pretentious little M&M security guard across the concrete. Lewis plants a hand on her hip and badges him with the other.

  “Detective Lewis. Can I help you?”

  “This is private property, detective. You have to leave.”

  Lewis cocks an eyebrow. “Really.”

  Wolfrom grins and shakes his head. “Since when did city sidewalks become private property?”

  Looking smug the guard tells them, “This is not city sidewalk, Officer. City property ends at the curb. What technically should be sidewalk is actually the curb lane. The sidewalk you are standing on is M&M private property. Mr. Molony said you'll be able to see it on the city plan he's having faxed to your lieutenant as we speak. You're being advised to leave. If that's a problem, I'll just have your badge numbers?”

  “Here you go, slugger,” Lewis tells him as she thrusts her business card at him. “Knock yourself out. We're leaving.”

  chapter 112 . . .

  Maggie is curled up on her bed, staring at the wall, when she hears movement out in the hall. She pulls the duvet over her head. The sounds are muffled under the covers but they continue, to Maggie's increasing irritation. She just wants to be alone.

  Everybody is supposed to be in class now anyway damn it.

  But Maggie hears the rumble of a deep male voice, followed by a woman's laugh, and decides enough is enough. What the hell is Elsie doing bringing men up here. That's got to stop. Righteous anger fuels Maggie as she flings off the duvet and grabs her robe. Knotting the sash she yanks open her bedroom door and stomps down the hall.

  But Elsie's door is closed. Is she in there screwing some guy? No wait, the next door, Natasha's door, is ajar with light spilling out. Unbelievable, is some shit stealing Natasha's expensive camera gear? What kind of rat would rip off Natasha while she's in the hospital?

  Without a second thought, Maggie's anger swells and propels her down the hall where she bangs open the door and bellows, “Just what the hell do you . . .”

  Maggie stops when she sees it isn't a gang of thieves, it's housemates. Like a deer in the headlights, Liz is frozen in the act of loading laundry into a green garbage bag, while Boris looks up from where he's hunched on the floor trying to screw a bedside table together under Natasha's watchful gaze. Incredibly, he's holding the screwdriver wrong. Maggie didn't think that was possible. But when she looks at Natasha, she'struck by the dramatic clash of red hair and bruises.

  “Oh god Nat, sorry, sorry, I didn't know you were coming home today!”

  “Hey Maggs, what'd you think . . .” Natasha grins, “Oh I get it, you thought I was getting burgled.”

  “Uh, yeah but . . .”

  “That's sweet, but don't do anything that stupid again okay? My toys cost a bomb but everything's insured. Not worth getting a friend hurt over.” She waves her hand dismissively and suddenly Maggie dissolves in great gasping sobs and her tears start to fall.

  Boris looks like he wants to bolt, so when Natasha tells him to “Shoo” he's out the door in record time, while Liz stuffs the last of the laundry into the bag, then rises with alacrity, hefting the full sack, she says, “I'll just take this down, then.”

  Natasha nods. “Thanks Liz. I really owe you girl.”

  Natasha raises her arms to Maggie, who crosses the room and sits on the bed and Natasha gathers Maggie into a hug and Maggie sobs on her shoulder as Liz flashes a smile and beats a hasty retreat away from Maggie's messy meltdown.

  Unsure why Maggie needs comforting, though clearly she does, Natasha awkwardly pats Maggie's hair and slowly the crying eases. Finally Maggie detaches herself, “I'm so sorry Nat.” Her red rimmed eyes dart around the room and Natasha tells her, “On the dresser.” Maggie grabs the box of tissues and mops her face, blowing her nose, then depositing the soggy things in the waste basket. Standing by the dresser again Maggie looks awkward.

  “Okay, Maggie, you seem to have scared Bo off, but that's probably for the best since he lacks affinity for tools. Maybe you could put the rest of the night table together while we talk?”

  Maggie nods and kneels beside the nightstand box. Fitting the bits together she busies herself with furniture assembly. Mercifully, building furniture frees her from having to look Natasha in the eye. Maggie says, “I'm sorry you got attacked.”

  “That makes two of us,” agrees Natasha equably. She knows there's more, but she watches Maggie work, giving her time.

  Maggie inverts the partially finished table, screwing on supports and attaching the back and she says, “It's all my fault.”

  Natasha frowns, “What's all your fault?”

  “Your attack.”

  “No offence Mags, but that's nuts. You didn't attack me.”

  “If I'd gone to the cops it wouldn't have happened.”

  “What, you could have stopped me from getting raped? You know who did it?”

  “Kind of, well, not exactly. It's just that I never reported the flasher.”

  Natasha shakes her head, “I wasn't flashed, I was hit over the head and raped. Two very different things.”

  “But they've arrested the flasher. If I'd gone to the police it wouldn't have happened.”

  Natasha shakes her head. “Maybe it was the same guy, I don't know. But I bet the penalty for flashing is isn't very much.”

  “But, still.”

  “So even if you made a report and the cops went to the trouble to find him, he'd probably be back out there attacking somebody sooner or later. Harder to catch maybe.”

