In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02]

by Charles L. Grant

  Then standing at the foot of the bed and wondering what in God’s name she was going to do next.

  Dumping a drunk into his bed wasn’t exactly what she had had in mind for tonight.

  Of course, coming back here hadn’t been high on her list of how to spend a Saturday night, either. That had just sort of happened. She had left the Quarter in a hurry, upset that John hadn’t paid any attention to her unease, and had gone straight to her car in the barely adequate parking lot behind the hotel. Where she had sat with the key in the ignition, telling herself it was time to go home, shower, and count herself lucky she hadn’t gotten involved with a freak like John Bannock.

  He had to be a freak, right?

  Had to be, because who else would be writing a book about people who were mostly already dead? People, for God’s sake, who killed other people.

  Who else would have spooky old men in spooky white suits following him around, talking to her like that?

  And who else would want to talk to a nobody like her?

  By the time she had started the car, she had worked herself into a real fit of righteousness; by the time she was halfway home, she had begun wondering about him, if he was all right, if he knew there were certain parts of the city down there that no one ever entered without some kind of protection. Wondering if maybe she had overreacted.

  The wonder turned to concern, and that made her angry.

  The concern, and the anger, had turned to guilt, and she’d nearly run a delivery truck off the road making a sudden sharp U-turn.

  The guilt made her angry again.

  The anger made her guilt stronger.

  By the time she reached the Royal Cajun, she felt so ridiculous shifting from one emotion to the other that she had begun to giggle.

  And when she saw him in the bar, barely able to sit upright, she had nearly walked away.

  I don’t need this, she had thought.

  “I don’t need this,” she whispered now, and without thinking about it, slumped into the armchair in the corner, between the TV and the window. She crossed her legs. She wiped the back of her hand under her nose. She gave her hair an impatient shove away from her face.

  “So now what?”

  John mumbled something, but he didn’t move.

  If experience had taught her anything, that man was out for the duration.

  Of course, if experience had done its job like it was supposed to, she wouldn’t be here in the first place. He was a customer, for heaven’s sake. She saw him, at most, twice a day. Flirted a little, and thought nothing of it when he flirted back, nothing serious, nothing that made her believe he would ever do, or want, anything else. Not even when she had given him that gift—deliberately screwing up his bill.

  Then he went and saved her ass today, stepping in with that other freak.

  Okay, so John’s not a freak.

  The old guy, though ... he was something else.

  First, he wasn’t as old as he looked or made out to be. The face was creased, the hair white, the hands with dark spots across the knuckles, but he wasn’t old. Or ancient. She couldn’t help thinking he just wanted people to think that.

  His accent, too, had given her the creeps. Deep South. Old South. The South where power never met the spotlight, but did its job, whatever that would be, like an alligator on the hunt in the swamps. Drifting just below the surface. Hardly a ripple. Nostrils exposed to catch the scent of prey and corruption, eyes watching. Always watching.

  Except his eyes were so pale, it was like looking at the dead.

  Yes. Definitely. He was a freak, and he scared her, and when she had seen him outside the bar, she couldn’t help the way everything inside her contracted as if drawing away from a snake.

  And John had saved her.

  From what, she didn’t know; she only knew he had saved her.

  Okay, she had done this thing, it was too late to do anything about it now, so ... what next?

  That was easy. Beside the chair was a pole lamp, and she switched it on. Damned if she was going to sit here in the dark.

  The light was directed by a large lamp shade, and its glow was more like dusk by the time it reached his face. He didn’t even twitch. She looked around and saw nothing to read. Turning on the TV was out of the question. So the smart thing would be to wait a bit, make sure he wasn’t going to toss and choke himself to death, then get the hell out and get the hell home. It was already way past ten, and she had to be back in at six-thirty. The very thought of it made her yawn. A second thought had her checking the width of the queen-size bed.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no, you don’t. You out of your mind?”

  It was like those dopey cartoons—on one shoulder was her in a tight red devil’s costume, waggling its eyebrows, swinging that forked tail, suggesting that even if he did wake up and found her lying there, there wasn’t a whole lot he’d be able to do. Even if she wanted him to. Which she did, right? After all, it’s been a while, Lisse, you can’t deny that. You have needs, dear, don’t you? And he’s not that bad looking. Not a movie star, but not a pig, either. So who cares if he’s married, with a kid? Ain’t nothing gonna happen, all very innocent, and you’ll be up and out before he knows you’ve been there.

  And who knows?

  Maybe you’ll get lucky.