  “Hmmm, I never thought of that.”

  “And until they get the guy, we won't really know. I mean, it might be anybody.”

  “But if it was the flasher . . .”

  “It really doesn't matter. Flasher or no, the only one to blame is the asshole who attacked me, Maggie, not you. Not your fault any way you slice it. You may have made an error in judgement but even that's not cut and dried. I made a error in judgement wandering around out there by myself.”

  “It's not your fault. You're the victim here.”

  “Yeah, and I hate like hell being a victim, but you know, I wouldn't have gone to the cops over a flasher. Comedians have made them the butt of jokes forever.”

  “But—”

  “No, Maggie, butt.” Natasha says, “That was a joke,” but clearly Maggie isn't laughing. “Look, Maggie, you can't fix the world and all the bad stuff that happens isn't your fault.”

  Maggie finishes screwing in the last screw. “I still feel bad.”

  “Hell, girl, you think you feel bad? You can't possibly feel as bad as I feel.”

  “I have to admit I've never seen anybody with skin the colour of yours.” Maggie turns the night table right side up. “Which is your favourite, the fuchsia or the green?”

  Maggie says, “The fuchsia, definitely.”


  Maggie is trying not to smile as she tucks all the packaging into a plastic bag. “So, the night stand is finished. What do you want on it?”

  “The ipad and iphone so I don't have to move more than necessary.”

  Maggie offers to attach the power bar to the night table's side. Natasha watches rapt, thinking, you just have to keep Maggie busy and every thing's fine. Would be nice to be so uncomplicated. When Maggie finishes drilling in the screws, the power bar is mounted and plugged into the wall in minutes. “Wow that's so great Maggie, thanks.”

  Maggie drops her eyes. “It's the least I could do.”

  Natasha looks at her. “You're responsible for what you do, Maggie, not what anybody else does.”

  “Yeah and I'm responsible for what I don't do too.”

  Natasha pushes herself into a sitting position leaning forward on her knees. “Are you trying to drive me nuts?”

  Maggie looks up, shakes her head.

  “How do I get through to you?”

  “I feel what I feel, Nat.” Maggie sets up the night stand.

  Natasha looks at her. “What if it's the wrong guy?”

  “I don't know. Then I guess I wouldn't feel guilty.”

  Perching on the edge of the bed she plugs it in and switches it then settles the iphone onto the shelf below. “There you go, wired for the twenty first century.” Natasha nods.

  Maggie drops the screws in the pocket of her robe, and picks up the drill. “If you need anything, just ask. I'd like to help if I can.”

  Natasha narrows her eyes. “Do you play backgammon?”

  chapter 113 . . .

  Oscar asks, “Are you going to announce it in class?” as he dumps jelly beans into a bowl.

  “No way,” says Kate, mixing a jug of Kool-Aid. “Those bone heads were too good for our 'little computer club meetings'? Screw them. Nine to fivers, go punch a clock. We'll start our own Research in Motion.”

  Oscar laughs. “Absolutely. Love the passion, lass. Sure you'll not dump Nick and run away with me?”

  “Not a chance buck-o. You just want extra shares.”

  “Something like that. What's the school's cut?”

  “Why should Christie get anything if we do it our own time? I don't want to cut them in at all if anything comes of this, so I think it's best that we do everything on our own computers, and not use school equipment for anything, not even Googling research, OK?”

  “What are we thinking about here. Hardware? Software? Data base program?”

  Kate frowns. “It's gotta be something doable on student resources. Maybe a program or a game? The simpler the coding the better. Later on we can come up with more elaborate ideas. Establish a track record we'll be able to write our own ticket.”

  “You're right, a track record would make investment financing possible. Sounds great, Kate, count me in.” Kate looks over at Oscar, deciding to confide. “There's something else I wanted to ask you, Oz. Nick said I shouldn't talk to Jose about Krystal, but what do you think?”

  “Oh, well, I didn't know you knew she was sick. Did Krys tell you, or did Nick suss it out?”

  Kate stares at Oscar. uncomprehending, “Sick?”

  Oscar closes his eyes. “Christ. You didn't know.”

  “Know what, Oz? Krystal is sick?”

  Oscar looks at her sadly and nods. “Krys is very sick, Kate.”

  “How sick?”

  “An inoperable tumour.”

  “Holy shit.” Kate slides into her chair. “Is there anything . . .” Looking at Oscar she sees that there isn't. “That will make tonight awkward.”

  “Oh Christ, I'm sorry. Just when you mentioned talking to Jose about Krystal I just assumed it was to tell him. I know that's crossed my mind more than once, but she says she doesn't want his pity. And I've got to respect that.”

  “Absolutely. Gee, no, I just thought I'd suggest he ask her out or something. I had no idea. That sure explains a lot about why Maggie's been so emotional.”

  “Maggie wormed it out of Krystal, and I wormed it out of her.” Oscar helps Kate move the sofa. “So although sworn to secrecy here I am spilling my guts. God I need a fag.”