  On the other shoulder, her in an angel’s costume complete with halo and wings, telling her that this was the story of her life and when was she going to get hold of herself and be a real woman for a change? When was she going to stop catting around just because she felt lonely? Lots of women, good women just like you, feel lonely, for crying out loud, and they don’t pick up customers, right? They don’t wear that half-size-too-small shirt, and don’t think I don’t know why you did it. And they definitely do not stoop to praying a married drunk will wake up in the middle of the night, suddenly sober and grateful, and—

  “Okay, okay,” she snapped, and shook her head sharply.

  This was no big deal.

  Simple, really. Just go downstairs, talk to Fannon, the night manager. He would get her an empty room—God knew there were enough of those these days—and let her sleep without anyone being the wiser. It had been done before, lots of times, and not just for her.

  Simple, really.

  The best possible solution for all concerned.

  John sputtered.

  “Angel,” he whispered.

  Suddenly she felt passing strange, and she gripped the armrests tightly, uncrossed her legs, and set her feet flat on the carpet.

  It didn’t help.

  Floating.

  She felt as if she were floating.

  She closed her eyes so hard she felt a twinge of pain, but she held her breath and waited ... floating ... until the sensation passed as abruptly as it had begun.

  When it did she stood immediately, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Screw it. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need any of it. Fannon would take care of her, he wouldn’t put on the moves because she wasn’t his type, or even, for that matter, his favorite sex, and tomorrow morning she would wait to see if John remembered anything.

  Like being undressed by his waitress.

  That made her smile.

  That made her look back.

  That made her sigh when she saw the light was still on.

  Leave it, the angel warned her; it’s a signal of your strength.

  You got to be kidding, the devil said; don’t you believe in signs?

  “Ah, screw it,” she said, rolled her eyes, and walked back. Stood at the foot of the bed and added, “You try anything, bud, I’ll cut off your balls.”

  He didn’t move.

  The purse went to the chair. Her jeans were draped over the back. Her shirt, one of the few decent ones she had left, she hung in the closet beside his suit jacket. Her skin dimpled with the cold, and she hurried to the bed’s near side, pulled back sheets and thin blanket, and slipped in. Keeping as close to the edge as she could.


  But feeling him.

  Definitely feeling him.

  She smiled as she closed her eyes. Well, child, he asked if you wanted an adventure, right?

  “Angel,” he whispered just before she fell asleep.

  “Damn right,” she whispered back.

  * * * *

  3

  Floating.

  She was floating.

  Not quite like flying, because she was on her stomach as if she were still in bed, head resting on her folded arms, one strand of hair tickling her cheek. If she opened her eyes she knew she would see clouds, she would see the ground, she might even see her building, one of six in an aged complex that fought the good fight but couldn’t keep itself from dying.

  Floating.

  Hell, maybe she was an angel after all.

  She smiled.

  She stirred.

  She opened her eyes and saw the bird flying beside her.

  A large sleek crow with bright blue eyes.

  * * * *

  7

  L

  isse opened her eyes.

  No passing from dream to coasting to awake.

  She opened her eyes and something was wrong.

  It took a second. First she had to remember where she was, then why she was there and obviously not in her own bed. A heartbeat later before she realized the light was all wrong. It was still fairly dark in the room, but the dark felt strained. Slowly she lifted her head and looked over her bare shoulder toward the window. Tiny flares of white poked around the edges, much too bright for simply dawn.

  No, she thought, and brought her wrist close to her eyes, squinting at the tiny watch her sister had given to her on her last birthday.

  Nearly seven-thirty.

  She didn’t move; she didn’t believe it.

  She checked again, choked off a cry, and moved as fast as she could without making a racket. Grabbed her clothes and purse. Into the bathroom and out. A look, but John was still on his back, still sound asleep. Into the hall that was silent but awake, half-skipping toward the elevator while putting on her flats. Into the car. Down to the lobby and through the café just a step short of running, feeling the desk clerk stare, waggling her fingers at him over her shoulder.

  It didn’t take all that long.

  Taped to her locker was a hotel envelope. It wasn’t pink, and the paper inside wasn’t pink, either. They didn’t have to be. The note was simple: “See me.” Signed by the manager. Not Fannon.

  No “I’m sorry, Lisse.”

  No “You’re late for the last time, Montgomery.”

  Not even a sympathetic smile.

  He sat behind his goddamn big desk in his goddamn fancy jacket and handed her a paycheck, said, “You’re fired,” and looked pointedly at the door.

  She would have killed him if she had been able to think, but it all happened so fast, all she could do was nod, turn, walk out, and stand motionless in the lobby watching a young couple head for the café, watching two men climb the staircase, watching the new doorman rub sleep from his eyes.

  Deep breath, girl, she cautioned when she felt herself blinking rapidly; deep breath, it ain’t the first time, it won’t be the last, deep breath, deep breath.

  A swallow, a straightening of her shoulders, and she walked behind the staircase to the elevators, rode to the sixth floor, stood in front the door halfway down the hall and stared at the number without seeing it. Then she reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out the electronic key, opened the door, stepped in, slammed the door behind her, switched on the lights, walked to the window and yanked the drapes open, walked to the foot of the bed and threw her purse at John’s chest as hard as she could.

  He started, opened his eyes, saw her, and smiled painfully against the light

  “You bastard,” she said, swaying against the temptation to scream, “I don’t have a job, I don’t have much money, it’s your fault, you son of a bitch, so what the hell are you going to do about it?”

  Then she took a swing at his feet, the edge of her fist clipping his toes.

  She wanted to take a swing at his jaw when she saw the bewilderment on his face; she wanted to take up that damn computer thing from the table and bash it over his head; she wanted to cry but snatched up her purse instead and dropped heavily into the armchair, crossed her legs right knee over left, and demanded, “Well?’’

  Maybe it was funny the way he struggled to sit up, left hand raised in a wait-a-minute gesture, fell back and sat up again; maybe it was funny when he realized he was naked except for his briefs and widened his eyes as memory and realization set in somewhere amid the hangover fog; maybe it was funny the way he swung unsteadily out of bed, muttered, “I don’t think I’m dead, right?” and staggered off to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

  Maybe it was funny, but all she could do was stare out the window at the impossibly bright sky and swallow, and swallow again, and swallow a third time while her right foot bounced sharply until she felt the beginning of a cramp.

  That didn’t stop her.

  The cramp took her arch and brought the tears, and she let it Stay until she could stand it no longer; then she pushed out her heel and closed her eyes and waited. Ignoring the toilet’s flush, water spitting into the basin, the sounds over it all of his barely controlled groans.

  Then she wiped her eyes with the heels of each hand, fumbled a tissue out of her purse, and blew her nose.

  When she heard the drumroll of the shower, she almost got up and left. It was stupid, sitting here. What the hell can he do for me, this is nuts. I shouldn’t have stayed. I’m a grown woman, it’s my fault, it’s sure as mud not the end of the world.

  But it might as well be.

  It might as well be.

  “Oh, Lord,” she sighed, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Oh, Lord.”

  * * * *

  His voice sounded like the creak of an old door, his natural rasp accentuated, rougher: “I’m sorry, Lisse.”

  She didn’t look.

  She sensed his weight moving around the room, disturbing the air, sitting on the bed and dressing.

  Her own voice was hoarse: “I was late. Again. It’s not your fault.”

  But she didn’t open her eyes.

  She knew that if she saw him, his hands would be flapping around for something to do, that his old-young face would look like Daddy’s bloodhound, that he was probably trying to figure out how to take it all on his shoulders. Just like Daddy used to, before he slipped into the bayou and never came out.

  Her left hand rose and waved and fell again. “I’ll get another job.”

  “Sure you will, no problem.”

  “I was tired of working here, anyway. Hardly anybody comes, and they’re all lousy tippers.”

  “Okay.”

  He was afraid to say the wrong thing, and that made her mad, for no reason she could think of.

  When she opened her eyes, he was on the far side of the table, the computer in front of him, the tape recorder on top, as though he were building a wall.

  “Well,” he said, trying a smile that looked more like a grimace, “at least your mascara didn’t run.”

  That did it.

  Before she could stop herself she was on her feet and across the room, leaning over the table.

  “I don’t wear mascara,” she yelled. “There ain’t nothing fake about me, you son of a bitch!” She pointed at her eyes with a trembling finger. “These are my goddamn lashes.” Pointed. “My goddamn eyebrows.” Pointed. “My goddamn boobs.” Pointed. “My goddamn...my ...” She faltered, glowered at his sudden grin, straightened, and said, “Honey, you put that grin away or I’ll slap it away so fast your eyes will roll into your goddamn ears.”

  He did, instantly.

  A sharp nod, and she stood at the window, a hand on one hip, rapping a knuckle lightly against the pane. “I hate this damn city.”

  He cleared his throat cautiously.

  “Shreveport,” she said, looking down a
t the river, the tankers, the ferry, the sidewheeler churning at its dock and not moving.