  Kate glances sharply at him and then she realizes he's talking about a cigarette. Kate stops rearranging furniture and pelts him with a pillow. “No Oz! You're doing so well.”

  “I don't feel like I'm doing well.”

  “You just need distraction. Talk to me Oz.”

  “A quickie would make a lovely distraction, we could just pop round to the bedroom, no one will be along for a bit.”

  Kate lobs a pillow at him and starts moving the chairs along the wall. “Of course if that's what you really want, Nick might not be asleep yet. And he might appreciate a cuddle.”

  “Oooh, the cat's got claws!” and Oscar laughs and tosses both pillows back at her. Kate deftly grabs both out of the air and replaces them on the sofa.

  chapter 114 . . .

  Tamara opens the door to the dark apartment. The air reeks of stale smoke, and she shakes her head as she makes her way through the empty living room without putting on the light. Bastard couldn't hardly wait for her to be gone before polluting the air. It's one thing smoking up outside. God, now all of the clothes she's come to collect will reek. The married student residence is not a very big space after all. She's reaching for the bedroom door when she hears groaning, then she pushes it open.

  She freezes in the doorway as she is hit with the pungent smell of sex. The venetian blinds are cracked open just enough to illuminate flashes of the beast with two backs writhing in her bed.

  Bastard.

  A wave of red passes in front of Tamara's eyes and her jaw clenches for one brief moment as she wishes she had a gun or a chainsaw or something.

  Tamara whirls and stomps out, tears washing away the red of pure fury that's blurring her vision just the same. Over the past year she's come to realize Quentin is a loser but at least he was her loser. She never in a million years thought he'd be fucking someone else.

  In her bed.

  Can't go five minutes without gettin'some.

  Prick.

  Couldn't wait for her.

  Cocksucker.

  Wouldn't go to class.

  Motherfucker.

  Didn't pull his own weight.

  Bastard.

  That is it, this marriage is done. No more being screwed over. She fumbles with the bolt and pushes the door open, then stumbles into the clean cold fresh air.

  No. No. No. Oh god, what a mess she's made of her life. At least she hasn't totally fucked up school.

  She fucking loved that sumbitch.

  How could he DO this to her.

  Daddy will be happy anyway, she thinks, as she makes her way along the path. He never did care for Q. She pulls out her cellphone but has to rub her eyes because she can't see to dial. Screw it. She's not gonna go back to Barbie's again. She's going to the pub.

  Fuck him. Um, no. Not him. She smiles through her tears. Fuck somebody. Anybody. Somebody new. Sauce for the goose. This goose is gonna find a new friend tonight. A stud who'll take her home and fuck her blind. Oh yes. And a lawyer who will help her fuck that bastard Q over tomorrow.

  Find a new apartment without any garbage.

  §

  The cool night air seeps into the front room, chilling Quentin. He shivers on the recliner and opens his eyes. His back is stiff as hell and his head aches something fierce. The god damned door is hanging open.

  Scrubbing his face with his hands he gets up and slams the door that's letting the cold air turn this dive into a walk-in freezer before stumbling into the kitchen.

  Quentin splashes water on his face. He stiffens as he hears a noise behind him. Suddenly sober, Quentin whirls. But its only Jose padding out of the bedroom wearing only socks and underwear.

  “Everything okay Q? I heard the door slam.”

  Quentin raises his eyebrows. “Making yourself at home?”

  Glad at least that Tama
ra isn't here to see Jose in all his glory.

  Jose grins. “You were passed out and Mouse got a little bit frisky so we borrowed your room. Hope that's okay, bro.”

  Quentin thinks it's disgusting. Last thing he wants it to sleep on somebody else's wet spot. But what he says is, “It's cool.”

  Jose leans against the counter, stretching. “She's gone all nervous like she's afraid you'd come in. Got any more beer?”

  Turning to the the fridge Quentin feels a pang of remorse as he comes face to face with Tamara's schedule. Fucking smoking up. Totally forgot, and so he missed her again.

  Quentin grabs a couple bottles of beer, passing one to Jose. They pop caps in unison then clink bottles before they drink. “Good times and good friends.” says Quentin.

  Hearing the bitterness Jose asks, “Heard from Tamara?”

  Quentin just shakes his head.

  “Bummer.”

  chapter 115 . . .

  When Nick comes into the pub he sees Ethan sitting alone at the bar, staring morosely at the bubbles rising in his glass of beer. Sliding onto the next stool Nick pats him on the shoulder. “Hey Ethan.”

  Without looking up Ethan nods. “Surprised to see you in here.” Billie the bartender glances over, and Nick points at Ethan's glass and holds up two fingers.

  “It happens. You solo tonight?”

  “Yeah. Hope I'm not back to solo every night.”

  “You don't want to be?”

  Ethan shakes his head as the bartender sets two new bottles on the bar and accepts a bill from Nick.

  “Don't see you in here very often,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Where's that pretty wife of yours?”

  “Home home throwing a computer club night. Much quieter over here let me tell you.”

  “Then send them along here next time, get the joint jumping.” Billie laughs, counting out the change onto the bar and heads off to serve a table of hockey shirted jocks.